The most intimate contact that may be established with a writer is through their notes. It is not through listening to their
words, for like what is printed, they are carefully honed beforehand. Instead, it is the pages of notes that bear witness to
the daily unfolding of thought, albeit often in a slipshod manner: there is a feeling that lingers, not yet fully resolved in the
form that remains; a shifting sensation that, in the final draft, will probably be suppressed if not magnified; a reasoning
interrupted and never resumed, distracted like an inconclusive afternoon. Or an intuition that, from sudden and impatient,
develops over time into a cathedral. …