I suppose in our contemporary lives, our cumulative e-mails might constitute a kind of diary: that informal, moment-by-moment description of life as it goes by. . As I think of those notes now – what I wrote, what I said – it seems to me they danced across the surface just as my grandmother’s diaries did – Anais Nin she wasn’t, and I wasn’t, either. Who is? Not even Anais Nin.
