Attending Funeral Quotes

I did not attend his funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it.

You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life. And at times the fact of her absence will hit you like a blow to the chest, and you will weep. But this will happen less and less as time goes on. She is dead. You are alive. So live.

I could picture life—school and everything else—continuing on without me. But I could not picture my funeral. Not at all. Mostly because I couldn’t imagine who would attend or what they would say.

I count too heavily on birthdays, though I know I shouldn't. Inevitably I begin to assess my life by them, figure out how I'm doing by how many people remember; it's like the old fantasy of attending your own funeral: You get to see who your friends are, get to see who shows up.

To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be.

Most of the funeral stuff is going to be done during daylight hours,” I said. “I’m not even going to be able to attend the burial. Humans get upset when vampires burst into flames right next to them.

But what about her funeral?” “Funeral? There won’t be one! At least not anything we can arrange or attend. Jack, please, take care of yourself. Please, don’t get sick. I have to go now. I can’t talk anymore.

Beside him a tiny elderly woman was leaning on a cane, studying him with curiosity. Since good manners seemed to require that he speak to her, Jon cast about for some sort of polite conversation pertinent to the occasion. “I hate funerals, don’t you?” He said. “I rather like them,” she said smugly. “At my age, I regard each funeral I attend as a personal triumph, because I was not the guest of honor.

I didn't attend the funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it." - Mark Twain

To love someone long-term is to attend a thousand funerals of the people they used to be. The people they’re too exhausted to be any longer. The people they don’t recognise inside themselves anymore. The people they grew out of, the people they never ended up growing into. We so badly want the people we love to get their spark back when it burns out; to become speedily found when they are lost. But it is not our job to hold anyone accountable to the people they used to be. It is our job to travel with them between each version and to honour what emerges along the way. Sometimes it will be an even more luminescent flame. Sometimes it will be a flicker that disappears and temporarily floods the room with a perfect and necessary darkness.

It's important to attend funerals. It is important to view the body, they say, and to see it committed to earth or fire because unless you do that, the loved one dies for you again and again.

Thousands of people are being buried and no one attends the funerals,' said one of the soldiers. 'In peacetime it's the other way round: one coffin and a hundred people carrying flowers.

At a certain point, the truth felt worse. Truth was a closed-casket funeral attended by its estranged living relatives, Lies, Safety, and Secrets.

The confusing signals, the impurity of the signal, gives you verisimilitude, as when you attend a funeral and notice that it's being poorly done.

It’s official. I am dead, attending my own funeral. Here lies Sena Black. She had a promising life but died of aggravated pussy failure.

The only event I'm certain to attend is my funeral, and I hope to arrive very, very late.

No parent should have to bury a child ... No mother should have to bury a son. Mothers are not meant to bury sons. It is not in the natural order of things. I buried my son. In a potter's field. In a field of Blood. In empty, acrid silence. There was no funeral. There were no mourners. His friends all absent. His father dead. His sisters refusing to attend. I discovered his body alone, I dug his grave alone, I placed him in a hole, and covered him with dirt and rock alone. I was not able to finish burying him before sundown, and I'm not sure if that affected his fate ... I begrudge God none of this. I do not curse him or bemoan my lot. And though my heart keeps beating only to keep breaking--I do not question why. I remember the morning my son was born as if it was yesterday. The moment the midwife placed him in my arms, I was infused with a love beyond all measure and understanding. I remember holding my son, and looking over at my own mother and saying, "Now I understand why the sun comes up at day and the stars come out at night. I understand why rain falls gently. Now I understand you, Mother" ... I loved my son every day of his life, and I will love him ferociously long after I've stopped breathing. I am a simple woman. I am not bright or learn-ed. I do not read. I do not write. My opinions are not solicited. My voice is not important ... On the day of my son's birth I was infused with a love beyond all measure and understanding ... The world tells me that God is in Heaven and that my son is in Hell. I tell the world the one true thing I know: If my son is in Hell, then there is no Heaven--because if my son sits in Hell, there is no God.

Ahem! Ahem!” As I recalled, Aunt Kathy loved Uncle Dan so much, she went grocery shopping during his funeral and failed to attend his burial as well. Apparently, Ham Hocks, Collard greens, Chitlin, Fatback, and Hog-Head cheesetook higher priority over his Last Rites. Then the reverend proceeded cautiously as he introduced my mom. “Let metell y’all about my Ms. Liza. Sister Kathy kept this one close.” “Ahem! Ahem! Ar-choo! Ahem!” Shockingly, there was a lightening blast that rocked the building once again while dimming the lights for more than 10seconds. The crowd turned restless, took a deep breath, and then allowed Pastor Keith to resume. “I’m gonna tell y’all, they were two kernels on a cob. When you saw Sister Kathy, you saw Sister Liza. “Ahem! Ahem! Ahem!” “The two of them raised those boys from seeds to bean stalks. We helped nourish them right here in Zion Gate Union. Now they’re just ripe for the harvest. I hope some of you ladies can take a hint!” For a brief moment, modest laughter filled the church. Yet, it was needed because Pastor Keith had gone into uncharted waters. No one dared to challenge my mom. Yet, Pastor Keith was speaking glowingly about her. Only a fewwanted to see where the Reverend was going. But most didn’t care to re-open that door. Church members were so afraid of Mom, no one dared to call her by name. All parishioners would go mute and head the other way, or simply hit the exits just to avoid all encounters.

I was dead, and I hadn't even been able to attend my own funeral.

[Speaker Reed's] wit was brilliant and usually cruel... Asked to attend the funeral of a political enemy, he refused, "but that does not mean to say I do not heartily approve of it.

To make sure I learned the etiquette of grieving, Granny took me with her to the many funerals she attended. O Death, where is thy sting? Search me. I grew up looking at so many corpses that I still feel a faint touch of surprise whenever I see people move.

Vimes was hazy on religion. He attended Watch funerals and went to such religious events as the proper fulfilling of the office of Commander entailed, but as for the rest . . . well, you saw things sometimes that made it impossible to believe not only in gods, but also in common humanity and your own eyes.

Do not bring your dog. (advice for attending a funeral)

Attending a funeral would leave the average person insane, if they truly believed that sooner or later they are also going to die.

Enemies always attend each other's funerals. I guess it is a way of knowing they won...

My desire for acceptance is one of the crosses that I carry. Each morning I have to attend a funeral. My own. I have to wake up and once again die to my desires for people's approval.

Some people don’t attend funeral not because they don’t want to but they are not emotionally strong to see anybody GO.

Normally I didn't attend my father's funerals unless I was scheduled to sing, but it wasn't every day Dad buried a rock star.

If you wish to live, you must first attend your own funeral.

A man's death makes everything certain about him. Of course, secrets may die with him. And of course, a hundred years later somebody looking through some papers may discover a fact which throws a totally different light on his life and of which all the people who attended his funeral were ignorant. Death changes the facts qualitatively but not quantitatively. One does not know more facts about a man because he is dead. But what one already knows hardens and becomes definite. We cannot hope for ambiguities to be clarified, we cannot hope for further change, we cannot hope for more. We are now the protagonists and we have to make up our minds.

Before you are old attend as many funerals as you can bear and listen. Nobody talks about the departed’s achievements. The only thing people will remember is what kind of person you were while you were achieving.

You are mortal: it is the mortal way. You attend the funeral, you bid the dead farewell. You grieve. Then you continue with your life.

I just thought that a man, or in this case a woman, never gets too busy to attend his or her own funeral. You can be late for everything else but this.

We are happy to let children spend hours merrily slaughtering, maiming and motherfucking in front of their computer screens, and yet baulk at them attending the funeral of a dearly loved grandparent in case it upsets them. I think we are teaching them to be afraid of the wrong things.

Though you may have never attended a funeral, two of the world's humans die every second. Eight in the time it took you to read that sentence. Now we're at fourteen. If this is too abstract, consider this number: 2.5 million. The 2.5 million people who die in the United States every year.

This person will not become a lifelong friend who attends your wedding, or your funeral. They will not celebrate your triumphs, or comfort you during your failures. They won't even move into tomorrow with you. What's the point?

Amazing, I thought. I worked in the news business. I covered stories where people died. I interviewed grieving family members. I even attended the funerals. I never cried. Morrie, for the suffering of people half a world away, was weeping. Is this what comes at the end, I wondered? Maybe death is the great equalizer, the one big thing that can finally make strangers shed a tear for one another

The value of a person’s life is measured by the amount of people they touch in living it. Based on this belief, I have always further believed a person’s funeral would be a depiction of the perceived value in the life they’ve lived – the means of measure being the people in attendance at the funeral – the touched souls.

There are fewer things sadder than a poorly attended funeral.

*Paying one’s last respects* is about the payer, not the paid. (Who attends the funeral — and who doesn’t — is the deceased’s last worry.)

the role of artists is to attend the funerals. They are the pall-bearers of failure, and every wonder they raise high in celebration harks back to a time already dead.

In fact, when all three of them were together Harry felt like the only non-mourner at a poorly attended funeral

Oh, go glean yourself," Curie said, only partially suppressing her grin. "Only if I can attend my own funeral, my dear.

At the next funeral I would attend, for one of the jungle children, I would do the same thing. Come. Honor. Grieve. Turn away.

On the morning of his funeral, the Baltimore Sun failed to announce the service, but mourned that his death “will cause poignant regret among all who admire genius, and have sympathy for the frailties too often attending it.

And it struck Obinze that, a few years ago, they were attending weddings, now it was christenings and soon it would be funerals. They would die. They would all die after trudging through lives in which they were neither happy nor unhappy.

Wining and dining instead of crying and wailing at a funeral in sympathy with the bereaved is a mockery of condolence. If the dead are capable of anything, they will zip up the mouth of everyone in attendance except those crying and condoling.

I went to my father’s funeral after he died in hospital. When my uncle died of a heart attack, and Zayd drowned in the flood, and Maneen was killed by a bullet, and Hafiza died of AIDS and Marwan killed himself with his father’s dagger, I went to their funerals, and I also attended funerals for my friends’ fathers and mothers, but I didn’t go to Zarifa’s. Simply, no one told me.

