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PARTISAN REVIEW
indeed, the warmest feelings toward all these people who had in
one way or another participated in my father's existence, and I
thought of them confusedly as possessing some special moral com–
petence that after all could not fail to make the funeral a "success,"
whatever that might in the end turn out to mean; they became, for a
short time, a kind of composite image of my father himself.
The corpse lay now at the front of a large hall, greatly dim–
inished by its surroundings. Dignity still clung to it, but a dignity
already a little questionable (was the necktie perhaps too bright?), no
longer self-sufficient, like the dignity which surrounds those who
submit quietly to humiliation; the corpse's existence was contained
now in the eyes of those who had come to see it.
At the proper moment, instructed by one of the functionaries of
the undertaking establishment, my brother and I escorted my mother
past the open coffin, pausing for a few seconds to look at the corpse.
When we reached our seats, the coffin had been closed. After
it
is
closed, the coffin
is
no longer "appropriate" but obviously too small.
It is even possible that the lid might press upon the nose of the corpse,
but this does not matter.
Two friends of my father-one Socialist, one businessman-–
made short speeches of no particular distinction but also, it seemed
to me, with a minimum of dishonesty. Then the crowd dispersed and
we drove out past miles of cemeteries to the crematorium, where we
sat in a shabby chapel while someone played vaguely religious music
on a tiny organ; thc music was offensive, but it did not seem worth–
while to make an issue of it: on the whole, the "program" had been
carried out. Mter some papers had been signed, the coffin, with one
wreath of flowers lying untidily on top of it, was pushed into an
opening in a wall, and the door was closed on it. We all sat expectantly
until someone came to tell us that was
all.
