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No, by The Last Post, I’m not suggesting, over this first weekend of May, that you curl up with Ford Madox Ford’s novel of that name; rather, I mean to say that this particular post will be my last in this space.
One year ago, with the very generous welcome of this old and excellent magazine, I began compiling these notes on reading and writing. The ambition was simple: to take some of the sorts of things I tend to exchange with writer friends via email and place them, regularly, before the public.
My expectations were low: I did not think that my thoughts on such matters would be of any wider interest to any larger group of readers than those dozen with whom I already privately corresponded. And yet, as my electronic mailbag has made clear, a larger group of readers than we’ve lately been told should care about such things did take an interest. I’ve been lucky to engage in a lively correspondence off the page with readers who, as often as they’ve written to take vigorous issue with an idea (or outright error) of mine, have also generously directed me to books I hadn’t heard of much less read (and am now reading).
According to the webmaster, some hundreds of thousands of people (or “unique visitors,” in the creepily Rumsfeldean turn) have read my posts over the year. Yes, in the web-world, where a nipple slip can net you a million sets of eyes in a breathless blink and click, these are Lilliputian numbers. In my world, however, those are towering digits, enormous for what they might say about the reading life: that there is still, in our noisy culture, a quiet but forcible interest in finding good books to read, and in debating what makes books good.
We “unique readers” know this, in our solitary hours. But it is pleasing, at times, to have company in that knowledge, to know that one isn’t alone in one’s enthusiasms. For my part, I have taken great pleasure in the enthusiasm of readers for this space, and am grateful for the time you’ve spent here. For now, know that I’m turning my attention to other tasks, with the expectation, at some point future, of returning to one not unlike this.
With thanks, and wishing you many good things to read,
More from Wyatt Mason:
Conversation — October 2, 2015, 8:26 am
“By committing to the great emotional extremes demanded by Greek tragedy,” says Bryan Doerries, author of The Theater of War, “the actors are in effect saying to the audience: ‘If you want to match our emotional intensity, that would be fine.’”
Years ago, I lived in Montana, a land of purple sunsets, clear streams, and snowflakes the size of silver dollars drifting through the cold air. There were no speed limits and you could legally drive drunk. My small apartment in Missoula had little privacy. In order to write, I rented an off-season fishing cabin on Rock Creek, a one-room place with a bed and a bureau. I lacked the budget for a desk. My idea was to remove a sliding door from a closet in my apartment and place it over a couple of hastily cobbled-together sawhorses.
Amount the inventor of the yellow “smiley face” had received for it by the time of his death in April:
An astrophysicist observed that the early universe looked like vegetable soup.
In North Korea, a missile capable of striking U.S. bases overseas blew up immediately after a test launch, and in North Carolina, a G.O.P. headquarters was firebombed.
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“Matt was happy enough to sustain himself on the detritus of a world he saw as careening toward self-destruction, and equally happy to scam a government he despised. 'I’m glad everyone’s so wasteful,' he told me. 'It supports my lifestyle.'”