To understand, I destroyed myself. To understand is to forget about loving. I know nothing more simultaneously false and telling than the statement by Leonardo da Vinci that we cannot love or hate something until we’ve understood it. Solitude devastates me; company oppresses me. The presence of another person derails my thoughts; I dream of the other’s presence with a strange absent-mindedness that no amount of my analytical scrutiny can define. Isolation has carved me in its image and likeness. The presence of another person – of any person whatsoever – instantly slows down my thinking, and while for a normal man contact with others is a stimulus to spoken expression and wit, for me it is a counterstimulus, if this compound word be linguistically permissible. When all by myself, I can think of all kinds of clever remarks, quick comebacks to what no one said, and flashes of witty sociability with nobody. But all of this vanishes when I face someone in the flesh: I lose my intelligence, I can no longer speak, and after half an hour I just feel tired. Yes, talking to people makes me feel like sleeping. Only my ghostly and imaginary friends, only the conversations I have in my dreams, are genuinely real and substantial, and in them intelligence gleams like an image in a mirror. The mere thought of having to enter into contact with someone else makes me nervous. A simple invitation to have dinner with a friend produces an anguish in me that’s hard to define. The idea of any social obligation whatsoever – attending a funeral, dealing with someone about an office matter, going to the station to wait for someone I know or don’t know – the very idea disturbs my thoughts for an entire day, and sometimes I even start worrying the night before, so that I sleep badly. When it takes place, the dreaded encounter is utterly insignificant, justifying none of my anxiety, but the next time is no different: I never learn to learn. ‘My habits are of solitude, not of men.’ I don’t know if it was Rousseau or Senancour who said this. But it was some mind of my species, it being perhaps too much to say of my race.

The store was empty, without a single customer or employee. It appeared in the Internet age, pianos, like physical books, were fast becoming culturally extinct. They’d probably stay that way unless Apple invented the iPiano, which fit inside your pocket and could be mastered via text message. With the iPiano, anyone can be an iMozart. Then, you could compose your own iRequiem for your own iFuneral attended by millions of your iFriends who iLoved you.

A story given in Lillian Hellman's Scoundrel Time. While attending the funeral of Hollywood producer Harry Cohn with a large number of mourners a friend said to George Jessel - I never saw such a mob at a funeral. Jessel replied - Same old story: you give 'em what they want and they'll fill the theater.

The mere thought of having to enter into contact with someone else makes me nervous. A simple invitation to have dinner with a friend produces an anguish in me that’s hard to define. The idea of any social obligation whatsoever – attending a funeral, dealing with someone about an office matter, going to the station to wait for someone I know or don’t know – the very idea disturbs my thoughts for an entire day, and sometimes I even start worrying the night before, so that I sleep badly. When it takes place, the dreaded encounter is utterly insignificant, justifying none of my anxiety, but the next time is no different: I never learn to learn.

If I had a dollar for every copper’s funeral I’ve attended up here,” said Colon, “I’d have…nineteen dollars and fifty pence.” “Fifty pence?” said Nobby. “That was when Corporal Hildebiddle woke up just in time and banged on the lid,” said Colon. “That was before your time, o’course. Everyone said it was an amazin’ recovery.

Papa, I would like to attend de funeral.’ ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’ Emerson asked. ‘Dere is a variety of folktale dat claims dat de murderer is drawn to de funeral services of his victim. I suspect dat is pure legend, but a truly scientific mind does not dismiss a t’eory simply because it – ’ ‘Ramses, I am surprised

Even nowadays, children are often left at home during funerals, like dogs. Why should children be excluded from funerals when they’re so welcome at christenings and weddings? Not only can their presence be therapeutic for other adults and useful reminders that life, whatever death may do, goes on; not only is it unlikely that very young children will be upset, simply because they have only a vague idea of the concept of death. But not attending the funeral of someone close can be tremendously damaging for some people in later life. Middle-aged people who were not allowed to attend the funerals of grandparents or even parents, can still feel full of rage and sorrow.

I would attend more than one funeral, after all. It just so happened that the second would be my own.

Thousands of people attended Andrew Jackson’s funeral in 1845, including his pet parrot that was removed for allegedly swearing too much.

if he had attended burial services for one of his bitter enemies, said, “No, I didn’t patronize the funeral, but I approve of it.

What is this that Templars would attend his funeral?

With the iPiano, anyone can be an iMozart. Then, you could compose your own iRequiem for your own iFuneral attended by millions of your iFriends who iLoved you.

I have never attended a nudist funeral.

A wolf only attends a rabbit’s funeral to eat its young.

Cracknell’s funeral is well-attended, since no-one’s as loved as the dead.

The one who survives longest gets to attend all their friends’ funerals, then they go out, too, confused and crapping their pants. This right here is mercy.

How could I sleep with a man I wasn't sure would attend my funeral?

If I don’t attend other people’s funerals they won’t come to mine.

Weapons are the tools of violence; all decent men detest them. Weapons are the tools of fear; a decent man will avoid them except in the direst necessity and, if compelled, will use them only with the utmost restraint. Peace is the highest value.… He enters a battle gravely, with sorrow and with great compassion, as if he were attending a funeral. (ch. 31) That

The only other funeral she’d attended had been four years previously, when she and Strike had attended the cremation of a murdered girl in the course of their first murder investigation,

INTERVIEWER Why don’t you write tragedy? BARTHELME I’m fated to deal in mixtures, slumgullions, which preclude tragedy, which require a pure line. It’s a habit of mind, a perversity. Tom Hess used to tell a story, maybe from Lewis Carroll, I don’t remember, about an enraged mob storming the palace shouting “More taxes! Less bread!” As soon as I hear a proposition I immediately consider its opposite. A double-minded man—makes for mixtures. INTERVIEWER Apparently the Yiddish theater, to which Kafka was very addicted, includes as a typical bit of comedy two clowns, more or less identical, who appear even in sad scenes—the parting of two lovers, for instance—and behave comically as the audience is weeping. This shows up especially in The Castle. BARTHELME The assistants. INTERVIEWER And the audience doesn’t know what to do. BARTHELME The confusing signals, the impurity of the signal, gives you verisimilitude. As when you attend a funeral and notice, against your will, that it’s being poorly done. [...] I think of the line from the German writer Heimito von Doderer: “At first you break windows. Then you become a window yourself.

In every Magical, or similar system, it is invariably the first condition which the Aspirant must fulfill: he must once and for all and for ever put his family outside his magical circle. Even the Gospels insist clearly and weightily on this. Christ himself (i.e. whoever is meant by this name in this passage) callously disowns his mother and his brethren (Luke VIII, 19). And he repeatedly makes discipleship contingent on the total renunciation of all family ties. He would not even allow a man to attend his father's funeral! Is the magical tradition less rigid? Not on your life!

A guy I grew up with recently died. I attended his funeral, but only because I thought there’d be free food afterwards. I brought to-go boxes with me. You know, to remember him for as long as I could.

The root of disaster means a star coming apart, and no image expresses better the look in a patient’s eyes when hearing a neurosurgeon’s diagnosis. Sometimes the news so shocks the mind that the brain suffers an electrical short. This phenomenon is known as a “psychogenic” syndrome, a severe version of the swoon some experience after hearing bad news. When my mother, alone at college, heard that her father, who had championed her right to an education in rural 1960s India, had finally died after a long hospitalization, she had a psychogenic seizure—which continued until she returned home to attend the funeral.

Not a single family finds itself exempt from that one haunted casualty who suffered irreparable damage in the crucible they entered at birth. Where some children can emerge from conditions of soul-killing abuse and manage to make their lives into something of worth and value, others can’t limp away from the hurts and gleanings time decanted for them in flawed beakers of memory. They carry the family cross up the hill toward Calvary and don’t mind letting every other member of their aggrieved tribe in on the source of their suffering. There is one crazy that belongs to each of us: the brother who kills the spirit of any room he enters; the sister who’s a drug addict in her teens and marries a series of psychopaths, always making sure she bears their children, who carry their genes of madness to the grave. There’s the neurotic mother who’s so demanding that the sound of her voice over the phone can cause instant nausea in her daughters. The variations are endless and fascinating. I’ve never attended a family reunion where I was not warned of a Venus flytrap holding court among the older women, or a pitcher plant glistening with drops of sweet poison trying to sell his version of the family maelstrom to his young male cousins. When the stories begin rolling out, as they always do, one learns of feuds that seem unbrokerable, or sexual abuse that darkens each tale with its intimation of ruin. That uncle hates that aunt and that cousin hates your mother and your sister won’t talk to your brother because of something he said to a date she later married and then divorced. In every room I enter I can sniff out unhappiness and rancor like a snake smelling the nest of a wren with its tongue. Without even realizing it, I pick up associations of distemper and aggravation. As far as I can tell, every family produces its solitary misfit, its psychotic mirror image of all the ghosts summoned out of the small or large hells of childhood, the spiller of the apple cart, the jack of spades, the black-hearted knight, the shit stirrer, the sibling with the uncontrollable tongue, the father brutal by habit, the uncle who tried to feel up his nieces, the aunt too neurotic ever to leave home. Talk to me all you want about happy families, but let me loose at a wedding or a funeral and I’ll bring you back the family crazy. They’re that easy to find.

Of course they were surprised. Hmmm, let’s see…She had all but disappeared from society. She and the groom skipped out on their own wedding—on their wedding day. Father had died, and she hadn’t attended the funeral.

Samson caused the house to collapse, knowing his death would also result. Despite Samson’s deliberate suicide, Samson died faithful after having judged Israel for 20 years. His name rightly appears among men who, through faith, were made powerful. (Jg 15:20; 16:29-31; Heb 11:32-34) We are surrounded by thousands of unseen cruelties, that mostly go unseen. The total amount of suffering each year is beyond comprehension. This world is barbed, dangerous and painful—too painful for some. Give them their space. On any given day, your nod of approval may perpetuate cruelties that rasp away at the soul of another. We are all bound together in this delicate web of consequence. Tread light. Be kind. Many among us make unseen bargains to push ourselves onward—another hour, another day, another week. Occasionally their bargains create a deadly, unstoppable momentum. Consider King Saul: When he realized that he would not survive his final battle against the Philistines, rather than letting his enemy humiliate him, or extort Israel, “Saul took the sword and fell upon it.” –1Sam 31:4

The church was custom built by Jesus, and we are all works in progress. We do not expect people to get their sin in order before attending church any more than a hospital expects people to get healed before they show up.

When the Holy Father passed away in 2005, Laura, Dad, Bill Clinton, and I flew together to his funeral in Rome. It was the first time an American president had attended the funeral of a pope, let alone brought two of his predecessors.

