Penmanship has never been my strong suit, the doodlings of my pen having been described both blandly as chicken scratch and more memorably as looking like those of a serial killer. Little did all my critics realize this little "flaw" of mine would give me insight and empathy into one of history's most influential minds! From The Worldly Philosophers, a thus far great book:
Marx had no work--except his never-ending stint in the British Museum from ten o'clock every morning until seven o'clock at night. He tried to make a little money by writing articles on the political situation for the New York Tribune, whose editor, Charles A. Dana, was a Fourierist and not averse to a few slaps at European politics. It helped for a while, although it was Engels who bailed Marx out by composing many of his pieces for him--Marx meanwhile advising by letter as follows: "You must your war-articles colour a little more*. " When these articles stopped, he tried to get a clerical job with a railway, but was rejected for his atrocious handwriting.
'Tis true, however, that my horrid handwriting is sometimes a burden. The wine business for example requires me to make several bank transactions every week, and all the forms must be handwritten. How the tellers interpret my name, which I both print and sign on most of the forms, can be amusing:
The interpretation can also confound:
That last one had me puzzled for longer than I care to admit as to who exactly this Jeff Ildnes was and how he had gained access to the account.