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Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
2004-11-12 - 7:50 p.m.
Trite, but accurate to the emotions from today's events:
[at Gareth's funeral]
Matthew: Gareth used to prefer funerals to weddings; he said it was easier to get enthusiastic about a ceremony one had an outside chance of eventually being involved in. In order to prepare this speech I rang a few people to get a general picture of how Gareth was regarded by those who met him. "Fat" seems to have been a word people most connected with him. "Terribly rude" also rang a lot of bells. So "very fat" and "very rude" seems to have been the stranger's viewpoint. On the other hand, some of you have been kind enough to ring me and let me know that you loved him, which I know he would have been thrilled to hear. You remember his fabulous hospitality and his strange experimental cooking. The recipe for "Duck a la Banana" fortunately goes with him to his grave. Most of all, you tell me of his enormous capacity for joy, and when joyful... when joyful, for highly vocal drunkenness; but I hope "joyful" is how you will remember him. Not stuck in a box in a church! Pick your favorite of his waistcoats and remember him that way! The most splendid, replete, big-hearted... weak-hearted, as it turned out... and jolly bugger most of us ever met! As for me, you may ask how I will remember him; what I thought of him. Unfortunately, there I run out of words....
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one:
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods:
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
W.H. Auden, XX
-Four Weddings and a Funeral
Rest in Peace Gyrth, you are sorely missed.
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