Wary of being caught unawares, we planned our parenthood, committed to trial marriages with pre-nuptials, and pre-arranged our parents’ funerals—convinced we could pre-feel the feelings that we have heard attend new life, true love, and death.

In retrospect, the reason for her decision seems evident. Our Noriko, for so many years troubled by the demands of society on one hand and the needs of the self on the other, finally decided. She would do what she wanted. And she did. All attempts to lure her out over the years have been rebuffed. When a documentary was made on Ozu, she refused to appear, just as, when he died, she did not attend his funeral. Setsuko Hara was her own person at last. On Japanese actress Setsuko Hara

I would not have it understood, for a moment, that I or any of the Elders attend funerals to smother over the weaknesses of the departed dead, trying to make it appear that they were without faults, and therefore will not have to answer for any.

Although two senior Irish diplomats were in Switzerland at the time, neither attended Joyce's funeral, and the Irish government later declined Nora's offer to permit the repatriation of Joyce's remains. Nora, who had married Joyce in London in 1931, survived

Now it's hitting me. I will never have a family to grieve for me. I will never have people feel about me the way they feel about Marc's grandfather. I will not leave the trail of memories that he's left. No one will ever have known me or what I've done. If I die, there will be no body to mark me, no funeral to attend, no burial. If I die, there will be nobody but Rhiannon who will ever know I've been here. I cry because I am so jealous of Marc's grandfather, because I am jealous of anyone who can make other people care so much.

Draco Malfoy attended Fred Weasley’s funeral, standing at the far back, careful not to be seen, and after he thought everyone had left, he lingered a bit. He secretly thought the twins were quite funny and felt terrible that he’d been part of the reason that Fred died.

Harry had not expected Hermione’s anger to abate overnight, and was therefore unsurprised that she communicated mainly by dirty looks and pointed silences the next morning. Ron responded by maintaining an unnaturally somber demeanor in her presence as an outward sign of continuing remorse. In fact, when all three of them were together Harry felt like the only non-mourner at a poorly attended funeral. During those few moments he spent alone with Harry, however (collecting water and searching the undergrowth for mushrooms), Ron became shamelessly cheery.

She slipped free crusty pies filled with apple-flavored lumps of sugar to the runaway rent boys she befriended who operated around the station With no idea that in years to come she’d be attending their funerals They didn’t realize unprotected sex meant a dance with death Nobody did

Though you may never have attended a funeral, two of the world’s humans die every second. Eight in the time it took you to read that sentence. Now we’re at fourteen. The dead space this process out nicely so that the living hardly even notice they’re undergoing the transformation. Unless

I know, I know, in that totally archetypal Tom Sawyer scenario it’s supposed to be way satisfying to attend your own funeral and witness how everyone secretly loved and adored you, but the sad truth is that most people are just as fakey-fake to you after you’re dead as when you’re alive.

It is mandatory from elementary school to attend public executions. Often classes would be cancelled so students could go. Factories would send their workers, to ensure a large crowd. I always tried to avoid attending, but on one occasion that summer I made an exception, because I knew one of the men being killed. Many people in Hyesan knew him. You might think the execution of an acquaintance is the last thing you’d want to see. In fact, people made excuses not to go if they didn’t know the victim. But if they knew the victim, they felt obliged to go, as they would to a funeral.

How different was the funeral of one who had friends. He was alone; none followed, save the undertaker and his attendants, all of whom looked solemn from habit and professional motives. Even the jocose man was a supernaturally solemn as could be well imagined; indeed, nobody knew he was the same man.

All the kings and queens left the Charming Kingdom the following day to celebrate the news of the Enchantress’s defeat with their people. Red was the only one who stayed behind, because at the end of the week she, Froggy, Goldilocks, Jack, Bob, Charlotte, and the twins all attended Rumpelstiltskin’s funeral.

How many funerals had he attended, how many open graves had he seen, watched the coffins eased down, or sometimes just a frayed mat in which the corpse was bundled, the feet sticking out, the soles white and sometimes still specked with dirt if he was a farmer and could not afford slippers, least of all shoes. -Istak

My traveling coach does not give a fig for sentimentality. Its wheels need only a taste of November mud to become gleefully mired—an opportunity I shall not provide.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Atherbourne in response to said lady’s inquiry about her possible attendance of Princess Charlotte’s funeral.

Sir Gerald du Maurier, the most famous actor-manager of his day, died in April 1934, aged sixty-one. His daughter Daphne did not attend his funeral in Hampstead but instead went onto the Heath and released some pigeons, aware that this might seem an affected thing to do but believing it to be a gesture in keeping with her father’s spirit.

West Country novelist Thomas Hardy almost did not survive his birth in 1840 because everyone thought he was stillborn. He did not appear to be breathing and was put to one side for dead. The nurse attending the birth only by chance noticed a slight movement that showed the baby was in fact alive. He lived to be 87 and gave the world 18 novels, including some of the most widely read in English literature. When he did die, there was controversy over where he should be laid to rest. Public opinion felt him too famous to lie anywhere other than in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey, the national shrine. He, however, had left clear instructions to be buried in Stinsford, near his birthplace and next to his parents, grandparents, first wife and sister. A compromise was brokered. His ashes were interred in the Abbey. His heart would be buried in his beloved home county. The plan agreed, his heart was taken to his sister’s house ready for burial. Shortly before, as it lay ready on the kitchen table, the family cat grabbed it and disappeared with it into the woods. Although, simultaneously with the national funeral in Westminster Abbey, a burial ceremony took place on 16 January 1928, at Stinsford, there is uncertainty to this day as to what was in the casket: some say it was buried empty; others that it contained the captured cat which had consumed the heart.

We are so much more comfortable saying ‘fuck’ than ‘dead’. We are happy to let children spend hours merrily slaughtering, maiming and motherfucking in front of their computer screens, and yet baulk at them attending the funeral of a dearly loved grandparent in case it upsets them. I think we are teaching them to be afraid of the wrong things.

And what about this. When we’re thrust into it, we anxious folk can often deal with the present really rather well. It’s worth remembering this. As real, present-moment disasters occur, we invariably cope, and often better than others. The day after no sleep, I get on with things. At funerals, or when I’ve fallen off my bike, or the time I had to attend to my grandmother when she stopped breathing, or whenever a major work disaster plays out leaving my team in a panic, I’m a picture of calm. Dad used to call me “the tower of strength” in such moments. I also don’t tend to have a lot of bog-standard fear (as opposed to anxiety). In fact, I relish real, present-moment fear and actively seek it out.

Usama bin Laden has died a peaceful death due to an untreated lung complication, the Pakistan Observer reported, citing a Taliban leader who allegedly attended the funeral of the Al Qaeda leader...Bin laden, according to the source, was suffering from a serious lung complication and succumbed to the disease in mid-December, in the vicinity of the Tora Bora mountains.

She wondered at the strangeness of the day, how it had begun with death and ended with sex. But was it that strange? Her best night with McQueen, the one night she cherished most in her memories, had come when she'd returned home after attending her aunt's funeral. McQueen had surprised her with his kindness during that difficult time, hiring a car to take her there and bring her back, sending a spray of roses, orchids and lilies to cover her aunt's casket. He'd even been waiting at her apartment when she arrived. He'd wanted sex from her, of course, but that night she'd wanted it from him even more. She'd spent three days in the company of death. And sex was almost the opposite of a funeral. A funeral said “life ends.” Sex said “life goes on.

Nevertheless, I couldn’t attend Sammy’s funeral in inappropriate clothing. The black dress, the assistant assured me, was smart, but could also be “dressed down.” The coat could be worn all winter. My jerkin had more than paid for itself over the years, but I would keep it, of course, in case it was required again in future. I hung everything up carefully. I was ready. Bring out your dead.

It appeared in the Internet age, pianos, like physical books, were fast becoming culturally extinct. They'd probably stay that way unless Apple invented the iPiano, which fit inside your pocket and could be mastered via text message. With the iPiano, anyone can be an iMozart. Then, you could compose your own iRequiem for your own iFuneral attended by millions of your iFriends who iLoved you.

It appeared in the Internet age, pianos, like physical books, were fast becoming culturally extinct. They’d probably stay that way unless Apple invented the iPiano, which fit inside your pocket and could be mastered via text message. With the iPiano, anyone can be an iMozart. Then, you could compose your own iRequiem for your own iFuneral attended by millions of your iFriends who iLoved you.

Amazing, I thought. I worked in the news business. I covered stories where people died. I interviewed grieving family members. I even attended the funerals. I never cried. Morrie, for the suffering of people half a world away, was weeping. Is this what comes at the end, I wondered? Maybe death is the great equalizer, the one big thing that can finally make strangers shed a tear for one another.

You two shall present the letter to her family at the funeral.” “Wait,” said Citra. “We’re going to her funeral?” “I thought you said it was best not to linger,” said Rowan. “Lingering and paying respects are two different things. I attend the funerals of all the people I glean.” “Is that a scythe rule?” Rowan asked, having never been to a funeral. “No, it’s my rule,” he told them. “It’s called ‘common decency.’ 

The last funeral I had attended was Kathy’s, a “green” funeral. No coffin, no headstone; we carried her shroud-wrapped body on a handcart deep into a forest in her native Virginia to a designated area where we, her friends, dug the grave. Kathy weighed practically nothing at the end. We lifted her off the cart and laid her in the ground. After we filled the grave, we scattered leaves over the freshly turned earth and brushed away our footprints with branches.

What time is the funeral" " Two pm." "Are you going, Sergeant?" "Yes." "Can anyone go?" "Anyone can go Beula, but only good people with respectful intentions should attend don't you think? Without Tilly's tolerance and generosity, her patience and skills, our lives - mine especially - would not have been enriched. Since you are not sincere about her feelings or about her dear mother and only want to go to stickybeak - well it's just plain ghoulish isn't it?

A piece of plastic stole an entire species— In lobbies, in the bathroom, in an elevator, Ideas, reactions, and silent contemplations, During lunchtime, during mass, during his funeral, On the street, on break, on duty, Before the waiter brings the food and after the check, While the flight attendant bothers to request airplane mode, While a trafficked victim speaks to you in code, While the potential love of our life just walked past, While mother cooks with a recipe we forgot to ask.

ay what you might about his whiskers and his habit of looking as if he had been attending the funeral of a dear friend, E. Jimpson knew his job. After about ten hours of restful sleep I sprang from between the sheets, leaped to the bathroom, dressed with a song on my lips and headed for the breakfast table like a two-year-old. I had cleaned up the eggs and b., and got the toast and marmalade down the hatch to the last crumb with all the enthusiasm of a tiger of the jungle tucking into its ration of coolie.

