A postcard by Alfred Mainzer.
First, an announcement: this is my 874th On the Shelf column, and my last. I’m leaving my post at The Paris Review to seek my fortune as a writer, after which, impoverished and bruised, I’ll come crawling back, begging for your forgiveness. I’ll give a more proper farewell in a post on Monday. For now I’d like to say: it’s been a pleasure and a privilege to start my day this way for the past three and a half years. The Internet, as we know, is full of garbage, but it’s also full of profound, inventive, incisive writing (it is very large, this Internet), and I’ve enjoyed using this space to share some of my favorites with you. We’ve had some fun, haven’t we? And some coffee. I’m sorry for all the occasions this roundup kind of sucked: when I was hungover, say, or when I overslept, or when I looked out the window and saw a cop standing at my car writing a parking ticket. But I’ve just checked, and, for the moment, there are no cops at my car. So let’s have one last go at it:
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