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“My mother wanted to be cremated, it was very important to her!”
“It was my mother’s dying wish,” Bruno said importantly.
Who gives a shit about her last wishes? You’re paying for it!”
“Nature? I wouldn’t piss on it if it was on fire.” Bruno again was beside himself with anger. “I’d shit on its face. Fucking nature . . . nature my ass!”
Just before daybreak, as he turned over in bed, Michel noticed that Annabelle was gone. He dressed and went downstairs: her motionless body was lying on the sofa in the living room. Nearby, on the table, she had left a note. The first line read: “I prefer to die surrounded by those I love.”
No sun
There was, however, some weak electrical activity in the brain, which had to correspond to some mental process,
“It’s not possible . . . It’s not possible,” he repeated endlessly, as though the words themselves had some power. But it was, obviously. Anything was possible.
across the surface of the globe, a weary, exhausted humanity, filled with self-doubt and uncertain of its history, prepared itself as best it could to enter a new millennium.
In 2009, the magazine Nature published a separate section entitled “Toward Perfect Reproduction,”
The practical consequences were dizzying: any genetic code, however complex, could be noted in a standard, structurally stable form, isolated from disturbances or mutations. This meant that every cell contained within it the possibility of being infinitely copied.
Every animal species, however highly evolved, could be transformed into a similar species reproduced by cloning, and immortal.
searching, as he put it, “for a new paradigm, yet also for something more: not just a way of seeing the world but a way of situating myself within
