A review by bibliocyclist
Like Being Killed by Ellen Miller

Even extinction didn't guarantee total, irretrievable obliteration.  The science library was loaded with documents about the eohippus.  The painted vulture.  The mastodon.  The moa.  The heath hen.  The passenger pigeon, hunted to extinction, whose immense flocks in low flight formations blacked out the sun and the sky, whose colonies often number 3 billion birds.  The last one died in 1914, but people—people who didn’t get out much and never got a suntan—thought and wrote about the birds, rendering them less extinct, and I thought about them.

I hoped to cripple the archivist in my brain, to shred all documents, to burn the books and then the libraries, to expunge all records of the permanent historic entity that was a life.

I never understood Margarita's notion of partying.  My exertions were funereal, not festive.

Kill the hunger so as not to starve.