Death. It Doesn't Have To Be Boring.

You Won't See Me Writing About Particle Physics, Or Even Planetary Geology, Or Chemistry. I Practically Failed Chemistry, And If I Had To Write A Book In Any Of Those Areas, I Don't Think It Would Go Well.

I Walk Up And Down The Rows. The Heads Look Like Rubber Halloween Masks. They Also Look Like Human Heads, But My Brain Has No Precedent For Human Heads On Tables Or In Roasting Pans Or Anywhere Other Than On Top Of A Human Bodies, And So I Think It Has Chosen To Interpret The Sight In A More Comforting Manner. - Here We Are At The Rubber Mask Factory. Look At The Nice Men And Woman Working On The Masks.

One Young Woman's Tribute Describes Unwrapping Her Cadaver's Hands And Being Brought Up Short By The Realization That The Nails Were Painted Pink. "the Pictures In The Anatomy Atlas Did Not Show Nail Polish", She Wrote. "did You Choose The Color? Did You Think That I Would See It? I Wanted To Tell You About The Inside Of Your Hands. I Want You To Know You Are Always There When I See Patients. When I Palpate An Abdomen, Yours Are The Organs I Imagine. When I Listen To A Heart, I Recall Holding Your Heart.

Masters Points Out That The Heterosexuals Were At A Disadvantage, As They Do Not Benefit From What He Called “gender Empathy”. Doing Unto Your Partner As You Would Do Unto Yourself Only Works Well When You're Gay.

The Way I See It, Being Dead Is Not Terribly Far Off From Being On A Cruise Ship. Most Of Your Time Is Spent Lying On Your Back. The Brain Has Shut Down. The Flesh Begins To Soften. Nothing Much New Happens, And Nothing Is Expected Of You.