To this period of Modeste’s eager rage for reading succeeded the exercise of a strange faculty given to vigorous imaginations, — the power, namely, of making herself an actor in a dream-existence; of representing to her own mind the things desired, with so vivid a conception that they seemed actually to attain reality; in short, to enjoy by thought, — to live out her years within her mind; to marry; to grow old; to attend her own funeral like Charles V.; to play within herself the comedy of life and, if need be, that of death.

Five of his patients had died. And one of these was Augustus Benedict Mady Lewis, the little deaf-mute. He had been asked to speak at the burial service, but as it was his rule not to attend funerals he was unable to accept this invitation. The five patients had not been lost because of any negligence on his part. The blame was in the long years of want which lay behind. The diets of cornbread and sowbelly and syrup, the crowding of four and five persons to a single room. The death of poverty. He brooded on this and drank coffee to stay awake.

What I hadn't expected was to be blindsided by a history lesson that betrayed every hard-won experience I'd had as a player and now a coach at the same school I'd attended. . . Whoever was responsible for sending a championship team into virtual obscurity was either a serious egomaniac or just plain mean. It stung. After all, wasn't the story told at today's funeral the stuff of legacies? Of school lore passed on to the next class, and the next, building institutional pride as well as magical identities that made every kid in the state want to play there?

into it in the end, but she’d gotten the feeling he’d only relented to placate her, to ease some of the tension that’d crept into their marriage. And by then it was too late. A month later she was attending his funeral. Oddly, she didn’t feel the gut-wrenching loss that normally accompanied any thought of her late husband. Did that mean she was learning to live without him? Or was it the hope of having a child that buoyed her spirits? If she was pregnant, it would be more than a little ironic that it had happened with Maxim… “Get this over with,” she said aloud.

Well, you will tell me in your own time how it happened, and I won’t harp on it any more now, because you will have to face up to the performance of the funeral, and the great strain ‘of all that. I don’t know why people have to have those awful great Memorial Services, but I think it gives a self-righteous feeling to those left behind – I don’t mean family, but friends – like a ‘send-off’, when a person catches a boat-train. Moper loathed them, would never attend them, and that is why I would not allow one for him, and put in the Times: ‘No memorial service at his own request.

Declan Lynch was a liar. He'd been a liar his entire life. Lies came to him fluidly, easily, instinctively. What does your father do for a living? He sells high-end sports cars in the summer, life insurance in the winter. He's an anesthesiologist. He does financial consulting for divorcees. He does advertising work for international companies in English-speaking markets. He's in the FBI. Where did he meet your mother? They were on yearbook together in high school. They were set up by friends. She took his picture at the county fair, said she wanted to keep his smile forever. Why can't Ronan come to a sleepover? He sleepwalks. Once he walked out to the road and my father had to convince a trucker who'd stopped before hitting him he was really his son. How did your mother die? Brain bleed. Rare. Genetic. Passes from mother to daughter, which is the only good thing, 'cause she only had sons. How are you doing? Fine. Good. Great. At a certain point, the truth felt worse. Truth was a closed-casket funeral attended by its estranged living relatives, Lies, Safety, Secrets. He lied to everyone. He lied to his lovers, his friends, his brothers. Well. More often he simply didn't tell his brothers the truth.

In the suburbs, new homes were built with gardens, swimming pools and other comforts of family life at the back; at the front there was only a garage. Residents turned away from the street. Advertising slogans and political messages were no longer aimed at the crowd outside but instead at the family at home. The statistics speak volumes; Americans went to the cinema and theatre less often, attended fewer meetings and gatherings, spent less time at sports fixtures, in bars and cafés, or with their neighbours. Funerals, which had always been village or neighbourhood events, were increasingly a private matter.

at hand; and as Arthur had to be back the next day to attend at his father’s funeral, we were unable to notify any one who should have been bidden. Under the circumstances, Van Helsing and I took it upon ourselves to examine papers, etc. He insisted upon looking over Lucy’s papers himself. I asked him why, for I feared that he, being a foreigner, might not be quite aware of English legal requirements, and so might in ignorance make some unnecessary trouble. He answered me:— “I know; I know. You forget that I am a lawyer as well as a doctor. But this is not altogether for the law. You knew that, when you avoided the coroner.

Confined to bed, I could not attend Stephanie's funeral. Her mother brought me her stacks of comic books and her cigar box of charms. Now I had everything, all her treasures, but I was far too ill to even look at them. It was then that I experienced the weight of sin, even a sin as small as a stolen skater pin. I reflected on the fact that no matter how good I aspired to be, I was never going to achieve perfection. I also would never receive Stephanie's forgiveness. But as I lay there night after night, it occurred to me that it might be possible to speak with her by praying to her, or at least ask God to intercede on my behalf.' p.8

Mike Bloomberg once said, “I have always had a policy: If it’s a friend and they get a promotion, I don’t bother to call them; I’ll see them sometime and make a joke about it. If they get fired, I want to go out to dinner with them that night. And I want to do it in a public place where everybody can see me. Because I remember when I got fired from Salomon Brothers—I can tell you every single person that called me. That meant something. When I was made a partner? I have no recollection of that whatsoever.” My friend Todd Benson puts it this way: “Show up when it matters, when it means something. Never miss a funeral. Attend every wedding.

Nowadays, enormous importance is given to individual deaths, people make such a drama out of each person who dies, especially if they die a violent death or are murdered; although the subsequent grief or curse doesn't last very long: no one wears mourning any more and there's a reason for that, we're quick to weep but quicker still to forget. I'm talking about our countries, of course, it's not like that in other parts of the world, but what else can they do in a place where death is an everyday occurrence. Here, though, it's a big deal, at least at the moment it happens. So-and-so has died, how dreadful; such-and-such a number of people have been killed in a crash or blown to pieces, how terrible, how vile. The politicians have to rush around attending funerals and burials, taking care not to miss any-intense grief, or is it pride, requires them as ornaments, because they give no consolation nor can they, it's all to do with show, fuss, vanity and rank. The rank of the self-important, super-sensitive living. And yet, when you think about it, what right do we have, what is the point of complaining and making a tragedy out of something that happens to every living creature in order for it to become a dead creature? What is so terrible about something so supremely natural and ordinary? It happens in the best families, as you know, and has for centuries, and in the worst too, of course, at far more frequent intervals. What's more, it happens all the time and we know that perfectly well, even though we pretend to be surprised and frightened: count the dead who are mentioned on any TV news report, read the birth and death announcements in any newspaper, in a single city, Madrid, London, each list is a long one every day of the year; look at the obituaries, and although you'll find far fewer of them, because an infinitesimal minority are deemed to merit one, they're nevertheless there every morning. How many people die every weekend on the roads and how many have died in the innumerable battles that have been waged? The losses haven't always been published throughout history, in fact, almost never. People were more familiar with and more accepting of death, they accepted chance and luck, be it good or bad, they knew they were vulnerable to it at every moment; people came into the world and sometimes disappeared at once, that was normal, the infant mortality rate was extraordinarily high until eighty or even seventy years ago, as was death in childbirth, a woman might bid farewell to her child as soon as she saw its face, always assuming she had the will or the time to do so. Plagues were common and almost any illness could kill, illnesses we know nothing about now and whose names are unfamiliar; there were famines, endless wars, real wars that involved daily fighting, not sporadic engagements like now, and the generals didn't care about the losses, soldiers fell and that was that, they were only individuals to themselves, not even to their families, no family was spared the premature death of at least some of its members, that was the norm; those in power would look grim-faced, then carry out another levy, recruit more troops and send them to the front to continue dying in battle, and almost no one complained. People expected death, Jack, there wasn't so much panic about it, it was neither an insuperable calamity nor a terrible injustice; it was something that could happen and often did. We've become very soft, very thin-skinned, we think we should last forever. We ought to be accustomed to the temporary nature of things, but we're not. We insist on not being temporary, which is why it's so easy to frighten us, as you've seen, all one has to do is unsheathe a sword. And we're bound to be cowed when confronted by those who still see death, their own or other people's, as part and parcel of their job, as all in a day's work. When confronted by terrorists, for example, or by drug barons or multinational mafia men.

If you don’t know what became of someone, if you don’t attend a person’s funeral or hear word from a friend of a friend, these persons who float from our lives attain a kind of immortality, always hovering around the next corner. By closing your eyes, you can attach to them any set of attributes: the various chairs he reclines in, the soda she might sip from, the dreams they have of you they can’t remember in the morning. This brings me to life’s great paradox: for someone to truly be a part of you – to live in your thoughts, roaming your memory and vision, occupying planes of hope, nostalgia, and speculation in your mind – he or she must be wholly inaccessible to you. Twin

If you are part of the male population that believes that expressing emotion is for pansies, going to a psychologist is for the weak, receiving mental health treatment is for sissies, or that people who experience suicidal thoughts should suck it up; you are part of the reason why so many people bottle up or mask their emotions. It’s okay, you probably have been raised that way, but you are wreaking havoc. I’m pleading for you to be part of the solution. Don’t let your narrow-mindedness, ego, and ignorance ruin the life of your child, partner, colleague, friend, or family member. If you don’t attend to a loved one’s mental health, the next thing you might attend is their funeral.

Anyone could spare the time, stopped whatever they were doing to watch the funeral go by. It was a custom. It was important to know who had died, under what circumstances, to whom the person was related, and who the mourners were following the hearse, and why they felt the need to attend this particular funeral. There were few events that commanded the total attention of the community as much as a passing funeral. Its size was commented upon, and the life story of the deceased, whatever was known of it, whispered from person to person. It was more than a funeral they watched. In a way, it was a small lesson in community history, and everyone, for those minutes, was a diligent scholar.

Though you may never have attended a funeral, two of the world’s humans die every second. Eight in the time it took you to read that sentence. Now we’re at fourteen. If this is too abstract, consider this number: 2.5 million. The 2.5 million people who die in the United States every year. The dead space this process out nicely so that the living hardly even notice they’re undergoing the transformation. We’d probably pay more attention if no one died all year, and then on December 31 the entire population of Chicago suddenly dropped dead. Or Houston. Or Las Vegas and Detroit put together. Instead, unless a celebrity or public figure dies, we tend to overlook the necro demographic as they slip away into history.

