But I am not such an autobiographer. I cannot be a proper historian of my own past because I cannot bear to look at the material remains, which have forme an indescribable air of sadness. Perversely perhaps, threadbare jeans, chewing gum hardened by age, rusted paper clips, and stained high-school and college diplomas speak of immense loss rather than survival. The pastness of the past causes me bewilderment and, at times, a feeling akin to nausea.