"The dead, Jesus. They were multiplying, and they look up begging you to join them, promising it's all right, it is very soft down here. Pop, Mom, old man Springer, Jill, the baby called Becky for her short time, Tothero. Even John Wayne, the other day. The obituary page every day shows another stalk of a harvest endlessly rich, the faces of old teachers, customers, liocal celebrities like himself flashing for a moment then going down. For the first time since childhood, Rabbit is happy, simply, to be alive. He tells Charlie, "I figure the oil's going to run out about the same time I do, the year two thousand. Seems funny to say it, but I'm glad I lived when I did. These kids coming up, they'll be living on table scraps. We had the meal."-- John Updike, "Rabbit is rich".