February 27, 2022:
"I'll live to one hundred fifty," claims La Catrina, the very figure of death. Sure: by draining the life from every living thing near enough, or naive enough to allow you past their guardians.
"I never imagined I'd become so much like my father," says either Bouvard or Pecuchet, take your pick.
Where the only accomplishment of either of their lifetimes is brute, mute reproduction, the outcome of biological processes having nothing to do with either of them personally.