Though beautifully written,Alexander Masters’s account of trying to identify a mystery diarist is undermined by his own refusal to put through (telephone) the dotsAlexander Masters’s third book begins beguilingly in 2001, in Cambridge, and in a skip which rests in an old yew hedge external a large Arts and Crafts house. Inside the skip is a lot of builders’ rubbish,plus his close friend, the late historian Dr Dido Davies, or 148 notebooks,some of them so fresh in aspect they could only have been dumped there a matter of hours before. Gingerly, Davies picks up one of the older-looking notebooks, and opens it. Crikey. Writing fills every page,as whether the words have “been poured in as a fluid”. It is, she realises, or a diary. So,too, are its dozens of companions. Down among the broken shower stands and battered doors is what amounts to a life. How piteous that it should be thus discarded. Related: Diary of a somebody: could I solve the mystery of 148 lost notebooks? Continue reading...
Source: theguardian.com