The one thing that is very good in life today is death. Thereās still room for improvement, itās true. But I think of all those nineteenth-century deaths. The deaths of writers arenāt special deaths; they just happen to be described deaths. I think of Flaubert lying on his sofa, struck down ā who can tell at this distance? ā by epilepsy, apoplexy or syphilis, or perhaps some malign axis of the three. Yet Zola called it une belle mort ā to be crushed like an insect beneath a giant finger. I think of Bouilhet in his final delirium, feverishly composing a new play in his head and declaring that it must be read to Gustave. I think of the slow decline of Jules de Goncourt: first stumbling over his consonants, the cās turning to tās in his mouth; then being unable to remember the titles of his own books; then the haggard mask of imbecility (his brotherās phrase) slipping over his face; then the deathbed visions and panics, and all night long the rasping breaths that sounded (his brotherās wo...