Camaraderie is what I remember most about my anatomy course in medical school. There were six of us to the cadaver; six strangers who, during the course of endless hours of dissection and study, formed unique bonds. As time went on, we developed closer friendships with others, but none of these included that special sense of having been together at the beginning. We named our cadaver Ernest so we could kid about telling our parents that we were working in dead earnest. I can still visualize the man's sharp, rough face, gray and emaciated. I see his ravaged black lungs. As I write this review, the trenchant odor of formaldehyde reaches out from 36 years in the past and makes my eyes water. Nowadays, I could no more list the skull's foramina than I could speak Sanskrit, but I haven't forgotten most of the lessons that Ernest taught me.