“Faced with death as I am, Carter, do you know what y great consolation is?”
“No,” said Carter.
“It’s the knowledge that every day there are hundreds and thousands of perfectly fit and healthy people dropping dead without warning.”
“I see,” said Carter. “Cheering isn’t it?”
“Very,” said Vernon. “You’re a case in point. To us you look a picture of a vigorous young man in full blooming health, but underneath you could be harboring some fatal illness that no one could possibly detect.”
‘Ta very much,” said Carter.
“It could be a tumor of the brain. It could be some crucial weakness of the heart valves. I’m not mithered. But one morning you’d get up, sit down to breakfast and before you had one spoonful of your Shredded Wheat, you’d give a stifled groan and drop dead. I’ve heard hundreds of tales like that. You’ve only to pick up the paper on a Monday morning to read of some young man cut down in the prime of life playing an impromptu game of logger on a Sunday afternoon. Then comes the inquest, the coroner offers his condolences to the heart-broken widow, the father-in-law breaks down at the graveside, the deceased’s logger boots are placed on the lid of the coffin which slowly slips into the yielding earth and everyone is left to reflect ruefully on the fragile mutability of life.”
“Mm,” said Carter.
“It’s a great comfort to me to know that it’s not only the chronologically sick what are prone to death,” said Vernon.
No comments:
Post a Comment