I do not know what I shall write. I do know that what I write will be neither private journal nor public book. I have no desire to diarize my thoughts in some form of ersatz therapy. Nor do I wish to share what emerges from this pen with a public which, unquestionably, has better ways to occupy its time.
Whatever ultimately fills these pages, it will write itself precisely as my life has lived itself — from instant to instant and with minimal regard for all custom and convention but one: the custom and convention that has one inaugurate a new project at the start of a new year; two new years in my case: the calendar’s and my own.
Having launched this questionable enterprise within moments of both, I shall now slide this sheet of monogrammed vellum into its folder, extinguish the light in a room I am reluctant to admit an attachment to and climb down the stairs to our bedroom, where Jeremy, should he have managed to remain awake and alert, awaits with a bottle and two glasses. Champagne, of course. One is never too old, or young, for champagne.
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