Why is it we want so badly to memorize ourselves? Even while we’re still alive. We wish to assert our existence, like dogs peeing on fire hydrants. We put on display framed photographs, our parchments diplomas, our silver-plated cups; we monogram our linen, we carve our names on trees, we scrawl them on washroom walls. It’s all the same impulse. What so we hope from it? Applause, envy, respect? Or simply attention, of any kind we can get?
M. Artwood, The Blind Assassin