Ah, what a smell in the cemetery in spring—what a strange, stirring scent! It isn’t decomposition at all, nothing to do with rot, yet there’s something sad and even oppressive about it: life is short… And the point isn’t in the crosses and dried wreaths with inscriptions that have run down onto red ribbons, and not in the peeling domes of chapels with crosses knocked sideways—no… Only suddenly a sad thought pricks you—and right away another: it’s this spicy, sharp smell with a chemical tang that’s simply the scent of black varnish used to paint fences in spring…