This evening I went through a large stash of letters, documents, photographs, and bills, and I selected a few to keep. The rest—a hefty pile, too—went into the garbage. I feel sick now. It is like cutting your belly open, selecting a few organs you think will still come handy, ripping out the rest, and tossing them away. For how can I tell now whether or not an electronic-mail message from Marko—sent on November 8, 1995, while he was at Brown—will ever become essential for my survival? It begins like this: “Big daddy, I have little time, but I wanted to drop you a line.” And it ends like this: “Must run, little man.” The words in between are lost for ever. But there are many such stashes at home and in the office that are still waiting for their turn. The horror.