Books of life, death—and what comes in between

I registered a death recently.

I had to make an appointment, which seemed a rather formal business. The registrar sat behind a computer. She stood up and we introduced ourselves. It would take about half an hour, she explained.

It was a surprisingly dignified occasion. She unfolded the death certificate from its familiar brown envelope, laid it out on her desk, and studied it carefully. I thought of the hundreds of certificates that I have quickly filled in and torn from that orange book in my desk drawer. We steadily worked our way through a series of questions on her computer. When that was done, she took out a fountain pen and recorded the details in her register, in black ink. Then she asked me how many copies I wanted.

I had …