The gang of us sat around, and moved our thighs on the horsehair or on the split-bottom and stared down at the unpainted boards of the floor or at the design on the linoleum mat in the middle of the floor as though we were attending a funeral and owed the dead man some money. The linoleum mat was newish, and the colors were still bright—reds and tans and blues slick and varnished-looking—a kind of glib, impertinent, geometrical island floating there in the midst of the cornerless shadows and the acid mummy smell and the slow swell of Time which had fed into this room, day by day since long back, as into a landlocked sea where the fish were dead and the taste was brackish on your tongue. You had the feeling that if the Boss and Mr. Duffy and Sadie Burke and the photographer and the reporters and you and the rest got cuddled up together on that linoleum mat it would lift off the floor by magic and scoop you all up together and make a lazy preliminary circuit of the room and whisk right out the door or out the roof like the floating island of Gulliver or the carpet in the Arabian Nights and carry you off where you and it belonged and leave Old Man Stark sitting there as though nothing had happened, very clean and razor-nicked, with his gray hair plastered down damp, sitting there by the table where the big Bible and the lamp and the plush-bound album were under the blank, devouring gaze of the whiskered face in the big crayon portrait above the mantel shelf.

The funeral was held on a rainy Tuesday at the church where the Brendan family were members. The high school was excused for the day so the teachers and students could attend if they wished, and many did. Avivah's parents mourned their only child from the front pew, tears falling as steadily as the droplets outside, smattering faces as well as painted window panes. After the eulogy, a song about heaven began to play over head, and as the song played, the Brendans lit a candle by the photo of their daughter, then returned to their seats. More than a few people in attendance were found dabbing at their eyes as the song came to a close. The group of mourners made their way slowly to the cemetery and laid the girl to rest, black umbrellas dotting the vivid green of the grass, grey sky bright, despite the rainfall.

SMALLER, BUT I CAN STILL SEE YOU!” said Owen Meany. Then he left us; he was gone. I could tell by his almost cheerful expression that he was at least as high as the palm trees. Major Rawls saw to it that Owen Meany got a medal. I was asked to make an eyewitness report, but Major Rawls was instrumental in pushing the proper paperwork through the military chain of command. Owen Meany was awarded the so-called Soldier’s Medal: “For heroism that involves the voluntary risk of life under conditions other than those of conflict with an opposing armed force.” According to Major Rawls, the Soldier’s Medal rates above the Bronze Star but below the Legion of Merit. Naturally, it didn’t matter very much to me—exactly where the medal was rated—but I think Rawls was right in assuming that the medal mattered to Owen Meany. Major Rawls did not attend Owen’s funeral. When I spoke on the telephone with him, Rawls was apologetic about not making the trip to New Hampshire; but I assured him that I completely understood his feelings. Major Rawls had seen his share of flag-draped caskets;

In 2008, an Australian company commissioned a study to find out exactly how much people fear public speaking. The survey of more than one thousand people found that 23 percent feared public speaking more than death itself! As Jerry Seinfeld once said, most people attending a funeral would rather be in the casket than delivering the eulogy! I can relate to those people because I feared speaking in front of a class or group of people more than anything else when I was a kid. In fact, I dropped speech in high school because when I signed up for it I thought it was a grammar class for an English credit. When I found out it actually required giving an oral presentation, I didn’t want any part of it! After hearing the overview of the class on the first day, I got out of my seat and walked toward the door; the teacher asked me where I was going. We had a brief meeting in the hall, in which she informed me that nobody ever dropped her class. After a meeting with the principal, I dropped the class, but on the condition that I might be called upon in the near future to use my hunting and fishing skills. I thought the principal was joking--until I was called upon later that year during duck season to pick ducks during recess! I looked at it as a fair trade.

What's that?" he asked. "A balance sheet," I said. "To keep track of your payments." He asked whether Pop had written it or me. When I answered truthfully, he handed the paper back like the useless thing it was. "Thank you," he said. "I won't be needing this." Which took me by surprise and set me stammering how it was proof he was making his payments, and how he should take it because it was the right and proper way to do business. "The rules aren't the same for me as they are for you," Joseph replied, shaking his head. "Don't you know that, Will?" Which put my nose out of joint so bad that I told him he was being rude, and that I was only trying to do him a favor at no small risk to myself. Joseph's face went blank as the cloudless sky overhead. He eyed the receipt. Said, "Thank you, Mr. William. But I can't accept." And got back on his bicycle. "That all you got to say?" I near shouted, frustrated at how easily he'd turned my good intentions into a fool's errand. And the quickest flash of hate you ever did see danced across the dark of his eyes. I stood there, feeling awkward and a fool. Joseph put one foot on a pedal and said, real quiet, "If you'll excuse me, I've a funeral to attend." Only then did I notice the band of mourning black around his upper arm. "Who died?" I asked stupidly. Joseph's eyes were flat. "Nobody important, Mr. William. Only a Negro boy like me.

Modeling Modeling is the process of watching how others act in certain situations, then copying their behavior. For example, if you are worried about the first impression you make, pay attention to how others present themselves. What traits give a good first impression? What do people say? How do confident people carry themselves? Also examine people who give a bad first impression and try to determine why. Imitate the actions that impressed you. With time, you will feel more comfortable with modeling and begin to own the traits you admire in others. Modeling works very well when you are in an unfamiliar situation. If you are not sure how to act, watching others will give you clues. Sam’s best friend’s father passed away and Sam attended the service. He had never been to a funeral before and felt very uncomfortable. As he stood in the receiving line, he felt anxious about what to say and how to act. He was terrified of saying the wrong thing and hurting his friend’s family. Sam stepped out of line and stood to the side for a moment. He observed what other people did as he breathed deeply and practiced relaxation techniques. After a few minutes, he figured out what to do and returned to the line. When he reached his friend’s mother, he gave her a hug and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” She hugged him back and thanked him for coming. Sam felt confident that he had acted appropriately.

Even after the funeral, the trips to Kensington Palace, and the consolation of friends, I still couldn’t accept Diana’s death. Then, Mr. Jeffrey Ling, the British consul general in New York, invited me to speak at the memorial service for Diana in Central Park the weekend after the funeral. I was grateful for the chance to speak about Diana in my own words and at my own pace. Pat and I rewrote my three-minute speech over and over. I practiced it several times the night before. On Sunday afternoon I visited backstage with Mr. Ling and Mayor Giuliani before the service began. The mayor was engaging and down to earth. Mr. Ling was gracious and reassuring, a true gentleman. We watched the North Meadow fill up with more than ten thousand people and were grateful to see such a big turnout on a hot, sunny day. As I sat on the stage, I grew more nervous by the minute. I delivered my heartfelt speech, trembling with emotion as I spoke about “the Diana we knew.” As I looked out at the crowded meadow, I pondered the incredible path I’d traveled, all because I’d needed a part-time nanny in London seventeen years ago. I’d enjoyed a remarkable friendship, attended the most famous ceremonies of my lifetime, dined and danced in palaces, visited with royalty--extraordinary experiences for me and my family. Now, tragically, it was all ending here, as I spoke from my heart in memory and praise of my friend Diana.

After I returned from that morning, our telephone rang incessantly with requests for interviews and photos. By midafternoon I was exhausted. At four o’clock I was reaching to disconnect the telephone when I answered one last call. Thank heavens I did! I heard, “Mrs. Robertson? This is Ian Hamilton from the Lord Chamberlain’s office.” I held my breath and prayed, “Please let this be the palace.” He continued: “We would like to invite you, your husband, and your son to attend the funeral of the Princess of Wales on Saturday in London.” I was speechless. I could feel my heart thumping. I never thought to ask him how our name had been selected. Later, in London, I learned that the Spencer family had given instructions to review Diana’s personal records, including her Christmas-card list, with the help of her closest aides. “Yes, of course, we absolutely want to attend,” I answered without hesitating. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I’ll have to make travel plans on very short notice, so may I call you back to confirm? How late can I reach you?” He replied, “Anytime. We’re working twenty-four hours a day. But I need your reply within an hour.” I jotted down his telephone and fax numbers and set about making travel arrangements. My husband had just walked in the door, so we were able to discuss who would travel and how. Both children’s passports had expired and could not be renewed in less than a day from the suburbs where we live. Caroline, our daughter, was starting at a new school the very next day. Pat felt he needed to stay home with her. “Besides,” he said, “I cried at the wedding. I’d never make it through the funeral.” Though I dreaded the prospect of coping with the heartbreak of the funeral on my own, I felt I had to be there at the end, no matter what. We had been with Diana at the very beginning of the courtship. We had attended her wedding with tremendous joy. We had kept in touch ever since. I had to say good-bye to her in person. I said to Pat, “We were there for the ‘wedding of the century.’ This will be ‘the funeral of the century.’ Yes, I have to go.” Then we just looked at each other. We couldn’t find any words to express the sorrow we both felt.

If you’re lucky, in, let’s say eighty years, you close your eyes for the last time. Your children, grandchildren, friends, and family, whoever you still have left, if anyone, attend your funeral. They cry for a little while. Then, they mostly move on. They have to in order to survive themselves. In two hundred years, all direct traces of you are lost. Memories of you—how you looked, talked, and acted, what you did and didn’t do, the distant blur of your story—have all dissolved away with the last person who knew of you. By then, all perceptions of you had become inaccurate distortions and projections anyway, void of any authentic connection. If you did something especially noteworthy during your lifetime, direct traces of you may endure for a little longer. But not much longer. In one hundred thousand years, the twenty-first century is but a strange section in the record of history, occasionally reflected on by individuals who no longer relate to it in any meaningful way. Five million years. Most of the Earth’s species that existed during your lifetime are extinct due to the background extinction rate. They have all been replaced with new species. One billion years. There is no life left on Earth. 5.5 billion years. The sun cools and expands, consuming Earth completely. A once-lively planet billions of years old is wiped out without a trace—a grand finale of a light show with no ovation. The sun is dead. The Earth is gone. The universe doesn’t notice. There is so much time left. One hundred trillion years. The last remaining stars begin to die, fading out and burning up. The tombstones of newly formed black holes mark their gravesites. The universe becomes an expanding graveyard of the bones of evaporating stars. One duodecillion. Black holes swallow all the remaining stray matter in the universe. They will soon be all that remains. We will be here a while. Most of the universe’s lifetime is spent in these demented elderly years. Between one googol and one googolplex. The last massive black hole evaporates. One last explosion of light and energy occurs, closing the final eye of the universe. Time is no longer. Everything that has ever happened has now, as far as everything is concerned, never happened. The universe returns to nothing, and nothing happens forever.

