Yesterday I edited my museum files, throwing out a thousand pages of correspondence and other ephemera. It felt like the dead were piling up around me. Online I looked up authors who had promised me things, whom I hadn’t heard from in just long enough, thinking that they might be dead. Reader, they are.
I edit the historical musings of old men, many of whom I become extremely fond. One by one, they leave me. This meant, in some cases, I could toss their files. In others, it meant I could not. After all, some of them are a little famous. And some of them I loved.
Lately it’s been death death death. The parents of my generation are leaving. Who will it be today?