Writers are not buried together with their words. When Wiratmo Soekito died at the age of 72 and was buried at Karet on the afternoon of 14 March, not far from where Chairil Anwar is buried, I was one of the pallbearers to the graveside, and I remembered him once again, he who I called “Mas Wir”: a writer who lived with millions of words. But afterwards, where are those words? Can they move, stand alone, and form their own roles?

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