We learn in science class that no element of matter completely disappears, and if that is true of human beings, then the outpourings of our hearts become evidence of immortality. Take away that evidence, give it up as if it were any old commodity, and feelings are no different from asparagus tongs. And please don't tell me that these artifacts are important to history. History doesn't bid on them. In any case, the originals will not lie around like shrunken heads on a chiropractor's coffee table.
Auctions are strange activities anyway.
Sotheby's invented them in 1744 when a bookseller named Samuel Baker wanted to live better. Since then they have grown into wonderfully weird hybrids of culture and capitalism. In movies like North by Northwest and the Marx Brothers' The Cocoanuts, where Chico bids against himself, they are accurately portrayed as miniworlds of crookedness and anarchy. Brawlers compete in cool frenzies of acquisitiveness. The funny part is that all this stufflust is covered over by a sheen of hauteur, loads of English accents and names like Sotheby's and Christie's.