Teuira Henry

For the past week or so, I’ve been clearing out my office, re-shelving dozens of books, filing hundreds of articles, working my way through reams of paper covered in scribbled outlines, arguments, diagrams, clarifications, lists. Here, a triangle meant to depict a synthesis of conflicting ideas, there, a timeline covering two thousand years of human history; all of it—the whole mess—the residue of some seven or eight years’ work on a book about the Polynesian migrations.