KEY POINTS:
A nation knows itself as much by the stories it tells as by its laws and institutions. Usually the stories are about triumph over adversity, of battles fought, of great achievements such as the first women to win the right to vote or the first man to climb the highest mountain in the world.
These stories are woven together to make up the fabric of the national identity.
We know who we are partly because we share the same stories. The fabric is strengthened over the years as the stories are told and retold to mark important anniversaries - five years, ten years, centenaries.
It is not history in the strict academic sense; the stories are intensely personal as well as being commonly understood. But there is no doubting their power.
A poignant example of how they can affect individuals came in a letter to the Herald on the day Sir Edmund Hillary died. His death made the writer recall vividly a precise date from the middle of last century: June 2, 1953.
It was not the day Sir Ed reached the summit of Everest, but the day the news broke in New Zealand.
It was the day that his story not only made its mark on this particular person but was woven into the fabric that makes New Zealand what it is.
Of course it was not only a New Zealand story at the time. Sir Ed was part of a British expedition and the climbing of Everest was seen as a pinnacle of glory in the fading splendour of empire. All this and Everest too, they said at the coronation of the Queen, as though it hailed a new Elizabethan age.
But significance changes with time and, as the years passed, this story became less about a man who climbed a mountain and more about a man who did good works and came to represent a specifically New Zealand ideal as opposed to something British.
His modesty is as legendary as his mountaineering achievements.
If ever there was a man who could - in the words of a famous poet of British imperialism - walk with kings without losing the common touch, Sir Ed was he.
A lesser man might have spent the rest of his life selfishly basking in the glory of world fame, whereas Sir Ed used his fame to give something back, not just to the people of New Zealand but to those of Nepal.
And in that sense, the significance of the story has changed as well. If it began as something shared with Britain - the crowning glory of an old order - it has become a story that sums up what is best in the new, post-colonial world.
Not only have New Zealanders taken Sir Ed to their hearts, but so have the the people of Nepal, India and many other countries.
To understand the extent of his influence, you only have to look at the tributes that have come from so many nations. Or to consider the thousands of people who stood in the drizzling rain into the early hours of yesterday morning waiting patiently to pay their last respects.
In the queue that snaked across the cathedral forecourt, out into the street and around the corner, could be found people from all over the world.
As well as the Maori and Pakeha of his native land, there were people from India and Nepal, and a sprinkling of American accents could be heard.
As they stood in the damp night, with the pale street lighting blurred by the misty rain, the mood was anything but sombre.
There was an abiding sense of community among complete strangers who chatted while they waited.
Helping to bind them together were touches of kindness. The St John Ambulance man who walked down the line to offer a wheelchair to a woman on crutches and two young women who came about midnight with tea and biscuits for those who needed a little something to keep them going.
Everyone was in good heart; some even sharing personal memories of the great man.
People arriving to join the queue at 2am were surprised at how long it was but, tellingly, no one turned away.
The most heartening aspect of it all was the large number of young people who joined the queue and waited with their parents. They were epitomised by the picture in yesterday's Herald, taken by Richard Robinson, of a father with his arm around his daughter as they stood before the casket.
The memory will no doubt be etched in the girl's consciousness just as the letter writer still recalls, after more than half a century, the date that she heard the news about the conquest of Everest.
Sir Edmund's full and generous life may have come to an end, but his story lives on and is being passed to a new generation.
