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A Letter Across the Fell: On Choices and Unlived Lives
Dear Mark,
Your letter arrived with Tuesday's post, damp at the corners from the carrier's bag. I read it twice beside the woodstove while the wind drove sleet across the fells, and each sentence carried that restless, hurried cadence I remember from our shared flat in Bloomsbury. You write that the directorship at the Mayfair gallery has become an ornate cage, and you ask, with characteristic bluntness, whether my retreat to this limestone valley was an act of courage or mere cowardice. Had you asked me five years ago, I might have offered an elaborate philosophical defence. Today, I can only tell you what the silence here has taught me.
Little did either of us comprehend, when we toasted our futures in that damp pub off Tottenham Court Road, how swiftly youth's infinite possibilities narrow into irrevocable facts.