But what do we really know of the dead?
And who actually cares?
I don't know what it is,
But there's definitely something going on upstairs!
But what do we really know of the dead?
And who actually cares?
I don't know what it is,
But there's definitely something going on upstairs!
If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceasd lover,
Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
And though they be outstripped by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought
To march in ranks of better equipage:
But since he died, and poets better prove,
Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.
But Jesus said unto him, Follow me; and let the dead bury their dead.
— But why did he cut their throats?
— Sire, I am intimately acquainted with the passions of evildoers, but not those of Orientals.
De mortuis aut bene, aut nihil.
De mortuis aut bene, aut male.
De mortuis — veritas!
Er meidet die überaus geschmackvollen offiziellen »Helden«friedhöfe. Warum nur, so denkt er, tun die Deutschen so viel für ihre Toten und so wenig für ihre Lebenden?