ABSTRACT
In one of the Saturday afternoons of my childhood I threw down an ace of spades in a game of cards. My partner casually observed that this was the “death card.” Rather shocked at first, within moments I instinctively understood what he meant. It was black, and black, like the night, was frightening. The spade, unlike the black club, reminded one of turned dirt in gardens and cemeteries. The single spade indicated the number one, as someone once sang, “the loneliest number of all.” The ace of spades was truly the death card.
