The dead — my own thoughts explained to me — are a category to be
reckoned with. A lot of use calling them dead; rather, they should be called
the undead. They need to be watched and watched. Ask any mortuary watchman.
What do you think he is put there for? Only for one thing: to keep watch, so
that the dead don’t crawl all over the place. There can even occur what are,
in a certain sense, amusing incidents. One deceased crawled out of the
mortuary while the attendant, on management’s orders, was taking his bath,
crawled into the disinfection room and ate up a heap of bed linen. The
disinfectors dished out a damned good thrashing to the deceased in question but, as for the ruined linen, they had to settle up for that out of their own pockets. And another deceased crawled as far as the maternity ward and so frightened the inmates that one child-bearer produced a premature foetus on the spot, while the deceased pounced smartly on the fruits of the
miscarriage and began to devour it, champing away vigourously. And, when a
brave nurse struck the deceased on the back with a stool, he bit the said
nurse on the leg and she soon died from infection by corpse poisoning. Yes,
indeed, the dead are a category to be reckoned with, and with them you certainly have to be on the quick side.