A fascinating email yesterday from a woman whose in-laws lived for nearly 60 years in the house my parents had in the early 50s. They had rescued a box of Myers papers from the attic, presumably left there in 1953, and would I be interested to see them. You bet! She had only made the connection after browsing the beginning of Amateurs. So I await eagerly – she and her husband are kindly bringing the box later this month. It will probably be just a bunch of old bills, but of course  I am imagining all sorts of amazing revelations. The secret diary that would fill in all the gaps. Some hint of how my grandfather lost his money – letters from his blackmailer, perhaps? A demanding mistress? A drug habit? How interesting that non fiction turns out to be as much an imaginative journey as fiction ever was.

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