“I happen to know the answer to that question,” he said. “There are seven billion living people, and about ninety-eight billion dead people.”
“Oh,” I said. I’d thought that maybe since population growth had been so fast, there were more people alive than all the dead combined.
“There are about fourteen dead people for every living person,” he said.
The credits continued rolling. It took a long time to identify all those corpses, I guess.
My head was still on his shoulder. “I did some research on this a couple years ago,” Augustus continued.
“I was wondering if everybody could be remembered. Like, if we got organized,
and assigned a certain number of corpses to each living person, would there be enough living people to remember all the dead people?”
“And are there?” “Sure, anyone can name fourteen dead people.
But we’re disorganized mourners, so a lot of people end up remembering Shakespeare,
and no one ends up remembering the person he wrote Sonnet Fifty-five about.”
“Yeah,” I said. It was quiet for a minute, and then he asked, “You want to read or something?”
I said sure. I was reading this long poem called Howl by Allen Ginsberg for my poetry class, and Gus was rereading An Imperial Affliction.
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