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January 4, 2005
TT: Mailbox
Our readers write: - "You are doubtlessly correct that the word posses will fail to catch up with the word ‘blog.' Not soon will its scrawny neck get stretched. But admit that a word so preeminently without felicity or grace, if it does not deserve to die, must not expect to be loved. The considerable onomatopoetic value of the word has been tragically wasted: blog is tuned to affliction, deep pain, infliction, galloping infection, whatever it was that Grendel's mother had in mind for Beowulf. It is a fork with a definite pitch that has gotten into the wrong bag. ‘New York bloggers have been blogging without surcease over the Met's production of Mozart's Magic Flute.' Impossible, no? It will be a hundred years before this lump of coal becomes an 8-ball."- "Your quote from E.B. White reminded me of the ending to Edward Hirsch's essay, 'Portrait of the Artist as an Old Man,' in A William Maxwell Portrait (one of the books I requested and received for Christmas):
‘I can't reconcile myself to the fact that he is gone. The night before he passed away I stood on the sidewalk outside his apartment building and burst into tears. I was grieving in advance. I couldn't bear to be without him. I still can't. William Maxwell knew something about inconsolable grief. People hurried by on either side of me, but no one even glanced my way. It started to rain. The night opened its arms. New York City is a place where one can weep on the sidewalk in perfect privacy.'"
- "Best wishes for '05. I'm a big fan--although what you've cost me in CDs and books does not bear contemplation."
Hey, it's a nice problem to have....
Posted January 4, 2005 12:05 PM
