Some days he finds himself among walking corpses, great crowds of the dead, all of them refusing to admit they’re done for, corpses mutinously continuing to behave like living people, shopping, catching buses, flirting, going home to make love, smoking cigarettes. But you’re dead, he shouts at them. Zombies, get into your graves. They ignore him, or laugh, or look embarrassed, or menace him with their fists. He falls silent, and hurries on.
Rushdie, Salman. 1988. The Satanic Verses.
All joined up.
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