In memory of Frank Kermode (1919–2010)

At least the dead don’t have to die.
Everyone you see is dead, but it’s the Hamptons, so get over it.
Edward, and next Dick—and now Frank—all dead. Boys, goodbye.
Frank, at ninety, said on the phone he didn’t particularly want to die.
Don’t try to tell Frank that his charming work won’t die.
The dead don’t give a shit
About their work once they die. Frank is the newcomer:
I look around the lawn and there is everyone.
Poirier and Said and Kermode are sipping white wine and it is summer.
The fancy world of dead is having fun.
Everyone is wearing summer light.
They can’t tell wrong from right.