Sometimes I think about how minor fictional characters can live much longer than me.

Not literally, of course. Fictional characters don’t “live” the way we denizens of reality do. But, to paraphrase a quotation, widely attributed to Al Pacino, Banksy, and the ancient Egyptians but whose true origin is probably lost to time, they say a person dies twice. Once when she breathes her last, and once when her name is spoken for the last time. Herein lies the idea of legacy, of living on in memory.

(Incidentally there is another death worth mentioning. Some East African cultures distinguish two aspects of time: the Sasha from the Zamani. The Sasha includes the recent past, the ancestors lately departed who were known to at least one person still alive. When the last person knowing an ancestor dies, that ancestor leaves the Sasha for the Zamani, the deep and limitless past. The Sasha-Zamani crossing may be considered a death, in most cases occurring between the two deaths of the Pacino-Banksy-Egyptian quotation, the last breath and the last mention.)

How long will I live in memory, after I am returned to dust? How many years separate my first death from my second?

At one extreme, they could occur at the same time. I could die alone, no children, no partner, all friends and relations gone by then. I may be the last person on earth to know that I exist, and when I slip the surly bonds of life I will take the knowledge of my existence with me. This is depressing.

The two deaths could also occur very quickly in succession if I live in a future totalitarian Nineteen-Eighty-Four-esque police state and I run afoul of the ruling party. They could dispatch me in the night and memory-hole my existence. This is also depressing.

Having children and grandchildren is a dependable way to forestall the second death by a lifetime or so. Provided our values don’t drift so much that they disown me from their family tree, I can rely on my children to pass down to their children my name and some life-details. How long does this buy me? I know the names of most of my great-grandparents but only a few of my great-great-grandparents, so having descendants could give me three or four generations’ time to live on in memory.

At the other extreme my two deaths could occur centuries or millennia apart. That depends on how famous I get. I know the names of Emily Dickinson, Diderot, and Catherine of Aragon, though they lived centuries before me. Cleopatra and Hammurabi have lived for millennia and will probably live for many more. The oldest historical human whose name we know is Pharaoh Iry-Hor, who has entered a good sixth millennium of post-first-death living. But less than one percent of one percent of all living humans have Wikipedia pages, which is probably a good baseline for fame, so this is going to be unlikely by far.

I wonder how long fictional characters will live, in the sense that one day their names will be spoken for the last time. Huge media franchises like Star Wars and Harry Potter have large fandoms. You can bet Princess Leia and Draco Malfoy are covered for the long haul. But never underestimate how crazy obsessive and detail-oriented fandoms can be. They’ll also keep the Paige Ticos and Charity Burbages alive for a fair while, perhaps just as long. And they’ve only been living for a few decades—every last minor Shakespeare character (looking at you, Third Guard from Antony and Cleopatra, whose second life I just renewed) has lived for four centuries and counting.

It humbles me to think that these incidental characters can live centuries in memory after only existing for a few minutes on the screen, while I can live for eighty years and still not be guaranteed as much time before the fact of my entire existence is forgotten.

Actually, no, that’s just depressing.