Imagine you are Emma Faye Stewart, a thirty-year-old, single African American mother of two who was arrested as part of a drug sweep in Hearne, Texas.1 All but one of the people arrested were African American. You are innocent. After a week in jail, you have no one to care for your two small children and are eager to get home. Your court-appointed attorney urges you to plead guilty to a drug distribution charge, saying the prosecutor has offered probation. You refuse, steadfastly proclaiming your innocence. Finally, after almost a month in jail, you decide to plead guilty so you can return home to your children. Unwilling to risk a trial and years of imprisonment, you are sentenced to ten years probation and ordered to pay $1,000 in fines, as well as court and probation costs. You are also now branded a drug felon. You are no longer eligible for food stamps; you may be discriminated against in employment; you cannot vote for at least twelve years; and you are about to be evicted from public housing. Once homeless, your children will be taken from you and put in foster care. A judge eventually dismisses all cases against the defendants who did not plead guilty. At trial, the judge finds that the entire sweep was based on the testimony of a single informant who lied to the prosecution. You, however, are still a drug felon, homeless, and desperate to regain custody of your children. Now place yourself in the shoes of Clifford Runoalds, another African American victim of the Hearne drug bust.2 You returned home to Bryan, Texas, to attend the funeral of your eighteen-month-old daughter. Before the funeral services begin, the police show up and handcuff you. You beg the officers to let you take one last look at your daughter before she is buried. The police refuse. You are told by prosecutors that you are needed to testify against one of the defendants in a recent drug bust. You deny witnessing any drug transaction; you don’t know what they are talking about. Because of your refusal to cooperate, you are indicted on felony charges. After a month of being held in jail, the charges against you are dropped. You are technically free, but as a result of your arrest and period of incarceration, you lose your job, your apartment, your furniture, and your car. Not to mention the chance to say good-bye to your baby girl. This is the War on Drugs. The brutal stories described above are not isolated incidents, nor are the racial identities of Emma Faye Stewart and Clifford Runoalds random or accidental. In every state across our nation, African Americans—particularly in the poorest neighborhoods—are subjected to tactics and practices that would result in public outrage and scandal if committed in middle-class white neighborhoods.

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and get lost in a sea of blue. A Jersey-accented voice says, “It’s about time, kid,” and Frank Sinatra rattles the ice in his glass of Jack Daniel’s. Looking at the swirling deep-brown liquid, he whispers, “Ain’t it beautiful?” This is my introduction to the Chairman of the Board. We spend the next half hour talking Jersey, Hoboken, swimming in the Hudson River and the Shore. We then sit down for dinner at a table with Robert De Niro, Angie Dickinson and Frank and his wife, Barbara. This is all occurring at the Hollywood “Guinea Party” Patti and I have been invited to, courtesy of Tita Cahn. Patti had met Tita a few weeks previous at the nail parlor. She’s the wife of Sammy Cahn, famous for such songs as “All The Way,” “Teach Me Tonight” and “Only the Lonely.” She called one afternoon and told us she was hosting a private event. She said it would be very quiet and couldn’t tell us who would be there, but assured us we’d be very comfortable. So off into the LA night we went. During the evening, we befriend the Sinatras and are quietly invited into the circle of the last of the old Hollywood stars. Over the next several years we attend a few very private events where Frank and the remaining clan hold forth. The only other musician in the room is often Quincy Jones, and besides Patti and I there is rarely a rocker in sight. The Sinatras are gracious hosts and our acquaintance culminates in our being invited to Frank’s eightieth birthday party dinner. It’s a sedate event at the Sinatras’ Los Angeles home. Sometime after dinner, we find ourselves around the living room piano with Steve and Eydie Gorme and Bob Dylan. Steve is playing the piano and up close he and Eydie can really sing the great standards. Patti has been thoroughly schooled in jazz by Jerry Coker, one of the great jazz educators at the Frost School of Music at the University of Miami. She was there at the same time as Bruce Hornsby, Jaco Pastorius and Pat Metheny, and she learned her stuff. At Frank’s, as the music drifts on, she slips gently in on “My One and Only Love.” Patti is a secret weapon. She can sing torch like a cross between Peggy Lee and Julie London (I’m not kidding). Eydie Gorme hears Patti, stops the music and says, “Frank, come over here. We’ve got a singer!” Frank moves to the piano and I then get to watch my wife beautifully serenade Frank Sinatra and Bob Dylan, to be met by a torrent of applause when she’s finished. The next day we play Frank’s eightieth birthday celebration for ABC TV and I get to escort him to the stage along with Tony Bennett. It’s a beautiful evening and a fitting celebration for the greatest pop singer of all time. Two years later Frank passed away and we were generously invited to his funeral. A

The funeral. The one with presidents and ministers and secretaries of this or that, representing these or those, all decked out and solemn in black and respect. It was the biggest funeral ever, somebody had said. Everyone who was anyone, everywhere that was anywhere, had somebody, a Somebody, in attendance. Nobody wanted to miss the funeral.

1990 I organized a conference that both Nelson Mandela and a minister from the de Klerk government attended. At the opening of the conference, the minister turned to Mandela and said, ‘Nelson, I grew up under apartheid. Now my fervent wish is to attend its funeral.’ This small human exchange launched a dialogue that led to the end of apartheid and a new reality for South Africa. How can there be peace in other tormented areas of the world? Through such small, modest, human encounters.

George killed. London. No funeral to attend. Rose coping well. Will write soon. Victoria.

Pagett is a famous Job’s comforter. He displays a certain gloomy satisfaction that maddens me. Also, he has taken advantage of my perturbation to saddle me with the stationery trunk. Unless he is careful, the next funeral he attends will be his own.

losing teammates. But tonight, after attending the funeral of yet another friend who’d lost his life too soon, he was feeling nostalgic. The SEAL who’d been killed while on a mission had a family. A wife who was devastated and a little girl who was too young to have any real memories of her father. It was that little girl, who’d sat on a chair

Nobody tells you that on any given day when you are to appear at a bookstore or festival, a surprising number of all your friends in that town will message you that regrettably they are unable to attend because a family emergency requires their attention. Many of them have to leave town for a family funeral, they will say. Everywhere you go, people die, it seems.

So Lars attended the funerals instead, hating the sickly discomfort of watching pain and feeling none of it. Of wanting to go but not wanting the door to close to loudly behind him.

His opulent funeral was attended by all his subjects, although—due to heavy snowfall—the majority of them were present only in spirit.

When someone dies in the North End, there is a funeral. Many people attend. It is our only communal act. There are really no other reasons to gather in a crowd.

Yeah, so we didn’t get pummeled by some prison gang,” I pointed out. “Not so we could attend each other’s funerals.

Karl Heinrich Marx (1818-1883) was a German philosopher, economist, political theorist, and socialist revolutionary. His best-known works are the “The Communist Manifesto” and “Das Kapital”. He died stateless and poverty-stricken with fewer than a dozen mourners attending his funeral. His last words reportedly were: “Go away! Last words are for fools who haven't said enough!

Funerals always take place after dark with a procession by torchlight – men only attending – from the house of the deceased to the church. It is traditional for the priest to dig the first spadeful of earth for the grave, after which the sexton and his lad take over the hard work.

Don’t worry about your schedule, your business, your family, or your friends. Just focus with me and really open your mind. In your mind’s eye, see yourself going to the funeral of a loved one. Picture yourself driving to the funeral parlor or chapel, parking the car, and getting out. As you walk inside the building, you notice the flowers, the soft organ music. You see the faces of friends and family you pass along the way. You feel the shared sorrow of losing, the joy of having known, that radiates from the hearts of the people there. As you walk down to the front of the room and look inside the casket, you suddenly come face-to-face with yourself. This is your funeral, three years from today. All these people have come to honor you, to express feelings of love and appreciation for your life. As you take a seat and wait for the services to begin, you look at the program in your hand. There are to be four speakers. The first is from your family, immediate and also extended—children, brothers, sisters, nephews, nieces, aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents who have come from all over the country to attend. The second speaker is one of your friends, someone who can give a sense of what you were as a person. The third speaker is from your work or profession. And the fourth is from your church or some community organization where you’ve been involved in service. Now think deeply. What would you like each of these speakers to say about you and your life? What kind of husband, wife, father, or mother would you like their words to reflect? What kind of son or daughter or cousin? What kind of friend? What kind of working associate? What character would you like them to have seen in you? What contributions, what achievements would you want them to remember? Look carefully at the people around you. What difference would you like to have made in their lives? Before you read further, take a few minutes to jot down your impressions. It will greatly increase your personal understanding of Habit 2.

Chris told her later that he had overheard their priest declaring that the accident would not have happened if Chris had attended church regularly. For Chris, the priest’s belief was such an insult he did not enter a church again except to attend weddings or funerals.

Hell, we’re lawyers—if we didn’t attend each other’s funerals, who would go?

There was a time when one didn't attend a wedding, unless they were invited. In the near future, attending funerals will adopt the same policy.

The men who attended the funeral sit around the table. At the head, there’s the Pakhan, the big boss, and the one who calls the shots, Sergei. Vladimir and Adrian are sitting on the leader’s right and left respectively. Then there’s Igor and Mikhail. The old-fashioned and older generations. Beside Mikhail sits Konstantin, looking smug, with a smirk lifting his lips as if he’s already a victor.

In the fall, he briefly flew to Northern California to attend his father’s funeral and also spent six weeks training at Roosevelt Roads Naval Station in Puerto Rico, one of ten thousand Marines training for an amphibious “mock assault” on Onslow Beach, North Carolina.

She hears the sadness in his voice, his words of condolence expressed in the same tone as those who attended [the] funeral, who arrived at the door bearing casseroles, cards and clichés. Each word spoken gently, as if the bereaved are so brittle they will shatter if someone speaks to them too quickly or too loudly.

Adelaide Darke hated funerals, but probably not for the same reason other people did. For most, it was because of the grief, raw and twisting in their bellies. For others, it was the fact that attending one was a stark reminder of one’s own unpredictable mortality. In Adelaide’s case, it was much simpler. She disliked funerals because they made her see things no one was supposed to see. Dead people, specifically.

