Thursday, February 3, 2005


You went through his old journals this week. A series of nine leather-bound books, each approximately an inch thick, their covers tattered and creased, kept closed against time by elastic bands. Nearly every day he wrote, in that mysterious purple ink you knew so well from his correspondence. Well before weblogs, he kept written journals of his research, works in progress, current thoughts, and daily events. He did so in a style of writing few could hope to achieve - and a choice of words like none other.

When he knew he was leaving, he packaged up those books in brown paper and had them sent to you. Attached was a postcard which said, simply: All the places I've been. It took you awhile to open the package - nearly a year - and even when you did, you couldn't bring yourself to open the books. Until now.

So, you went through his old journals this week - all except the last one. Is it filled, front to back, with his familiar purple script like the other eight? Or are half the pages a ghostly white? You're not sure you care to know. Or maybe you feel that if you don't read that last one things will end differently - or not end at all. And in a way they won't.

Words from long ago
Reach out from the past.
He lives between those covers.

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