tor was buried next to his dear wife. He had composed his own epitaph, as a writer should.Je veux qua son tombeau, le mien soit ressemblant. Ainsi mourir n'aura pour moi rien de troublant. Et ce sera reprendre une habitude ancienne que de ravoir ma chambre a cote de la sienne.I want my tomb resembling hers. Thus, my death will not be disconcerting. And again I will take the old practice and have the dimensions of my room those of hers (Maurois 446).The epitaph supposedly refers to his mother, but one might assume that he speaks of his wife as well since he did choose to spend eternity resting by her side. Hugo once said, “Immaterial love is eternal, because he who feels it cannot die. It is our souls, then, that love, and not our bodies.” (Maurois 66)In a new era, a noisy era, someone wanders through an oversized book emporium. They find their way to the “literature” section. Browsing the shelves they come across a thick novel with a pretty cover. They leaf through the pages wondering whether it’s the story they want, and after a hasty decision they purchase it for only $9.95. They return to their home and sit in their chair with a bright lamp glowing beside them. It doesn’t flicker as the candlelight that once illuminated the world did. The cars rush past in the street outside creating hum that with adaptation can be ignored. The reader scans the words across the page. He becomes involved with the story of a man from so long ago, and he smiles. He is moved by the work, for the work will never perish. It will never be dead and gone....
