Lawrence Durrell (1912-1990), Bitter Lemons
, chapter 6:
Mr. Honey was another new acquaintance with marked idiosyncrasies. He was
tall and lean and very shortsighted; and he walked about the village swaying
gracefully and manipulating his long graceful hands in gestures which reminded
one of a lady of fashion in the period of Madame Récamier. His long dark face
with its glazed eyes betrayed a fond vague happiness. He was the grave-digger;
but as nobody died in the village he had a lot of time free for self-examination,
and since a man must eat he had turned his talents to the digging of cesspits at so
much a cubic meter. He was the philosopher of main drainage. "What is the
meaning of life?" he asked me once in a tragic slurring voice. "It all goes in
here," raising a bottle of wine to his lips for a long swig; "and it all goes out
there," pointing to the pit he was digging. "What does it all mean?" Poor Mr.
Honey! I have often pondered on the subject myself.