If you have ever dealt with the possessions of the dead, you probably know what I mean. You take things away and leave behind emptiness, and everything you remove—every sheet and pillowcase, every lost sock and old razor—erases a little bit of the dead person’s footprint in the world. You picture your own home being carted away, piece by piece, hopefully by loved ones and not by strangers. I tried to express this to Angus, who snorted and said, “Don’t worry, it’ll take ten men to clear your apartment in Paris, and the next tenants will be finding bottles of livrit stashed in odd corners for
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