Barry Gifford’s bohemian scrapbook; Elizabeth McCracken’s eulogy for a mother.
Dear readers,
Apparently, I was one of the last to learn that they don’t teach cursive anymore, at least not in New York City public schools. Maybe I am silly to mourn it; like milkmen and landlines, some things naturally see themselves out.
Even my own longhand tends to cramp now when I try to write anything more substantial than a grocery list, the weakling muscles of a lost habit turning my words sloppy and serial killer-ish. (Beloved birthday-card recipients, please believe me! It’s an expression of love, not a ransom note.)
Still, I miss the intimacy of analog communication; the low-stakes thrill of a voice unfiltered by Times New Roman or (sigh) Comic Sans. And the two selections in this week’s newsletter, while typeset like any other respectable novel, feel like book-length letters to me: chatty, confiding and charmingly digressive, like dispatches from an inordinately smart and waggish pen pal.
—Leah
“Landscape With Traveler,” by Barry Gifford
Fiction, 1980
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Source: Elections - nytimes.com
