A Reader’s Guide to Doing Nothing
Reading looks like doing nothing, which is its oldest defense and its best disguise. In praise of the visible book and the invisible work.
Longer pieces: arguments, appreciations, and attempts.
Reading looks like doing nothing, which is its oldest defense and its best disguise. In praise of the visible book and the invisible work.
The machines will summarize anything now, instantly and adequately. Which is exactly why the summary is the wrong thing to want.
Editors ask for voice the way cooks ask for salt, and are just as vague about the amount. An attempt to say what the word actually means.
The library is the last room in the city where you can exist without buying anything. On third places, and what we lose when we lose them.
It took a power outage to show me what a single task feels like. Notes on the afternoon the router died and the mind came back.
A taxonomy of the notes strangers leave in books: the Arguer, the Underliner, the Student, the Grief-Stricken. Eleven years of fieldwork, classified at last.
You can tell within a page whether a writer loves sentences or merely uses them. On prose style as a form of hospitality.
I was wrong about the Kindle, twice. A decade-late reckoning with the device I swore I would never own and now own two of.
Somewhere under the feeds, the old web is still there: sites made by one person, updated when they have something to say. Field notes from the quiet web.
A 1953 Webster’s with a cracked spine and one word underlined in red. What we inherit when we inherit someone’s words.