Today Will Hughes helped me move my stuff from the office to my home. Besides my computer and printer, most of the things I will keep are books and papers. Early this morning I finished packing everything into boxes, and then I used one of our porter’s trolleys to shift my possessions to the lobby of our building. As it turned out, there were two trolley-loads of boxes. Only when they were piled up in one corner of the lobby it became clear to me how much I was actually carting away. I reckoned I had about twice as much as I expected I would have. This appears to be true of all the boxes at home, as well. I would have expected about half as many as I actually have. To my horror, there are boxes everywhere. No matter how much I pride myself on my joy of throwing stuff away, I am only half way there at best.

Addendum (February 14, 2021)

Quite by chance, I compared written traces of my departures from the States and Britain fourteen years apart. Both times, I focused on boxes piled around me (“An Open Letter to My Biographer,” June 20, 1990). Interestingly enough, both pieces were written on the very same date. Even more interesting, my departures from both countries were complete and total. My colleagues from both MIT and the University of Reading forgot about me rather quickly. Eighteen years into my retirement from teaching and research, I have no contact with any of them. Zilch. Looking back, my university career borders on fiction. In human terms, there is no trace of it in my dotage. Just like those boxes loaded with books and papers, they have vanished for ever and ever. I am not complaining, though. By now, I relish all of my departures from job to job, country to country, and continent to continent. All I wish is to be surrounded by piled boxes never again. Perish the thought.