Death With Interruptions

by José Saramago

Whether we like it or not, the one justification for the existence of all religions is death, they need death as much as we need bread to eat.

what happens after death matters to us far less than is generally believed, religion, sir, is an earthly matter, and has nothing to do with heaven, That isn’t what we’re usually told, We had to say something to make the merchandise attractive, So does that mean you don’t believe in eternal life, We pretend we do.

One cannot be too careful with words, they change their minds just as people do.

death, by herself and alone, with no external help, has always killed far less than mankind has.

and if this letter is not published in full, sir, you run the risk of receiving tomorrow morning, with immediate effect, the prior warning that I was reserving for you in a few years’ time, although, so as not to ruin the rest of your life, I won’t say exactly how many, yours faithfully, death.

all the vectors of this methodical and meticulous graphological analysis point to the authoress of the letter being what people call a serial killer, another equally irrefutable truth finally imposed itself upon me, one that to some extent demolishes that earlier thesis, which is this, that the person who wrote the letter is dead.