Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book

Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—I was on a vacation with my family, and—having little or no money in my purse—our recreation consisted of day trips to corners of New England that were unfamiliar to us, but close enough to not require a hotel. On the drive back from one of these we stopped in at a roadside second-hand store, and it was here that I purchased, for the princely sum of seven dollars, a 1943 edition of the card game Authors.

My copy of the “Salem Edition” of Authors

Authors had been a favorite game of my youth for a few years around 1975. If you are unfamiliar with the game, it’s basically Go Fish with a literary coat of paint. As in Go Fish, players attempt to make melds of four by asking opponents if they hold missing cards of the set they are collecting—but instead of collecting cards of the same rank, one collects cards bearing the titles of works by an author—e.g. for the Shakespeare set, you would need cards for Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, Julius Caesar, and The Tempest. Thus, by familiarizing players with the works of Twain, Stevenson, Hawthorne, and Alcott, the game had a veneer of culture and respectability, which was probably a plus in the eyes of my mother, whose own parents forbade playing cards in the home, as these tools of the devil led inevitably to gambling.

Not my copy, but the 1960’s–70’s edition of Authors from my childhood

I was charmed to see that the 1943 cards had the same design as those from the 1970’s. Most legacy games go through major re-designs every decade or so; look at all the various editions of Clue, for example. However, the illustrations from my Parker Brothers set (1943) were not only included in the Whitman edition (first published in 19511 and in various editions through the 70’s), but also by a later edition published by U.S. Games Systems (1986) with the last version using these designs (at lest, the last I could find) printed in 1996.

First edition (probably), Whipple & Smith, 1861

This isn’t to say that these were the original set of illustrations, or even the original selection of authors. The first version of Authors was published in 1861 by the Salem, MA company of Whipple & Smith, and its cover featured American short story writer Washington Irving and (checks notes), um, British poet Thomas Macaulay?

If you search for the creator of Authors you may find a credit for Annie W. Abbott and a date of 1843, fully 18 years before the game was first published. This confusing chronology is because Ms. Abbott created a card game called Dr Busby which had almost exactly the same play as Authors, except instead of collecting sets of four books, players collected cards representing members of four fictional families. Stewart Culin, writing in The Journal of American Folklore  in the July–September, 1893 issue, claimed that Dr. Busby was retooled into Authors by an unnamed Salem man2; I have also read the claim that Abbott herself was responsible for the new game. But whomever was responsible, both Authors and Dr Busby are based on Go Fish, whose origins are murky, but which may have come from ultimately from the Italian game Andare e piscere in the 15th Century.

It’s everyone’s favorite game, Dr. Busby

Wherever and whenever Authors came from, other publishers soon began to publish their version of the game, with differing selections of authors in a variety of formats. In my earlier essay about Parker Brothers’ game design in the 1970s, I referenced Philip Urbanes’s 2004 book The game makers: the story of Parker Brothers from Tiddledy Winks to Trivial Pursuit, which I thought might fill in some details for this essay. Unfortunately, Urbane discusses Parker Brothers’ initial publication of Authors only in passing, noting that around 1870 to 1890, the company began publishing existing games that they did not originate; Authors was one of these (copyright wasn’t the same back in those days).

Parker Brothers was headquartered in Salem, MA, the same as Whipple & Smith and (as mentioned) where Authors was originally conceived; some combination of these facts no doubt led to naming the 1943 version of the game the “Salem Edition.” Parker Brothers distinguished its versions from the competition with high-quality illustration and state-of-the-art reproduction, and sold several versions at the same time, with names like “the Nickel Edition,” and “the Petite Edition De Luxe.” Even the game’s title varied on the cover of different editions, from The Game of Authors, to Great Authors, to Household Authors, which is my favorite because it implies that every good home should have a stock of writers3.

Early Parker Brothers’ editions, c. 1870, c. 1893, 1897, 1910

The Salem Edition (my edition) seems to have been the first to use the familiar illustrations, which are unfortunately unattributed. Unless somewhere there are archives still extant that contain correspondence or billing from the 1940’s, the artist has been lost to time. However, they appear to be the work of one hand, or perhaps a few artists working under close direction. Even though they are remarkably of a piece with one another, there are some odd variations to note. While all seem to have been painted in watercolor over an underdrawing, some are noticeably darker, such as the Robert Louis Stevenson portrait, which has heavy shadows painted with opaque colors, possibly using gouache.

Some of the portraits

The level of detail varies, probably owing to the source material being copied; this material would have included photos and engravings of the authors, as well as earlier versions of the game. About half have a highly painterly background of washes in blue, green, and yellow; the others are presented on flat white. And one portrait, that of John Greenleaf Whittier, has an entirely different ground treatment which almost resembles airbrush.

