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“Oh. I see. People don’t want to see what can’t possibly exist.”
THAT’S MORTALS FOR YOU, Death continued. THEY’VE ONLY GOT A FEW YEARS IN THIS WORLD AND THEY SPEND THEM ALL IN MAKING THINGS COMPLICATED FOR THEMSELVES. FASCINATING. HAVE A GHERKIN.
BECAUSE YOU SHOWED COMPASSION? NO. I MIGHT HAVE DONE IF YOU HAD SHOWN PLEASURE. BUT YOU MUST LEARN THE COMPASSION PROPER TO YOUR TRADE. “What’s that?” A SHARP EDGE.
WHAT IS THAT SENSE INSIDE YOUR HEAD OF WISTFUL REGRET THAT THINGS ARE THE WAY THEY APPARENTLY ARE? “Sadness, master. I think. Now—” I AM SADNESS.
“There’s some things I shall miss,” she said. “But it gets thin, you know. Life, I’m referring to. You can’t trust your own body any more, and it’s time to move on. I reckon it’s about time I tried something else.
He wanted to say: you’re wrong, he’s not like that at all, he doesn’t care if people are good or bad so long as they’re punctual. And kind to cats, he added.
But he thought better of it. It occurred to him that people needed to believe things.
From this it will be seen that Mort’s innate honesty will never make him a poet; if Mort ever compared a girl to a summer’s day, it would be followed by a thoughtful explanation of what day he had in mind and whether it was raining at the time.
“Of course I didn’t. But it looks as though what people want doesn’t come into it, does it? I’m trying to be sensible about this.”
He felt as though he’d thrown a snowball on the spur of the moment and watched the ensuing avalanche engulf three ski resorts. He felt history unraveling all around him. He felt he needed someone to talk to, quickly.
