Pills from OUR History (22):
It's hard to say if we'll meet again because if we're right, we will all end up, you included, in the void from which there is no return. If you were right, however, a nice hellish rendezvous won't be excluded.
So, many regards Joseph; unlike the treacherous eat-and-runners who came to see you, we have always preferred the Iosifs.
"You have to see them when one of their little big men has died; they feel at home in that sublimity of vestments, banners, and masses. They flock to public exhibitions, men, women, small children eager for good examples. On those days, there are large, silent black herds escorted by the police; when evening falls, when the number of vehicles decreases, only the damp patter of the guests in the church during weddings and funerals can be heard. The soft stone faces don't stir their lips, heads are bowed, and everyone’s heart is full of that rot called 'majesty of death.' A magnetic and mysterious attraction drags them next to the corpses like insects grazing in line on the carcasses of small animals; moles, weasels, rats. Poor in divinity, they feel lucky to have a dead person to worship between one break and another of their work. Nothing to put under their teeth. So many carcasses. They sniff the pompous sorrow of important families finally equated with the anonymous throngs. What joy to advance between wooden railings, take off their hats, say 'In the name of the Father!' That contact recharges them like old batteries. They revel in their dead, finally accessible, with their protruding teeth, sunken cheeks, and double chins."
Paul Nizan
It's hard to say if we'll meet again because if we're right, we will all end up, you included, in the void from which there is no return. If you were right, however, a nice hellish rendezvous won't be excluded.
So, many regards Joseph; unlike the treacherous eat-and-runners who came to see you, we have always preferred the Iosifs.
"You have to see them when one of their little big men has died; they feel at home in that sublimity of vestments, banners, and masses. They flock to public exhibitions, men, women, small children eager for good examples. On those days, there are large, silent black herds escorted by the police; when evening falls, when the number of vehicles decreases, only the damp patter of the guests in the church during weddings and funerals can be heard. The soft stone faces don't stir their lips, heads are bowed, and everyone’s heart is full of that rot called 'majesty of death.' A magnetic and mysterious attraction drags them next to the corpses like insects grazing in line on the carcasses of small animals; moles, weasels, rats. Poor in divinity, they feel lucky to have a dead person to worship between one break and another of their work. Nothing to put under their teeth. So many carcasses. They sniff the pompous sorrow of important families finally equated with the anonymous throngs. What joy to advance between wooden railings, take off their hats, say 'In the name of the Father!' That contact recharges them like old batteries. They revel in their dead, finally accessible, with their protruding teeth, sunken cheeks, and double chins."
Paul Nizan
DeRank ™: 13,10 Comindeb
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