Thackery and Whittier portraits

Wait, John Greenleaf who now? This edition contains two authors that were cut from the deck when the designs transferred to Whitman publishing: William Makepeace Thackery and John Greenleaf Whittier. The English Victorian Thackery is still read today, primarily for his novels Vanity Fair and Barry Lyndon. The American Quaker abolitionist Whittier, however, is not a name you will know unless you study 19th Century American literature, and then only as an example of a poet who was popular in his lifetime, only to fall into obscurity when his earnest, moralizing style failed to resonate with 20th century tastes. It’s not surprising that editions of Authors reflect the forever evolving literary canon. The Rare Book School it the University of Virginia had an exhibition of Authors cards in 2025 that focused specifically on the writers who have come and gone through many, many versions over the last 150+ years.

The novelists, playwrights, and poets selected for the 1943 portraits are mostly Victorian, with the most recent work referenced being Mark Twain’s The Mysterious Stranger (1916)4. Looking over the assortment of writers, it’s impossible not to note that they are all American or British, white, and—save for the exception of Louisa May Alcott—male. Aside from this chauvinism, it’s also interesting that for a game published in 1943 there were no Modernist authors—this was the era of Hemingway, Faulkner, Edna St. Vincent Millay, Fitzgerald, Eliot, etc. Probably the choice was in part set by earlier versions of the game. And perhaps there was an editorial decision to avoid living writers. Whatever the criteria, the game’s roster of authors is stodgy, academic, and leans heavily on sentimental and Romantic writers.

All of this was lost on me as a child when I played the game. I assumed that the authors selected were, in fact, the greatest and most important names in literary history, and for many years I kept the titles on the cards tucked away in my memory. This was my first brush with the idea of a canon, and I found it appealing because it implied that great books were finite and that it would be possible to read them all, and then I guess I thought you would be done. These days I’m less inclined to think this way, although I do have a podcast about the subject.


My 1943 edition has a few interesting features. It has it original rule sheet, beautifully block printed in a variety of typefaces, including a midcentury geometric sans-serif font that closely resembles Futura. This sheet calls the game “PARKER BROTHERS’ IMPROVED GAME OF AUTHORS” and declares that it is the “BEST EDITION.” The best part of these rules comes at the end, where it lists “other PARKER GAMES” which include Monopoly, Rook, and Camelot, which is noted as: “the most absorbingly interesting of all games of skill, and many times more exciting than Checkers.” I have no idea what the game of Camelot is, but I chose to believe the claims made on its behalf, and I won’t Google to learn otherwise.

The game box also contains a shallow tray of yellow cardboard discs that the rules calls “counters” (with quotation marks). These are to be awarded for each meld a player makes, but with the twist that first three are given, then two, then one, and then back to three, etc. This mechanic seems so tacked-on that my assumption is the discs were cast offs from holes punched in another game that some office manager decided to repurpose. Also in amongst the cards there is a rule card from a later Whitman edition of the game, which is (oddly) far more worn than any of the portraits.

Right, Center: the original rules sheet, front and back; Left top: the “counters”; Left bottom: what are these doing here?

Finally, my copy of Authors also contains both a faded lavender wooden checker and a Scrabble tile of the letter G. These were left mysteriously by its previous owner, and one can only imagine how each contributed to any house rules.


  1. How and why the designs transferred to Whitman is a mystery to me. I know Whitman primarily as a children’s book publisher, particularly for its licensed works featuring Disney characters. ↩︎
  2. Quoted in Kaplan and Miller; see note below. ↩︎
  3. If you are even more fixated on this subject than I am, there is an exhaustive 476 page catalog of every known edition of Authors and ancillary games: The Game of Authors Compendium Stuart R. Kaplan and William G. Miller (2021). ↩︎
  4. This is a very peculiar choice. In his final years, Twain wrote several divergent drafts of The Mysterious Stranger, perhaps his most bleak and existential writing ever. The eventual posthumous publication in 1916 was cobbled together with parts rewritten by Twain biographer Albert Bigelow Paine. Contemporary scholars do not consider this edition (the one referenced in Authors) ↩︎

Only 1% can solve

Mobile game ads are weird. If you spend any time on the half-dozen social media sites that now run the internet, you will have probably run into ones featuring sad cartoon heroines who have been spurned by their lovers for literally being covered in dripping mud, or horny cartoon knights in armor being harassed by giant sexy demon women. Recently I’ve been noticing a trend in puzzle games that claim “only the highest IQ players can solve this!” or comparing the player’s IQ to historic figures such as Albert Einstein, Leonardo da Vinci, or (confusingly) the Mona Lisa, who (aside from being a painting and not a person) has never been credited as a great thinker, as far as I can tell. The strangest IQ-based ads feature dynamic IQ counters that go up and down when the player makes a successful or unsuccessful move, suggesting that the game is actively making you smarter or dumber.

