Tonight, not far from the top of the hill of Saint Pierre, a courageous and happy Greek music has just revealed to us that death is more implausible than life and that, therefore, the soul survives when its body is chaos. This means that María Kodama, Isabelle Monet and I are not three, as we mistakenly believed.
We are four, because you are also with us, Maurice. With red wine we have toasted your health. Your voice wasn’t necessary, not the touch of your hand, nor your memory. You were there, silent and no doubt smiling when you perceived that we were amazed and marveled at the notorious fact that no one can die. You were there, at our side, and with you the throngs of those who sleep with their fathers, as can be read in your Bible. With you were the throngs of shadows who drank before Ulysses in the grave and also Ulysses and also all who were and all those imagined by those who were. They were all there, and also my parents and also Heraclitus and Yorick. How can a man or a woman or a child die, who have been so many springs and so many leaves, so many books and so many birds and so many mornings and nights.
Tonight I can cry like a man, I can feel the tears run down my cheeks, because I know that on earth there is not one thing that is mortal and does not project its shadow. Tonight you have told me without words, Abramowicz, that we must enter death like one who enters a party.