I love lists. I like reading them almost as much as I like making them. When I write down the things on my desk – lamp, book, pen, Paddington stuffed toy (a gift for my cousin’s child), card, rock, another book – they regain their solidity. Their soft, fleshy parts are restrained by contours. In lists, there is an attempt to grasp at something. (“Now is night,” I’m trying to say.)
By listing, I am not trying to optimise anything. I do not want to reach a certain number. Noting things inevitably brings numbers to mind, which might make one want to see them tick upward, but I will not choose to read a shorter book or travel to a closer city just for the sake of adding to an ever-growing list.