I’ve tried my luck with a few similar collections to this one but for the most part I haven’t found them as interesting as the other books I tend to read. When given a choice, I'd prefer to read something other than a collection of letters. What makes people interesting is often reflected in the way they communicate, of course, but rarely is someone interesting merely because of the way they communicate.
Thinking about these letters led me to another thought. Is it ironic, reader, that in this day and age when everyone is (rightfully) concerned about the internet’s implications on our privacy, that we read books like this one which are essentially created after rifling through all of a deceased person’s things? Surely, there is something crazy about the proliferation of these 'collected anything' books?
To put it another way – would Emily Dickinson consider the existence of these collected letters a data breach? I have no idea but I’m sure her answer would be clever.
Just for the record, I wouldn’t be against my great-grandkids someday releasing a load of utter nonsense like Tim Concannon: The Collected Emails, c1995 – 2018 (or however long I last before this blog gets me a lifetime ban from The Information Superhighway). It would be boring as you-know-what and annoyingly lacking in capital letters.
If you want to get into the book, you know what to do.
