In Defense of the Letter  Analog means more than digital. It's
real, for one thing. Something real is maimed in the process of
recording. And it's slow. Pulp doesn't teleport, like bits. If
you write somebody a letter, you mean it.  Bits are circumspect,
at best. They're alterable. Transient. Intangible. Destructible.
A letter that's typed is smashed onto paper, one character at a
time. The ink left behind by each key is its own tiny little
memory, a record of the process as it happened. There is no
going back, no forgetting at the command of another key, there
is only progress and memory. Holding a typed letter isn't simply
grasping whatever it's reporting, it's possessing a record of
the act of reporting itself.   Handwriting is for pussies.
Anyone can write. Free-form and free-wheeling, instruments in
unsteady hands spill ink or smear graphite in jots of uneven
loops and crooked lines. The paper bears no scars, simply
stains. Stains can be washed or smudged away.  A typewriter is a
machine, it requires a