Kevin Pocock

In theory all anyone, other than a writer themselves, will ever publicly see of  writers’ works are the finished articles (pun not intended, but I’ll take it). Writer’s notebooks – mine anyway – are covered, sometimes hanging and curving at improbable angles, with little phrases, question marks, screamers and sentences that will never be anything more than that.

The best ideas, those formulations of words that provide a resonance and clarity/originality – or those at least chosen for that effect – are more often than not the fruit of arduous labours and research. Research into what can be made of the overall content from its parts, but ultimately research into the possibilities of what can be written.

Take it, scarily, existentially and you argue that everyone’s actions are subject to the same crazy construction process: Considered clothing, greetings, conversations and thoughts are all the fruits of infinitesimally small decisions as well. But I want to stick to writing and research here, and so thanks to kottke.org and Life.com for this fascinating image .

Einstein’s desk at Princeton, on the day he died. Incredible eh? Imagine all the workings and notes in there that never made it to publication. Further theories we might have now, and Einstein’s own little question marks and screamers.

The mind boggles. What’s more, if you read the editorial on Life, you’ll see that the image is one of a selection, taken by Ralph Morse, the others of which were previously unpublished and forgotten about.

To be honest, it makes the raft of unpublished posts hidden away on this very website, that I don’t deem anywhere near good enough for publication, a little inconsequential somehow.