the last book I ever read (The General of the Dead Army: A Novel by Ismail Kadare, excerpt ten)

from The General of the Dead Army: A Novel by Ismail Kadare:

He could only remember the British flyer they had found by chance under the ruts of a village road – and then reburied in the exact spot where they had found him.

Then he remembered the diary soldier. He certainly measured six foot one. The general began to imagine what it would be like if they were to substitute that soldier’s remains for those of the colonel. He pictured to himself the reception that the colonel’s assembled family would accord to the remains of that simple soldier, the grandiose funeral service, the solemn obsequies, Betty in deepest mourning, weeping while the dead man’s old mother on her arm went on talking and talking relentlessly about her son to anyone who would listen. Then the poor fellow’s bones would be transported to his murderer’s magnificent tomb, the bells would ring out, a general would deliver a funeral oration, and the whole thing would be an outrage against nature, the whole thing would be a perversion, a cheat, a profanation. And if ghosts and spirits really did exist, then the soldier would rise from his tomb that very night.