The other day, amidst dazzling sunshine, I attended a wake for a friend of mine. She was a little bit younger than me, and her infuriatingly short life had been characterized by stretches of both astonishing brilliance and debilitating psychological turmoil.
It was, of course, unbearably sad, but there was at least one moment of bleak hilarity:
There was an open casket. And one of the eulogizers (he was trying hard to make sure that all of us who hadn’t seen her for awhile got the point that it wasn’t suicide, that she had in fact managed to put her life back together in recent years) was saying how radiant and healthy she had been looking lately. And then, gesturing helplessly at the casket, at the corpse, he said: “This doesn’t do her justice.”
Good Day (Ray Davies)