He describes it all sonorously, powerfully, brilliantly, but I
read and ... well, there is no impression of any sort; neither
emotion nor indignation--just ENNUI. But then, within the last few
days I come across a brief newspaper notice of a murderer's
execution somewhere in France. The Procureur, who was present at
the last toilet of the criminal, sees that he is putting on his
shoes on his bare feet, and--the blockhead!--reminds him: 'What
about the socks?' But the other gives him a look and says, sort of
thoughtfully: 'Is it worth while?' Do you understand, these two
remarks, so very short, struck me like a blow on the skull! At
once all the horror and all the stupidity of unnatural death were
revealed to me ... Or here is something else about death ... A
certain friend of mine died, a captain in the infantry--a
drunkard, a vagabond, and the finest soul in the world. For some
reason we called him the Electrical Captain. I was in the
vicinity, and it fell to me to dress him for the last parade. I
took his uniform and began to attach the epaulettes to it.
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