(found on Reddit)

There are a couple of things going on here. First, the American distrust of having fun for its own sake. Mobile games aren’t a waste of time because they heighten your intelligence, improve your memory, make you more attractive to potential partners, etc. But the recent cultural emphasis on IQ is another thing. The current Administration is obsessed with it, from Trump’s favorite insult of “low IQ” to Vance’s statement that Trump’s IQ “either near the top or at the top” compared to that of other Presidents.

The metric of an Intelligence Quotient (a number comparing one’s intelligence to that of people in general) has been around in one form or another since around 1912, although from the very beginning IQ tests have been criticized for bias, pseudoscience, and a general lack of clarity as to what is actually measured in these tests. The scores tend to be repeatable across various well-administered tests, so they seem to correlate to something, but is that something intelligence? What even is intelligence? Is it erudition, logic, insight, or intuition? Is it the ability to take advantage of situations or the ability to produce new things?

For the most part, the emphasis of IQ tests has been on pattern recognition, things like what is the next in a sequence of numbers, which of these figures represent how the sample figure would look when rotated, how to best divide a pie between an absurd number of people. This method has two advantages: it can be administered using multiple choice so grading is easy, and it is seemingly free from cultural bias, which it really isn’t. Besides, I’m not entirely sure that a propensity for seeing patterns on its own is an indicator of intellect. Lots of people see faces in electrical outlets. When you dream, or when you are high, your mind makes a lot of surprising connections, but whether or not they are meaningful is a question for when you are awake and sober.

For much of the 20th century, IQ tests were employed by efficiency experts and managers who wanted to employ only the smartest and by educators who wanted to classify children into learning tracks. But it was also a fixation for eugenicists and race supremacists, and worst of all, Mensa. Founded in 1946 by Roland Berrill and Lancelot Ware, Mensa International was conceived of as a community of highly intelligent people, who would presumably hang together and discuss the classics. Berrill called it “an aristocracy of the intellect,” and if you think that description sounds elitist, it was: Berrill was upset that Mensa had so many working-class members, aka riff raff.

As a teen I was a big reader of Omni magazine, which was a very weird periodical that published articles about cutting-edge research in physics and cosmology alongside paranormal articles about ESP and Bigfoot, with equal alacrity. (Note to self: write a blogpost about Omni.) I remember that Mensa advertised extensively in Omni, and even as a kid I had a lot of questions. Why did these people only want to be around other people like them? What did they even do when they were together? I imagined it was probably a bunch of “elevated” party games like Botticelli.

In any case, by the 1970’s IQ was losing stock. A 1971 Supreme Court decision said that IQ tests could not be used as a condition of employment. Psychology in general was becoming less proscriptive and more open to normalizing diversity when it came to cognition. I certainly did not hear people use the term any more, but that might be because Omni folded in 1998. Contemporary theories of mind split mental competence into a plethora of systems. Which makes this sudden resurgence of IQ in pop culture uncomfortable, to me at least. At least when people were obsessed with Myers-Briggs types back in the aughts it didn’t have the odor of elitism and white supremacy.

All of which is to say these mobile games and their ads bug me. I don’t believe that finding cats or shuffling virtual tiles is going to increase your IQ (whatever it is), and especially not in real time. I’m a big believer in self-improvement but I think you should read because you like the book, not to increase your vocabulary, and play chess because you enjoy it, not to become skilled in some Sun Tzu Art of War nonsense. Maybe you’ll get smarter along the way, but really, it’s not going to get you invited to any parties. Not fun ones.

Know Your Typefaces: Albertus and Lydian

Previously:
Know Your Typefaces: ITC Benguiat
Know Your Typefaces: Optima

Type either comes with a history or it makes its own. Some typefaces, such as Garamond or Baskerville, are modern interpretations of alphabets by historic designers of metal type (e.g. 16th century Parisian Claude Garamond (c. 1510–1561), and 18th century Brummie, John Baskerville (1707–1775)). But other typefaces look not to specific past models but instead are derived more broadly from the traditional ways text is drawn or inscribed. Two display typefaces that were ubiquitous in midcentury book design, Albertus and Lydian, are of this latter sort. Published almost contemporaneously, and having many similarities including their weights, thick and thin variance, and x-height, they were the product of designers on either side of the Atlantic and drew inspiration from two very different ways of forming letters.

Albertus is the most famous face by typographer Berthold Wolpe. Wolpe was born in Germany but emigrated to England to escape the Nazis. While visiting London, Wolpe was invited to produce an all-capital alphabet for the Monotype corporation. Beginning in 1932, the majuscule version was first published in 1935; he later enlarged it to include minuscule letters in 1940. Amongst his many skills, Wolpe was an engraver, and he designed Albertus to resemble text carved with a chisel. In doing so, he was referencing some of the oldest Roman lettering still existing; the Humanist typographers who cut some of the earliest movable type had also looked to ancient stone letterforms for inspiration.

Trajan
Dedicatory inscription on the Arch of Trajan, c. 117 CE.

Wolpe’s background was specifically in engraving metal, but all glyphic (carved) letterforms share distinctive characteristics. