I was grading a stack of freshman essays on Keats tonight (mostly competent, one genuinely alive) and found myself thinking about the difference between writing for a grade and writing for a person. It occurred to me I hadn't done the latter in some time.
So: hello. I teach nineteenth-century poetry at a college small enough that I know most of my students' coffee orders. I've been told this correspondence is meant to be a lighter thing than what I usually write, which is either a relief or a challenge, I haven't decided.
A little about me, since introductions are only fair: I am fifty-two, widowed six years now, and have made an uneasy peace with an empty half of the bookshelf that used to be his. I still play the records he liked. I have not yet worked out whether that's grief or habit, and I'm not sure the distinction matters.
I'd like to know what you're reading, if anything, and whether you finish books or abandon them freely. I find this tells me more about a person than almost any other question I could ask.
Yours, with more curiosity than I expected to have tonight,
Elliot