Fool, he told himself. He had been looking for Keith Rothwell in Robert Calvert's flat. But he wasn't there. He wasn't anywhere; he was just a slab of chilled meat waiting for a man with his collar on the wrong way around to chant a few meaningless words that might just ease the living's fear of death until the next time it touched too close to home for comfort.
The protagonist realizes the futility of his search for Keith Rothwell, feeling a sense of disillusionment. He reflects on the people's attempts to find meaning in life and death, suggesting that their rituals are simply attempts to alleviate their fear of mortality.
Amidst his thoughts, he perceives Rothwell as nothing more than a lifeless body, emphasizing the cold reality of death. This feeling of despair deepens as he contemplates the ways in which individuals confront their own mortality, often through empty traditions that fail to provide real comfort.
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All the things you can talk about in anyone's work are the things that are least important.
Race of Cain, ascend to heaven, And cast God down upon the earth!
