James Wolcott has gotten annoying of late. His posts have become all style and rarefied substance -- a pre-Revolution Versailles, full of self reference and smug.
And then on a dime, he re-engages and sends a mini-essay that reminds me why I enjoy reading him. Of late, as I finish up my final projects and contemplate WHAT'S NEXT, I'm finding writing all over the place that I wish I'd written. I don't aspire to Wolcott's style, but I do envy his elegance.
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