Alluring Alliteration

[It contains] a total want of literary attractiveness ~ review of Sir Rodrick Murchison’s ‘Siluria’

There is a common question bandied about literary circles, when the band of brothers spend their restful hours in smoking rooms, and tongues have been well loosened with free-flowing brandy. It should be no surprise to anyone that when a group of seasoned men get together that questions of a potentially offensive nature get asked.

It is a ribald cliche of men that they are either ‘Sans or Serifs’ men, and focus their attentions on words or lettering that ascribes to this basic quality. I cannot deny that the distinction is a significant one, and I have several friends who will spend hours on the seemingly innocuous topic of Sans font, and the beautiful curves and long lines of a good Ariel typeset. I admit, I have always found myself drawn to Serifs.

This is not to say that a man is always purely a Sans or Serifs man. As with all things, men can often find themselves ‘crossing the road’ as it were, for a suddenly tantalizing capital letter, or experiment with a curvaceous vowel. I, for example, never thought I would find myself drawn to monotype, but only yesterday I found myself chatting quite deliciously with a cleanly printed letter that had been written by an old electric typewriter. The conversation was quite flirtatious, and I found myself imagining what it would be like to read this letter in bed.

This is also not to say there is no man who will ever be exclusive. I have a dear friend who simply will not look at any piece of work that does not have at least a twelve point font and half-inch margins. I personally cannot find it in myself to be so selective, but it makes him happy, so I am not one to judge. I personally find large point type distracting, and I do not like how modern sensibilities view large type as somehow better or more attractive. It has gotten to the point that any time I see any letters above 10.5 point size, I wonder if they’re natural.

When I was young, my literary awakening was, as I’m sure it is with most people, in the quiet unassuming stacks of my local library. I was there with my parents, who naively assumed a library was safe for the young and impressionable, for what temptations could snare a good hard-working boy in the non-fiction section?

As it turns out, a copy of The City of Beautiful Nonsense had been left behind by a careless patron, and a casual glance was all it took to entice me. I don’t know what it was about the cover’s font that attracted me, but in no time I was imagining slipping between the book’s covers and plumbing its depths with my eyes, devouring every curve and line with a boy’s lust.

The emotion frightened me enough that I dropped the book I had been carrying in my hand and fled the aisle. The passions of youth are not so easily escaped, however, and so I returned to sheepishly peek at the book from around the corner. When a librarian took the book back to its proper section, I followed close behind like a perverted stalker, eager to maybe catch a glimpse of something salacious.

I left the library with the book under my arm, and spent hours staring at the font, a whole new world of beauty opened before me.

But as passionate as youth is, so too is it fickle. I soon found myself spending hours at the library, searching for new fonts and exotic typesets. My first extended affair was with a plain but very friendly Times New Roman, though I soon grew tired of it and found myself fantasizing about different fonts while I read. It’s my own secret shame that I carried on like this, when I should have had the courage of my convictions and simply moved on for both our sakes, but what is done is done.

I thought Courier was the one for me, but moved on once I met Ariel. I experimented, as most men do, with Comic Sans and Papyrus, though I found them far too — frankly — simple for any long term attachment. Baskerville was charming and sophisticated — the relationship did not last long, as I knew I was out of my league. Gothic was firm and businesslike, and I appreciated its honesty. Futura and I never formalized our relationship, avoiding the restrictive labels of society. Rockwell wasn’t for me, but through it I was introduced to the next seven of my paramours.

Eventually, I am ashamed to admit, I found several websites which provided fonts that could be downloaded for free. I subscribed to several, and visited several times a day, hoping to catch a new and interesting font. I grew a bit wild, perusing used book shops for old and well-worn books. I remember a particular novel that wore a salacious Helvetica, and proudly displayed margins of a size I hadn’t seen before. It was upfront, unashamed, and matter-of-fact. It was unwilling to bow to societies expectations about proper margin-width, and the confidence was such that I read the entire book.

I found myself out of control. I treated my books badly, breaking their spines when I read them and their hearts when I had finished with them. I began taking caffeine to stay awake for reading benders, and once even tried a 5-hour-energy, though the experience was not a pleasant one and was never repeated.

I imagined myself happy, and perhaps I was. At long last, I joined up with an insular script crowd who hung around ancient medieval scripts and scrolls. I realized how callous I had been, seeing how reverently and respectfully these fonts were viewed, and resolved myself to change my ways. I promised to take fonts slower and risk the vulnerability that familiarity brings.

It was — is — a process, but life has become much more peaceful since I turned away from the hedonistic lifestyle. I was able to find beauty and joy in the details, rather than the illusive and transient delights of discovering something new. I have spent hours exploring the content of the font, rather than measuring serifs. I have even recently begun looking not only at the font, but the words; how a font’s spacing and curves accents the shape of the word itself. Some fonts I might have rejected outright make certain words beautiful.

I still haven’t settled down completely. I still periodically visit the exotic font depots online, but not to ogle as I did before. Now I go to find beauty in places I never thought possible. To wit: I have recently found a delightful Cyrillic font. I never thought I would find a worthwhile relationship with a font of such sharp lines and brash and forthright angles, but I find myself enraptured. True, I didn’t understand the language, but there are some forms of communication that simply do not require words.