As a sales manager, I was castigated for the drop in sales. Somehow the powers that be did not understand the working situation in New York. Many of my best clients were busy attending funerals, not purchasing computer backup systems.

After his death on the mainland, the Poet attended his own funeral ceremony, standing in a corner with folded arms, and decided to return to the islands. It was time to visit the cell as a free spirit. The Warden too had decided to remain on the islands in spirit. Soon after the Poet’s departure, an overzealous inmate had pushed him off the roof as he monitored the repair work. Freed from the shackles of propriety, the two embraced each other for the first time. So much had changed since they’d last met. They were dead, to begin with.

I attended a bat mitzvah during which the presiding rabbi had the unenviable task of leading what should be a joyous event during a time of deep mourning. During the ceremony, she described a Jewish teaching that explains if a funeral procession and a wedding procession meet at an intersection and one has to go first, the wedding takes the lead. This Talmudic lesson is meant to demonstrate that even in times of extreme sadness and mourning, we need to make room for life and joy.

his death in 1616, the literary world was silent. Though it was an age of effusive eulogies, there were no tributes at his passing, no mourning of his death in poems or letters. When the playwright Francis Beaumont died just seven weeks earlier, he was honored for his service to the nation with a resting place among the poets at Westminster Abbey. When the playwright Ben Jonson died in 1637, his funeral was attended by “all or the greatest part of the nobility then in town.” But when Shakespeare died—crickets.

He can’t be,’ agreed Ed. ‘Not to come when Mum was dying, not to attend her funeral. James and his wife had twin boys last year, and he’s never even met them.

When he turned the key in the ignition, there was a blinding flash followed by total blackness. In that brief instant, Ryan knew his life was over. Two days later, William Holden attended a memorial service for Ray Ryan at the Ziemer Funeral Home East Chapel with its tall white colonnades and trimmed green lawn. The service was held in the presence of several uniformed police officers and undercover FBI agents, one of whom posed as a window washer across the street. Ryan’s ashes were taken to Africa, where his tearful widow Helen Kelley scattered them at the base of Mount Kenya. Afterwards, Holden called Adnan Khashoggi and told him he wanted to sell the Safari Club. “Why?” Khashoggi asked. “Because it’s no fun anymore.

Despite his desire for a simple burial, hundreds of people attended his funeral, marking the beginning of more formal military honors: the caparisoned horse, the firing of three volleys at sea answered by those fired from the lawn at Mount Vernon, and a U.S. flag carried in the procession.

sooner was his father's funeral over, than Mrs. John Dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants. No one could dispute her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and

Elluka, with a girl who seems to be her apprentice, also attended the funeral. I nodded my head to lightly regard a greeting. She went to the tomb and cursed “DIMWIT” then left.

while attending the funeral of Matthew Voss. After Nate Dawson had left last night, she found that the more she thought about what she had learned, the more convinced she became Mr. Voss must have been murdered. But why?

Misery is when you always seem to be getting dressed in black to go to a funeral. Misery is when you get there and realize that the person who is dead is another close friend. Misery is when you look around and all your friends are crying. Misery is when you hear them say they'll try to stop and stay away from this stuff. Misery is when the next day you see them stocking up in White Clay for a party soon to come. Misery is whenyou hear the sirens, and you have to sit and wonder whose funeral you'll be attending for the next few days. Misery is when you realize they'll never stop, and you'll always be choosing black clothing for the next day. (Kayla Matthews, student)

Ideology Fidel Castro was considered an ideologue by many. His fanaticism was always a continuing animosity towards the United States, while at the same time working to increase his good relationship with most left leaning Latin American countries. However, there have been times when out of necessity he had a tacit understanding with the United States. On September 11, 2001, Fidel Castro offered Cuban airports as emergency landing places, when all American aircraft were diverted from their primary destinations and ordered to land immediately, after the attack on the Twin Towers in New York City. On another occasion he accepted a one-time purchase of food after Category 4 Hurricane Michelle struck the island that same year. Once, he declined a U.S. Government offer of humanitarian aid turning to Canada instead. Castro continued having close relations with Canada and demonstrated this friendship when he attended Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau’s funeral in the fall of the year 2000. It was a way that he could retain contact with the western world without becoming involved with the United States.

Redneck Rules of Etiquette • To avoid bruising wine as you decant it, make sure to tilt the paper cup. • Your centerpiece should never be prepared by a taxidermist. • When dating (outside the family), always offer to bait your lady’s hook, especially on the first date. • Establish with her parents what time she is expected back. Some will say 10:00 P.M.; others might say Monday. If the latter, it is the man’s responsibility to get her to school on time. • When attending the theater, refrain from talking to the characters on the screen. Tests have proven they can’t hear you. • Never take a beer to a job interview. • Always identify people in your yard before shooting at them. • Convenient though it may be, it’s considered tacky to bring a cooler to church. • If you have to vacuum the bed, it is time to change the sheets. • Even if you’re certain you’re in the will, don’t drive a U-haul to the funeral home.

he was worried there might be a problem with the ferry the following day, and he wanted to make sure he’d be able to attend the funeral.

When I enter the theater and there is a show onstage, it makes me feel safe in the knowledge that the world keeps turning. It also feels like I have died and I am attending my own funeral, so it’s good and bad.

Popularity is grossly overrated. In my mind, it's better to have one person willing to die for you than 1000 willing to attend your funeral.

While staying in touch with Ms. Ruby, she was happy when she looked up the day of the funeral and saw her in attendance. She stayed a week to help her with Lina before heading back out to visit one of her children.

Born on January 17, 1706, he inhabited this planet until April 17, 1790. His talents were many and he was known to be a polymath. Being a politician and a “Founding Father of the United States” was just one of what he was known for. An author, printer, inventor and freemason he is known to have invented the Franklin stove and bifocal eye glasses. He published the Pennsylvania Gazette and the Poor Richard’s Almanac. A founder of the University of Pennsylvania he also served as the first United States Ambassador to France and Governor of Pennsylvania. About 20,000 people attended his funeral. He was interred in Christ Church Burial Ground in Philadelphia near the fence so that he could be close to where the ladies walked. His wit and sharp mind gave us many of his quotes!

Do something in your life which will make millions of people attend your funeral. Have a worthy life.

Ari and I attended his funeral. It was a compassionate gesture to comfort our mother rather than to honor the dead man. Mother had long ago come to terms with our alternative lifestyles. She got on splendidly with Sabrina and Yann, treating them like her extended family. I introduced her to my lovers, but I believe she likes you the best because she would occasionally inquire whether I had been in touch with you. She never took the trouble to ask about the well-being of my other lovers…

waving to get his attention. The small White Rock police force had shut down the entire department so they could all attend the funeral, but crime didn’t take the day off in order to pay respects to the dead, so Reese had had the calls rerouted to her cell phone just in case. And judging by the stricken look on her face, Sam knew that had been a good idea. Sam scanned the crowd for Kevin, their part-timer. It was just the three of

Both of them grinned. “Must be a dame.” “Better than that.” “Watch out she don’t start walking you by jewelry store windows,” said Roy. “And make sure she don’t have to attend no funerals anytime soon.” “I’ll do my best.

But he said to his wife, sitting next to him on the couch in the TV room, that rarely had he seen a funeral at which it seemed like almost nobody in attendance had any idea why they were there. His wife, who had heard things like this from him before, reminded him of a ceremony he had presided over only a few months ago about which he had had the same reaction. 'Oh right,' the minister said. 'Yes. That one was much worse.' He leaned down to the coffee table and picked up the remote.

Unless I’m dead, I’ll definitely be at your funeral. Just be sure to return the favor and show up at mine. Your death will be the death of me, and that is why you should attend my funeral. After all, if you don’t show up, I might have trouble selling all the tickets.

There had been so many. He had hired young ones because they were more plentiful and worked cheaper. The better of those got married and pregnant and wanted six months off. The bad ones flirted, wore tight miniskirts, and made suggestive comments. He had hired more mature women to negate any physical temptation, but, as a rule, they had been bossy, maternal, menopausal, and they had more doctors' appointments, as well as aches and pains to talk about and funerals to attend.

Three days later, on April 18, MIT patrol officer Sean Collier was shot dead in his patrol car by bombing suspects Dzhokhar and Tamerlan Tsarnaev, who were apparently seeking to acquire weapons and perhaps provoke a major confrontation with police. In an extraordinary display of public appreciation for police officers and the dangers they face on a daily basis, more than 10,000 people attended Officer Collier’s funeral.

You still are? There go my plans! And the suit I had bought to attend your funeral. Well, well. Anyway, do call me up when you an't.

I mean, I was attending my deceased boyfriend’s funeral with my ex. How crazy is that? “Jay,

As she looked around the room at the few people who attended Ty’s funeral, she wished that she had took Blessing up on his offer to go to the funeral with her.

Once I got past grief, depression, and resignation, I needed help identifying other types of sad feelings. But unlike my exploration of anger, the thesaurus wasn’t much help this time. I added a few more words to the constellation, but I’m not sure how strongly I experience any of them. Sadness feels like a diffuse emotion, more of a background state of being than a tangible feeling. I’m rarely actively sad. I don’t burst into tears when I hear sad news. The last time I cried at a movie, I was 12. The only book that ever made me tear up was A Prayer for Owen Meany. More than once I’ve sat stoically immobile beside someone I love while they broke down. My sadness is all undercurrent, twisted up inside me, unable to escape to the surface. This, of course, makes me look cold and unfeeling. The stereotypical emotionless Aspie. The first time I confronted my muted sadness was in high school. A girl in my class, Karen, was killed in a car accident. The entire junior class attended her funeral, and everyone sobbed from beginning to end. Except me.

