![]() ![]() Is it a nice place? That’s a good question. well, the author never tells us exactly where. George Saunders’ rather ironic take on the afterlife ( Lincoln in the Bardo, Random House, 343 pages) goes roughly like this: after death some of us get caught up in the fulgurant thing called “the bone-chilling firesound” of the “matterlightblooming phenomenon.” Amidst lots of explosions and smashing to smithereens-imagine something like the shoot-em-up-blow-em-up special effects of Hollywood-this phenomenon transports us off to. ![]() You might even say that this is what great fiction writers do: they look at the grand questions, and especially at immortality, or the lack thereof. ![]() Okay, so what happens when we die? Writers of fiction have been peering across into that unfathomable abyss from time out of mind. “All were in sorrow, or had been, or soon would be.” (Roger Bevins III, p. ![]()
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