Packing up my flat and moving out is quite a chore but it must be done even after a hard day's work inspite of an increasing number of meetings, in which I seem to have to take more part, or produce creative ideas.
The problem is that I do not find it fun sorting out 23 years of birthday cards, postcards and letters. This is the story of other people's lives, with dates they have not recorded. Having heard that friends have thrown out my years of letters, on the solid basis that they need the shelf space, I feel free to throw theirs away. But something in me still feels that it is a kind of sacrilege. Why? Is it that someone's handwriting is unique and their thoughts are so precious, in themselves. Both come out of a personality, a life, someone's precious growth in understanding, spirit and maturity. Writing comes from a unique and personal voice. It is words are on a piece of paper bought specially for the purpose, held, folded, posted, sent only to a friend. Letters are a small work of art. What can surpass them? But grit my teeth I must - and chuck them. If some of my friends in later years become famous writers and one day their biographer asks me for their dates and documents to make sense of their inner life, I will not be ready armed. So my advice to my friends is: keep a diary.
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