“Um, no,” I said. “As well you shouldn’t.” Gus smiled. “Anyway, I know it’s a bit self-aggrandizing.”
“Hey, you’re stealing my eulogy,” Isaac said. “My first bit is about how you were a self-aggrandizing bastard.” I laughed.
“Okay, okay,” Gus said. “At your leisure.” Isaac cleared his throat.
“Augustus Waters was a self-aggrandizing bastard. But we forgive him.
We forgive him not because he had a heart as figuratively good as his literal one sucked,
or because he knew more about how to hold a cigarette than any nonsmoker in history,
or because he got eighteen years when he should have gotten more.”
“Seventeen,” Gus corrected. “I’m assuming you’ve got some time, you interrupting bastard.”
“I’m telling you,” Isaac continued, “Augustus Waters talked so much that he’d interrupt you at his own funeral.
And he was pretentious: Sweet Jesus Christ, that kid never took a piss
without pondering the abundant metaphorical resonances of human waste production.
And he was vain: I do not believe I have ever met a more physically attractive person
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