I love the idea that lists *should* be incomplete, should leave us wanting, striving for, more. Graphic organisers may be more efficient but that very efficiency is quotidian and small.
Georges Perec: “the whole point of an inventory is not to write etc.” But if the making of inventories (or lists) is - by nature - always incomplete, then it is a doomed exercise. A quixotic act. Herein lies the beauty of the list.
A list is an act of focussed imagination. We conjure it’s components to externalise their presence. It’s an attempt to recreate the world with words, which requires a quality Woolf possessed: “a rigorous feeling for what is hardly there at all.”