Here’s a sad description of the end. From The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz, Chapter 2:
First line of the chapter:
“My father was slowly fading, wilting before our eyes”.
And the last lines from the same chapter:
“What still remained of him – the small shroud of his body and the handful of nonsensical oddities – would finally disappear one day, as unremarkable as the grey heap of rubbish swept into a corner, waiting to be taken by Adelia [house keeper] to the rubbish dump.”
And then there’s the famous line by Yeats in Sailing to Byzantium:
“An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick.”
Hmm. Schultz was Polish. Yeats Irish. Maybe I should move to Japan where they honor their old folk?
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