“Always
someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fellow 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. No, ants
too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true
to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you
come to look at it.
O, poor Robinson Crusoe!
How could you possibly do so?”
Solidão. Morte.
Enterro. Tempo. Outreidade. Um parágrafo de Joyce e não resta nada mais a ser
dito. How could you possibly do so?
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