Les annonces de décès dans The Economist sont toujours quelque chose.
His dream was to earn just enough to live a simple life. His idea of business, before he met Roxanne, was to load his yellow pickup with honey from his bees in old quart pickle jars, park it beside Route 7 just out of Dexter, Maine, and see who chanced past. He was thought an independent cuss locally, given to swearing and bad manners, but he still sold enough honey—in the months between July 4th and the start of hunting season, before cold weather thickened the product—to pay his property tax, vehicle registration and lighting bill, and buy enough to eat.
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