Do they sense it, these dead writers, when their books are read? Does a pinprick of light appear in their darkness? Is their soul stirred by the feather touch of another mind reading theirs? I do hope so.
Madness string 23009
By the way, I'll tell you that in Belgian Congo there's not a single person who tells the truth. They just lie all day long. Start at seven in the morning and keep at it until nightfall. So if I lie a little now and then, it's just because I've spent a little too much time in Belgian Congo.