Sure, I think there's a parallel, particularly if you consider that a person is not an isolated, self-contained entity, but rather a being-in-relation. Your identity is defined partly by your relationships with particular others, and the more intimate the relationship, the more it contributes to your identity. Intimacy is a matter of sharing first-person perspectives (what the world looks like from your eyes is shared with your intimate, and what the world looks like from hers is shared with you) as well as plans, goals, projects, etc. In fact, in a truly intimate relationship, you'll adopt the plans, goals, projects, etc. of your intimate as your own.

When the relationship ends, especially if it is ended unilaterally, all of this that had been part of you is to some extent alienated, which would suggest that your identity is changed. The person you were, in intimate relation with that particular other, doesn't exist anymore. So it is, in an analogous sense, a death. But it's not as complete or final as death, because you can -- and likely will -- enter into other intimate relationships which will make their own unique contributions to your identity.

My hometown is Bethlehem, PA, and I spent plenty of time around Lafayette and downtown Easton growing up, so I had to respond to this. I hope things are well there with you.

I agree with my colleague Amy Kind that people can harmed (or benefited) even if they're unaware of it, and so in a sense even the dead can be harmed (or benefited). A colleague of mine used to speak of harm in terms not of experience but interests, and one of the the interests that some people have might be described as a narrative interest--that is, an interest in the story of their life. Most of us, I think, have an interest in our reputations. Some of us maintain an interest in producing a reputation that endures after we've died. Such an interest might, I think, be something not terribly admirable--a product of vanity and excessive pride or ambition. But an interest in an enduring reputation might be morally virtuous to the extent it, say, sustains a family name or enhances the reputation of a good institution (perhaps a college or a nation) to which one was connected. So, celebrating the Marquis's memory not only in a strange way benefits him. It also benefits France, the United States, his descendants, etc. (But, of course, harm and benefit aren't exactly the terms you used. As to whether or not the celebration is "valuable" to him, I'd have to say that strictly speaking it's not.)

Now, should we all try to be remembered by future generations? Generally, no. Having a famous ancestor is a good thing for many people and institutions, but hardly necessary. Institutions are for the most part fully well capable of flourishing whether or not any famous dead people are connected to them.

Having said that, it is nevertheless, important to recognize this: regardless of whether it benefits the Marquis to celebrate him, it's a good thing for us to remember past people who have made valuable contributions to our present condition. I might go so far, in fact, to say that the cultivation of an historical memory of this sort is a key ingredient of to civilization. There are lots of reasons for celebratory historical memory being a good thing for us. The dead often present useful role models, they serve as better reminders of important principles and values than abstract ideas, they can inspire and motivate us, and remember them contributes to a sense of self-worth and identity.

So, don't be concerned very much with being remembered and celebrated yourself, but do turn to the past and dig up someone to remember and to celebrate.

And Go Leopards!

You can find an interesting discussion of the definition of 'death' in Peter Singer's "Rethinking Life and Death." There is a helpful discussion in the first chapter about "The Ad Hoc Committee of the Harvard Medical School to Examine the Definition of Brain Death." This committee proposed in 1968 to "redefine" death so that a person who has suffered irreversible loss of all brain function counts as dead, even if the person is still breathing with the help of a respirator. While this proposal met with little resistance, people are much less inclined to say that someone in a persistent vegetative state is dead--even if there is an irreversible loss of consciousness.

One good book to look at on this topic is Fred Feldman's Confrontations with the Reaper. (What a great title, isn't it?) There Feldman engages in an extensive discussion of how hard it actually is to provide a good definition of death. What he calls "the standard analysis" says roughly that death is the cessation of life (or, perhaps, the irreversible cessation of life). But as Feldman argues, this view runs into all sorts of problems. In particular, consideration of cases of suspended animation, fission, and fusion, raises trouble for the standard analysis. When a living cell undergoes fission, is ceases to live, but does it die? When someone contracts to have themselves placed into suspended animation (See, e.g., Suspended Animation Inc.), they have ceased to live, but have they died? Ultimately, Feldman concludes: "though death looms large in our emotional lives, though we hate it, and fear it, and are dismayed by the thought that it will someday overtake us and those we love, we really don't know precisely what death is. The Reaper remains mysterious."

Like many terms, there is a variety of definitions, and which is most appropriate would depend on the function or context of its use. A classical definition of death is "separation of the soul from the body." But to someone who denies the existence of an immaterial soul, it would probably be something more like, "Cessation of bodily processes, including those on the cellular level." More fundamentally, death would be the absence of life where there once was life. But then, of course, you'd need a definition of life.

Philosophy has always been concerned with proposing, criticizing and defending definitions (as opposed to asserting them), so these should be taken as opening round suggestions.

There's clearly an enormous amount that could be said about this, but here are a few thoughts.

Suppose that some person is suffering, and to avoid certain complications, suppose that there's no "cure" for their pain. Now suppose that the person actually wants us to take his life. (Imagine that he isn't in a position to do it himself.) Then it's not just obvious that it is wrong, all things considered, to kill him. That's why there's a serious debate about euthanasia.

That said, there are important differences between typical human beings and most other animals: humans don't just have immediate desires and aversions; humans have self-concepts which include plans, desires and values that bear on their own futures. Most animals, or so we believe, don't have any such things. We normally think that people's views about their own futures count -- that it's wrong simply to ignore them. In particular, if someone is suffering but doesn't want to die, we think that carries tremendous weight. Most animals, or so we think, don't have the capacity for the relevant thoughts. They don't have a conception of themselves as being who have potential futures about which they have plans, wishes and desires.

