Welcome to the smoky, semi-charred world of Walter, a man who can't seem to do anything right, whether in love, friendship, or even arson. Walter is fifty-five years old, has a career as a listless librarian, and a special talent for self-pity. Separated and alone, he staggers through the ruins of his life with the grace of a drunk crossing a minefield in a limbo of marijuana, cynicism, and sarcasm. Until his aunt's funeral rekindles an unexpected passion for life. Or rather, for the death of others. From that moment on, Walter discovers a perverse pleasure in being the impeccable guest at other people's funerals: designer clothes, Borsalino hats, rented Porsches, and a new opportunity to feel like the center of attention. Amidst morally decaying relatives, nymphomaniac cousins, and a newly found drug-addicted cousin with a surprising sense of practicality, his existence is transformed into a black tragicomedy where every mourning is a party and every ceremony a pretext for measuring his own miserable vitality. But this is not just a story of death, appearances, money, drugs, and various disasters. It is a final toast to the absurd, a laugh in the face of everything that burns, including the protagonist. Gloomy, obscene, and hilarious in its humanity, It was better to play dead is a stoned elegy to the lost art of screwing everything up, a novel that turns every mistake into a joke and every tragedy into a smoke-filled confession. A fierce, lucid, and irresistibly grotesque comedy about everyday narcissism, the hypocrisy of feelings, and the desperate desire to matter, even if only in the middle of a cemetery.