I only write in Palatino Linotype, which is a more attractive cousin of Times Roman. Most people can’t tell the difference, which is good, since publications often require their superannuated relative, which I find cramped, fussy and inelegant, compared to my first love.
I prefer to indent my paragraphs, and dislike putting spaces between them (even though I’ve occasionally done it here, when laziness trumped principle, or the blog app forces it upon me). Nearly every book you’ve ever read throughout history follows this practice. I don’t think there’s any reason to change it now, despite the insistence of word processors and trendy digital formats.
Serifs are like little brush strokes at the end of straight or slightly tapered lines, flourishes that suggest a certain panache, elan, a bit of dash to the characters. I was once told that medieval scribes saw them as tiny angels. I’ve found no evidence of this, but the notion is enchanting.
Times Roman can also look dated, like your grandmother’s Victorian furniture. If disturbed by this you might select Bodoni, or Century, or my favorite Palatino Linotype, efforts to freshen up the form. I’m fine with this as well. All are preferrable to the execrable sans serif.
I
have no affection for any version of san serif, particularly Helvetica, which has
no social charm, only narcissistic, declarative impudence. It doesn’t care what you think, it only wants
you to follow its commands. Bold san
serif is even worse: a lout with a
megaphone yelling over polite discourse.
Or
simply boring and commercial. All those straight up and down, and horizontal, lines
have no personality. It’s just a flat, soulless
delivery of the words. Serif faces have
lots of smiles, frowns, intelligent observations and witty asides. These are the Cary Grant and Noel Coward of typefaces. The Shirley McClain and Katherine Hepburn. Sans serifs are just pronouncements. Demands.
Directives. Humorless and colorless.
Bureaucratic.
Digital
content is often in Calibri, the slightly less school-marmish version of
Helvetica. Another cousin is Aptos,
which is even worse than the other two.
Helvetica’s sadistic, stunted little sister.
Most of the typeface choices in Microsoft Word
are novelties and nothing more. Fun,
silly and usually inappropriate comedians only useful to children and unserious
designers. Cheap invitations to the gala
event, or hyperventilating car ads given to starbursts and excessive exclamation
points. The typographical equivalent of a
drunken huckster screaming over the crowd noise.
You
might think that a type face shouldn’t affect your understanding of the words
on the page, but that’s not true. I
spent a long career in partnership with art directors and graphic designers who
brilliantly captured the essence of a headline with a deft choice of type
face. They knew the emotion the writer
was trying to convey, presenting it in the precisely appropriate visual
style. (Most of the art directors I
worked with were also quite capable writers.)
Art
at its best conveys feelings. Typefaces
are the rare art form that bring intrinsic emotional interpretation to the
meaning of the words they’re representing.
A true integration of purpose.
Digital media has the capacity for delivering an endless assortment of
faces, with no sense of the mission these shapes and miniature diagrams are
charged with achieving, but we can intercede and pick the face that suits our mood.
What
you are saying, of course, matters the most.
Though how you are saying it can make all the difference in the
rendering.
