To the Editor:
I just read Ron Rosenbaum’s column on Emmylou Harris, black holes and the B-flat cosmos [“Black Holes Emit B-Flats as Emmylou Stirs the Universe,” The Edgy Enthusiast, Aug. 1]; I have to thank my friend who e-mailed it to me for making my night.
Mr. Rosenbaum is a great writer, skilled enough to take a stream-of-consciousness style—often the refuge of those who can’t keep a coherent thought together and at the same time don’t know when to shut up—and turn it into a symphonic ramble that leads to a beautiful, complete denouement, tying all your themes together and leaving the reader with a little moment of grace and wisdom.
To do this with a column that at the same time mixes the downward spiral of mass-market high jinks infecting American indigenous music and cosmic physics is quite a feat.
Ralph Howard
Los Angeles
To the Editor:
Ron Rosenbaum’s Emmylou Harris story is a masterpiece. Maybe some day when I grow up (I’m 62), I’ll be half as good as he is.
Mark Johnson
Atlanta
Summers of Yore
To the Editor:
I just had to write and thank you for Mark Lotto’s story about the unrelieved crappiness of today’s movies, [“Scarlett! I Don’t Give a Damn,” Aug. 1]. You’re a wonderful writer, and right on the money! I am 53 and still thankful for my college-age boyfriend who, when I was 15, introduced me to the wonders of W.C. Fields, the Marx Brothers, Sundays and Cybele and other classics at the Thalia and … the New Yorker, I think? I forget the name now.
Ivy Hamlin
Queens
Must Love Lane
To the Editor:
Tell Rex Reed that even if Diane Lane were 10 years older—make that 20—she would never want for guys [“Hey! Summer Stinks, But Diane Saves Dogs,” On the Town, Aug. 1]. That’s why the basic premise of Must Love Dogs is ridiculous.
Hillsdale, N.J.
