Vive la mort at the Salon of Death



Watching the TV news the other night, that pot pourri of unconnected events from around the world, edited into manageable, sanitised bites, and engineered to fit the attention span of a gerbil with learning difficulties, there was an item about an exhibition in Paris with the amusing title The Salon of Death.


Visitors to the salon can climb into a state-of-the-art biodegradable coffin, or if incineration is your exit of choice, examine the luxury urns on display. There is a publisher's stand with the wittily titled Reflections on the Guillotine by Albert Camus, who apparently once said that the only meaningful relationship was that between the murderer and his victim, and a photographer to snap you holding a skull for that indispensable addition to the family photo album.


Following that well known mechanism of association as described by Sigmund Freud (death is the perfect subject for name dropping) I was reminded of Arthur Miller's comment when asked why he wasn't attending Marilyn Monroe's funeral. "Why?" he replied. "Will she be there?"


As for me, I'm planning on immortality. It's my cunning plan to win the Lottery.



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