I did not attend his funeral, but I sent a nice letter saying I approved of it.

The line is a compact example of Twain’s deadpan, weaponized politeness: it imagines treating a funeral—the ultimate solemn social ritual—as if it were an event one might endorse from a distance, like a proposal or a performance. The humor comes from the mismatch between expected sympathy and the speaker’s cool, bureaucratic “approval,” implying either indifference or quiet hostility toward the deceased. It also satirizes the hollow forms of social etiquette (sending letters, offering condolences) by substituting a chillingly formal stamp of consent for genuine feeling. As a witticism, it turns absence into a sharper presence: not attending becomes a deliberate statement, softened only by the mock civility of a “nice letter.”