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too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one about the bul-
letin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this morning. 11 p.m.
(closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves
the men anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the wom-
en to know what’s in fashion. A juicy pear or ladies’ punch,
hot, strong and sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh
sometimes so better do it that way. Gravediggers in Hamlet.
Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren’t
joke about the dead for two years at least. De mortuis nil
nisi prius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his
funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary no-
tice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New
lease of life.
—How many have-you for tomorrow? the caretaker
asked.
—Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.
The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow
had ceased to trundle. The mourners split and moved to
each side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves.
The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the
brink, looping the bands round it.
Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March
or June. He doesn’t know who is here nor care. Now who is
that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh? Now
who is he I’d like to know? Now I’d give a trifle to know who
he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fel-
low could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still
he’d have to get someone to sod him after he died though
he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries.