Inside the Secret Cambridge Society That Writes Obituaries for the Living

Five silhouettes were seen hunched over black tea and open notebooks in a flickering gaslight behind a pale blue door just off Jesus Green that was only marked with the number 17. Essays weren’t being revised. In particular, they were writing the lives of those who had not yet passed away.

There is no official name for this quiet project. However, among those who take part, it is lovingly referred to as “the shelf.” The pieces are written, polished, and put away there until the right moment, not because anything is put on it. or doesn’t.

This group has established a literary niche at Cambridge that feels both strange and incredibly moving, a place where traditions are frequently muddled with strange rituals. For the living, they compose obituaries. Not in jest. Not quite satirical. as authentic, forward-thinking examples of the complexity of people. The subjects are frequently in the dark about it until they are handed a sealed envelope or receive an email that reads, “This is how I see you.”

Legacy publications like The Economist, whose authors, including Ann Wroe, have long written obituaries in advance, sometimes even decades in advance, are undoubtedly the source of inspiration for this practice. However, journalistic preparedness isn’t the driving force here. It is a softer thing. These authors try to see others more clearly, empathetically, and sometimes redemptively by speculating about how their story might be told.

The group reportedly increased in size during the pandemic, when time seemed strange and connection felt abstract. Some history students asked others to write brief biographies of their acquaintances, including friends they had lost touch with, parents they had grown apart from, porters, and supervisors. It was “a way to hold people in place when everything else felt untethered,” as one participant put it.

The way each piece combines admiration and narrative is especially inventive. “He laughed like he was borrowing sound from someone else,” read the opening of one obituary. Another concluded with a note about a crossword puzzle that had been left unsolved for years.

No official membership exists. No robe, no badge, no oath. New members are discreetly invited, typically after someone thinks, “You’re one of us,” after reading a letter or hearing a comment. The majority of writers never interact with more than two people in the group. Similar to a constellation, it is distinctly a part of a larger shape despite being loosely connected and frequently invisible.

The group has maintained a certain level of purity by taking advantage of this anonymity. No performance is taking place. no due date for publication. The act itself is what has value.

When I held one of their handwritten, ink-smudged drafts, folded into the back of a philosophy book, I was struck by how well it grasped the contradictions of the subject. It told the story of a woman who had a talent for starting things that transformed people but never finished anything. I’ve been thinking about that line ever since.

Few subjects have accepted the offer from some students to read what has been written. One graduate, who is currently employed in the field of public health, talked about how she got hers in her third year, when she was feeling especially lost. Even though I was unaware of my appearance, she remarked, “It reminded me I was being seen.”

Interestingly, the topic of these pieces is not death prediction. Reclaiming the story while there is still time to make revisions is their goal. It’s a subtle but important distinction. The group’s early obituary writing promotes introspection, candor, and occasionally even change.

In one instance, a subject clarified two points that the original author had misinterpreted by writing her own addendum in response. They had coffee together. After that, lunch. Even now, they remain closed.

As I listened to that story, I pondered in private how things might have turned out if more people had been given their story earlier—while it still had the power to change things.

The group has been able to transform the obituary from a retrospective summary into something noticeably more dynamic by examining identity in this way: a sort of life audit that has been lovingly and creatively handled. It’s an effective way to demonstrate narrative empathy.

The process is private for the majority of participants. A large number of the pieces will never be distributed. Old hard drives contain some of them. After the subject has moved on, others are purposefully destroyed. That doesn’t lessen the point, though. The gift is the writing.

This odd custom may change in the years to come. Some participants have suggested that anonymized versions of the work be archived, possibly in a college library or as a component of a digital exhibit that might represent changing cultural standards regarding memory and legacy.

They have succeeded in reimagining how life stories can work by presenting death as a mirror for the present rather than as an end.

It’s an incredibly powerful method of introspection—organized, real, and surprisingly uplifting. There’s a certain clarity to even the sadness.

Furthermore, the tone is never depressing.

Rather, it depends on observation, wit, and a certain amount of editorial leniency. A person’s temper is said to be “weathered by kindness.” A person is “committed to trying again, regardless of applause” if they make mistakes frequently.

This approach makes the society—whatever it is—very evident: not only how we remember, but also how we could start over.

And lives are still being gently edited in tea shops, libraries, and handwritten notebooks in the quiet corners of Cambridge. Not for the sake of legacy. Not for praise. Just for the sake of comprehension.