I adore words. I love letters.
However, it had never occurred to me that someone could recoil from a font.
Last fall I got lost (as usual) while returning from an early morning climb, and found myself in a town I’d never seen before.
My passenger suddenly shrank back, surveying the stretch of highway with distaste.
“It’s . . . . It’s Papyrus.” Grimly intoned.
“That’s an odd name for a town.”
“No, it’s Papyrus. The font.”
Sure enough, for a few miles every sign seemed to be in a font that just didn’t seem right. No Times New Roman or Courier in sight. The Papyrus script was thin, insubstantial, and seemed to waver. It was too unassertive a font for commercial invitations. Too equivocal to announce government business.
I began to feel it, too: a vague disquiet, an inclination to avert my eyes from the lettering.
And then it passed: we left the town and I could see gleaming reflective white capital lettering on green highway signs ahead.
In a sturdy, comforting sans-serif.