Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust

Following Borges' polvo el polvo, this post might lead you to form the wrong conclusion: RLS is down today. Not true, I'm feeling quite well thank you. A bit hotter than my ideal, but I've dabbled with a poem and am reading Wollstonecraft from Norway. Apparently, she's entered a little church where some old human remains are on view. She is disgusted by the sight. It leads her into a bit of poetic rambling on death in general.

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Life, what art thou? Where goes this breath? -- this I, so much alive? In what element will it mix, giving or receiving fresh energy? What will break the enchantment of animation? For worlds I would not see a form I loved -- embalmed in my heart -- thus sacrilegiously handled? Pugh! my stomach turns. Is this all the distinction of the rich in the grave? They had better quietly allow the scythe of equality to mow them down with the common mass, than struggle to become a monument of the instability of human greatness.

     The teeth, nails, and skin were whole, without appearing black like the Egyptian mummies; and some silk, in which they had been wrapped, still preserved its colour -- pink -- with tolerable freshness.

     I could not learn how long the bodies had been in this state, in which they bid fair to remain till the Day of Judgment, if there is to be such a day; and before that time, it will require some trouble to make them fit to appear with angels without disgracing humanity. God bless you! I feel a conviction that we have some perfectible principle in our present vestment, which will not be destroyed just as we begin to be sensible of improvement; and I care not what habit it next puts on, sure that it will be wisely formed to suit a higher state of existence. Thinking of death makes us tenderly cling to our affections; with more than usual tenderness I therefore assure you that I am yours, wishing that the temporary death of absence may not endure longer than is absolutely necessary.