Title Deeds [antikvár]

Prologue Many suffer from the incurable disease of writing, and it becomes chronic in their sick minds. Juvenal in my family, we write notes, texts, emails, letters, diaries, articles, columns. My childhood was punctuated by long spells away from home, and the pining for it was both intensified and assuaged by the steady flow of letters. The high point of any school day was to see the corner of an envelope protruding from my pigeonhole. The love I feit for my parents was only ever stumblingly expressed right at the end of letters that laboriously recorded rounders match results and what stationery I needed. Their love and my love existed in a silent, inky world. We were brought up proficient in the art of talking about what we thought, but not in the messier art of how we feit. The vacuum was