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Drawing The Endgame
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Humanity’s oldest dream turns out to be Roz Chast’s worst nightmare.

“Imagine some horrible dystopian future, some 50 years from now, where people just stop dying,” she says, sitting in her living room in quaint, rural Connecticut, surrounded by pastel-colored walls, books and colorful knickknacks. “They’re 98, they’re 102, they’re 107, they’re 112” — the voice of the 59-year-old staff cartoonist for the New Yorker grows louder with every number — “and they get weaker and more decrepit and their bones are breaking and they’re non compos mentis, and yet they’re still alive.” She considers the thought a bit longer: “And it costs a fortune to keep them alive. It’s like, well, we can’t put a pillow over their head, we can’t starve them.” After a short pause, she adds: “It’s kind of funny, I have to admit, there’s an aspect to it that it could be a really good black comedy.” Her voice changes again, this time imitating a movie announcer: “‘The thing that wouldn’t die’ — except the thing is us.”

Read more: Roz Chast Commemorates Parents in Cartoons, Between Atheism and Gefilte Fish.
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