STUCK ON STUFF LEFT BEHIND

I’m reading a good, if slightly disjointed, book by an author that I like, and every page contains word nuggets of beauty, obiter snippets, that I want to copy and write out, and share, and savor. This one struck me particularly: Maybe I shouldn’t be so attached to objects either. But everyone keeps dying, leaving stuff behind, objects I can’t usually get rid of. And I enjoy the company of the dead. They are so quiet. They know things I don’t know. The dead leave clues, and life is a puzzle of trying to read and understand these mysterious hints...