A little chill touched him and he looked down at the bright plastic grass, wondering why it had to be a part of every funeral. It looked like exactly what it was: a cheap imitation of life discreetly masking the heavy brown clods of the final earth.

He who wish my down fall, shall never be prosper

As time has shown, it wasn’t nearly so simple. Despite half a century of further study, we are no nearer to synthesizing life today than we were in 1953—and

He was alone with his thoughts. They were extremely unpleasant thoughts and he would rather have had a chaperon.

Written By Douglas Adams

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