He had hired more mature women to negate any physical temptation, but, as a rule, they had been bossy, maternal, menopausal, and they had more doctors’ appointments, as well as aches and pains to talk about and funerals to attend.

could join his siblings in helping their mother. After a brief-but-publicized legal struggle, the children reached an agreement with Joan: Two financial professionals would watch over her estimated $9.5 million in assets while a guardian would monitor her and guide her medical decisions. The agreement stipulated that if Joan abused alcohol or endangered herself again, more control would be shifted away from her. Any rift caused by the legal proceedings had been long repaired by 2009, when Ted Kennedy died of brain cancer in the Hyannis Port home his family had owned since the 1920s. His new wife, Vicki, was by his side, as were his children. Joan quietly attended his funeral, her presence evoking a quarter-century of his life—both the highs of the long-lost Camelot days and the lows of two assassinations, a near-fatal plane crash, a son’s battle with cancer, and a political life nearly derailed. In 2011, her daughter, Kara, died suddenly of a heart

Alone, [Chamcha] all at once remembered that he and Pamela had once disagreed, as they disagreed on everything, on a short-story they’d both read, whose theme was precisely the nature of the unforgivable. Title and author eluded him, but the story came back vividly. A man and a woman had been intimate friends (never lovers) for all their adult lives. On his twenty-first birthday (they were both poor at the time) she had given him, as a joke, the most horrible, cheap glass vase she could find, in colours a garish parody of Venetian gaiety. Twenty years later, when they were both successful and greying, she visited his home and quarrelled with him over his treatment of a mutual friend. In the course of the quarrel her eye fell upon the old vase, which he still kept in pride of place on his sitting-room mantelpiece, and, without pausing in her tirade, she swept it to the floor, crushing it beyond hope of repair. He never spoke to her again; when she died, half a century later, he refused to visit her deathbed or attend her funeral, even though messengers were sent to tell him that these were her dearest wishes. ‘Tell her,’ he said to the emissaries, 'that she never knew how much I valued what she broke.’ The emissaries argued, pleaded, raged. If she had not known how much meaning he had invested in the trifle, how could she in all fairness be blamed? And had she not made countless attempts, over the years, to apologize and atone? And she was dying, for heaven’s sake; could not this ancient, childish rift be healed at last? They had lost a lifetime’s friendship; could they not even say goodbye? 'No,’ said the unforgiving man. – 'Really because of the vase? Or are you concealing some other, darker matter?’ – 'It was the vase,’ he answered, 'the vase, and nothing but.’ Pamela thought the man petty and cruel, but Chamcha had even then appreciated the curious privacy, the inexplicable inwardness of the issue. 'Nobody can judge an internal injury,’ he had said, 'by the size of the superficial wound, of the hole.

Otherwise we attend to our poets when they are alive—to hear them, to praise them, to despise them, to use them. Death usually removes them. I expect my immortality to expire six minutes after my funeral. Literature is a zero-sum game.

Curtin had been too sick to announce German’s surrender on 9 May 1945. He passed away on 5 July, less than two months before Japan’s surrender on 2 September. An estimated hundred thousand people attended his funeral in Perth: one-third of the city’s entire population. Among the pallbearers were Liberal Party leader Robert Menzies and Country Party leader Arthur Fadden, testament to a rare Australian leader who was admired across the political spectrum.

Having a parent die suddenly is a pain sharp and swift. Watching him submit to a slow death is even more excruciating. But when the mind goes before the body, it’s like attending a funeral every day.

Now place yourself in the shoes of Clifford Runoalds, another African American victim of the Hearne drug bust.2 You returned home to Bryan, Texas, to attend the funeral of your eighteen-month-old daughter. Before the funeral services begin, the police show up and handcuff you. You beg the officers to let you take one last look at your daughter before she is buried. The police refuse. You are told by prosecutors that you are needed to testify against one of the defendants in a recent drug bust. You deny witnessing any drug transaction; you don’t know what they are talking about. Because of your refusal to cooperate, you are indicted on felony charges. After a month of being held in jail, the charges against you are dropped. You are technically free, but as a result of your arrest and period of incarceration, you lose your job, your apartment, your furniture, and your car. Not to mention the chance to say good-bye to your baby girl. This is the War on Drugs. The

Attending Diana’s funeral was the saddest thing I’ve ever done. The image of her solitary coffin and the haunting echo of the guards’ footsteps will stay with me always. I prayed for her young sons, for whom she will be irreplaceable. I looked across the square at the thousands of people who remained, listening to the Abbey bells, unwilling to leave. Men and women alike were still blinking back tears, biting trembling lips, or openly crying after seeing Diana’s casket being borne away. The funeral service had been truly sublime--a funeral fit for a queen. Yet, Diana would have been more deeply touched by the unprecedented and heartfelt expressions of love and loss from ordinary people. She had said she wanted to be a “princess for the world.” The world’s sorrow for her untimely death made it undeniably clear that she was, indeed, “the people’s princess,” as Tony Blair had so eloquently called her. On that mournful day, her lonely path away from royal convention had been completely vindicated. But the cost had been too high.

Though I dreaded the prospect of coping with the heartbreak of the funeral on my own, I felt I had to be there at the end, no matter what. We had been with Diana at the very beginning of the courtship. We had attended her wedding with tremendous joy. We had kept in touch ever since. I had to say good-bye to her in person. I said to Pat, “We were there for the ‘wedding of the century.’ This will be ‘the funeral of the century.’ Yes, I have to go.

Non-Muslims attending a funeral should stand to the side of the funeral party and not take an active role in the ceremony. There

and we waiters attended the funeral and held white kerchiefs to our eyes. Our head waiter even put a lemon into his, that by squeezing it he might draw tears from his eyes.

It was her concern and commitment to a friend which last year involved her in perhaps the most emotional period of her life. For five months she secretly helped to care for Adrian Ward-Jackson who had discovered that he was suffering from AIDS. It was a time of laughter, joy and much sorrow as Adrian, a prominent figure in the world of art, ballet and opera, gradually succumbed to his illness. A man of great charisma and energy, Adrian initially found it difficult to come to terms with his fate when in the mid-1980s he was diagnosed as HIV positive. His word as deputy chairman of the Aids Crisis Trust, where he first met the Princess, had made him fully aware of the reality of the disease. Finally he broke the news in 1987 to his great friend Angela Serota, a dancer with the Royal Ballet until a leg injury cut short her career and now prominent in promoting dance and ballet. For much of the time, Angela, a woman of serenity and calm practicality, nursed Adrian, always with the support of her two teenage daughters. He was well enough to receive a CBE at Buckingham Palace in March 1991 for his work in the arts--he was a governor of the Royal Ballet, chairman of the Contemporary Arts Society and a director of the Theatre Museum Association--and it was at a celebratory lunch held at the Tate Gallery that Angela first met the Princess. In April 1991 Adrian’s condition deteriorated and he was confined to his Mayfair apartment where Angela was in almost constant attendance. It was from that time that Diana made regular visits, once even brining her children Princes Willian and Harry. From that time Angela and the Princess began to forge a supportive bond as they cared for their friend. Angela recalls: “I thought she was utterly beautiful in a very profound way. She has an inner spirit which shines forth though there was also a sense of pervasive unhappiness about her. I remember loving the way she never wanted me to be formal.” When Diana brought the boys to see her friends, a reflection of her firmly held belief that her role as mother is to bring them up in a way that equips them for every aspect of life and death, Angela saw in William a boy much older and more sensitive than his years. She recalls: “He had a mature view of illness, a perspective which showed awareness of love and commitment.” At first Angela kept in the background, leaving Diana alone in Adrian’s room where they chatted about mutual friends and other aspects of life. Often she brought Angela, whom she calls “Dame A”, a gift of flowers or similar token. She recalls: “Adrian loved to hear about her day-to-day work and he loved too the social side of life. She made him laugh but there was always the perfect degree of understanding, care and solicitude. This is the point about her, she is not just a decorative figurehead who floats around on a cloud of perfume.” The mood in Mount Street was invariably joyous, that sense of happiness that understands about pain. As Angela says: “I don’t see death as sad or depressing. It was a great journey he was going on. The Princess was very much in tune with that spirit. She also loved coming for herself, it was an intense experience. At the same time Adrian was revitalized by the healing quality of her presence.” Angela read from a number of works by St. Francis of Assisi, Kahil Gibran and the Bible as well as giving Adrian frequent aromatherapy treatments. A high spot was a telephone call from Mother Teresa of Calcutta who also sent a medallion via Indian friends. At his funeral they passed Diana a letter from Mother Teresa saying how much she was looking forward to meeting her when she visited India. Unfortunately Mother Teresa was ill at that time so the Princess made a special journey to Rome where she was recuperating. Nonetheless that affectionate note meant a great deal to the Princess.

BIG FEET, BIGGER HEART If anyone is poor among your fellow Israelites in any of the towns of the land the Lord your God is giving you, do not be hardhearted or tightfisted toward them. Rather, be openhanded and freely lend them whatever they need. Deuteronomy 15:7–8 Former NBA star Dikembe Mutombo is seven feet two and has size 22 feet. “I’ve no control over that. The Almighty has plans for us to make a place so we can go on and make a difference,” he said. “It all has to do with my faith; I am deeply religious. It goes back to my roots, to my mom and my dad.” Some estimate that he earned more than $100 million while playing with the Denver Nuggets and the Philadelphia 76ers. He didn’t blow the dough on fast cars and bling. Instead, he put the money in the bank and decided to give back. (He must know that the fastest way to double your money is to fold it in half and put it back in your wallet.) He created the Dikembe Mutombo Foundation and built a hospital and research center in the Congo, named after his mom, Biamba. In 1999, his mother had a stroke, just a couple of hours after talking to her son on the phone. Because she couldn’t get to a hospital, she died in her living room. He couldn’t even attend her funeral because of that nation’s civil war. Mutombo donated millions of his own money to create the hospital in honor of his mother and her faith. “I come from a large family, but I was not raised with a fortune,” he said. “Something more was left me, and that was family values.” SWEET FREEDOM IN Action Today, don’t listen to liberals when they mock “family values” like they’re some relic of an ancient past. Rather, pass them on to your kids and watch what God does to change the world.

We don't master death by attending funerals. We don't learn to deal with death by glancing in a sideways sort of way at other people's deaths.

Catholic gossip and folklore, as one might term it, contributed to this demonizing legend around the conflict with the Protestants. At Geila in Brabant it was reported that the demons suddenly left all the possessed people, so that they could attend Luther's funeral[...] At St. Medard's Church in Paris the Calvinist iconoclasts allegedly broke all the winfows except that 'in gratitude' they left one which showed a red devil. In several other places, including St. Paul's in London, iconoclastic mobs left only depictions of devils untouched.

That was a strange way of looking at it, to see a funeral as a popularity contest in which final judgment was passed on a man’s life by the number of people who attended, by the size of the crowd. But it was also strangely appropriate since many people did judge the worth of others by the quantity of their social relationships.

Draco Malfoy attended Fred Weasley’s funeral, standing far at the back, careful not to be seen. After he thought everyone had left, he lingered a bit. He secretly thought the twins were quite funny and felt terrible that he’d been part of the reason that Fred died.