Above are my journals and notebooks from the past 15, maybe 16 years. Piled up like that it feels quite impressive. If you had told me to fill so many books straight away I would have thought it near impossible.
The compulsion to write things down is often seen as a way of preserving the ephemeral, keeping a record of the time gone past. But looking at the pile, I am reminded of all the millions of thoughts I chose not to write down, and all the ideas I scrawled down and never developed. Only a small selection of my writing has been public, but this is the same for everyone. We only see a small sliver of an infinite landscape between everyone’s ears. So much is lost forever, but at least a tiny percentage survives.