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He was giving up on keeping me alive, letting nature–or rather mob justice–take its course. when he returned, and i was dead, he wouldn't hold anyone responsible. he would not mourn. all this i could hear in those three words.
-Stephenie Meyer
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He Was Giving Up On Keeping Me

Stephenie Meyer
He was giving up on keeping me alive, letting nature–or rather mob justice–take its course. when he returned, and i was dead, he wouldn't hold anyone responsible. he would not mourn. all this i could hear in those three words.
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Giving Up Justice Three

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When the clock stops on a life, all things emanating from it become precious, finite, and cordoned off for preservation. each aspect of the dead person is removed from the flux of the everyday, which, of course, is where we miss him most. the quarantine around death makes it feel unlucky and wrong--a freakish incursion--and the dead, thus quarantined, come to seem more dead than they already are.... borrowing from the dead is a way of keeping them engaged in life's daily transactions--in other words, alive.
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The educated man pictures a horde of submen, wanting only a day's liberty to loot his house, burn his books, and set him to work minding a machine or sweeping out a lavatory. 'anything,' he thinks, 'any injustice, sooner than let that mob loose.' he does not see that since there is no difference between the mass of rich and poor, there is no question of setting the mob loose. the mob is in fact loose now, and--in the shape of rich men--is using its power to set up enormous treadmills of boredom, such as 'smart' hotels.
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