That's at best a contingent fact, and it may not be true of all animals. If a creature has a conception of its own future and has desires about the course of that future, then that makes a moral difference -- or so we normally think. And so it may well be that even in the case of some non-human animals, killing a creature in order to end its suffering is wrong.

None of this is meant to address all the issues that your question raises. Other panelists may well have things to say on matters that I haven't even raised. But the normal human capacity to be able to think about one's future is surely relevant to sorting all this out.

I recommend taking a look at Fred Feldman's book Confrontations with the Reaper: A Philosophical Study of the Nature and Value of Death (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992). It covers many of the issues mentioned by Mitch Green. But make sure you read the Preface, where Feldman explains the circumstances that motivated him to take up the issue.

Thank you for your question. I'm not sure there's one reason why philosophers care about this, and I'm not in a position to exhaust all the various reasons why the topic might be of concern to them. However, here are some of the reasons of which I'm aware:

1. A long tradition dating all the way back to Plato suggests that the self survives the destruction of the body. Socrates (Plato's teacher), for instance, didn't fear his death at all, and gave as a reason for this attitude the belief that he would exist after his body ceases to be alive. That thought has cast a very long shadow, and philosophers have for a long time tried to figure out what it would be to survive the destruction of one's body. These discussions can generally be separated from questions about the existence of God, and have in recent centuries coalesced into discussions of what is known as "personal identity". One core issue for this topic is what it means for one and the same person to survive over time, even when his/her body is radically changed or entirely destroyed. John Locke, for instance, held that I could survive the destruction of my body so long as there is some later "person-stage" that remembers experiences had by an earlier person-stage, such as the one sitting in a chair typing these words. Others have doubted Locke's view, and a good deal of this debate turns on the question what conditions would suffice for the death of a person.

2. One other way in which philosophers concern themselves with death is via the question whether a current person or generation has any obligation to a future one, even when that future one is only around when the current person or generation is long gone. Do we have an obligation, for instance, to care for the Earth so that it may be used by others after we die? Many people would say that we do have such an obligation, but articulating the source and range of that obligation (how many generations into the future should we look, for instance) is not at all easy.

3. Death is sometimes discussed as a way into the question what, if anything, gives life meaning or value. If one holds that life has meaning or value, then it might be fruitful to examine what it is about death that is held to be bad so that we may get clearer on life's meaning or value. The line of thought might go like this: After my death I won't be able to do or have x, y, or z, and that is why I fear, or at least dislike the prospect of my death. Accordingly, things such as x, y and z are part of what gives my life value or meaning. On the other side, some (such as Bernard Williams) have argued that death is a blessing, in light of the prospect of eternal life: that prospect might seem less appealing than popular conceptions thereof make it out to be on fuller examination. For some reasons why someone might give up eternal life, you might enjoy seeing Wim Wenders' movie, Wings of Desire.

I would like to distinguish two questions: (1) In any given case, is the mere difference between killing and letting die morally significant? and (2) From the point of view of public policy, should we draw a distinction between killing and letting die?

I am convinced by the arguments that James Rachels provides in "Active and Passive Euthanasia," New England Journal of Medicine 292 (1975) against the moral significance of the distinction between killing and letting die per se. Through an examination of different cases, Rachels argues persuasively that when you hold all other factors equal (consequences, motive of the agent, consent of the person whose life is at stake), the mere difference between killing and letting die is morally insignificant. We tend to believe that there is a significant difference between this act (killing) and omission (letting die), because in most cases, these other factors are not equal. Usually people who kill have malicious intent and create significant harm; and usually people who fail to prevent deaths that they could have prevented have no malicious intent. Especially in a medical setting, those who fail to prevent death usually do so, because their patients judge that the benefits of prolonging their lives are not worth the costs. But, as Rachels argues, when considering the actions of a malevolent uncle and his young nephew whose death promises a big inheritance to the uncle, it makes no moral difference whether the uncle drowns his young nephew or merely fails to prevent him from drowning in the bathtub.

However, because instances of killing and instances of letting die tend to be correlated with other morally relevant factors, from the point of view of public policy, it may well be morally justified to draw a distinction between killing and letting die, especially when we are considering whether to punish individuals who do one or the other. Overall, the policy that draws this distinction (and holds killers morally responsible for their acts but does not hold the morally indifferent responsible for their omissions) may have better consequences than a policy that does not draw such a distinction.

How far does our responsibility go to others is an interesting issue. Would we have more of an obligation to the child if he was our child, or someone we know, or someone who is from our country, and so on? And what counts as being culpable in not paying attention? For example, if we see a child in difficulties we ought to help him, but suppose we see a child by himself in the water and go to sleep. Would we be at fault then? It is not our job to search the water for potential dangers to others, but if we are responsible for harm we could prevent perhaps we should never relax at the beach but spend all our time combing the area for potential dangers to others. This brings out what is problematic in the idea of preventing harm to others. If we are so responsible then it is difficult to know where to draw the line. Should we prevent children from eating hamburgers on the beach, because we may think they are unhealthy, or drinking soft drinks that are bad for teeth? Should we stop them reading trashy magazines and insist they stick to the Philosophical Review?

If we can fairly easily save someone from harm by intervening we should consider if the intervention would be welcomed, as in saving someone from drowning (provided they did not want to drown, perhaps). If it would then presumably we ought to do it. To punish people for not intervening seems rather harsh, though. In my view saving people in those circumstances counts as acting beyond the demands of duty and so does not merit punishment if not pursued. What makes it not a duty is precisely the difficulty of knowing how far it is reasonable to intervene in someone else's life and the objectionability of going too far in this direction.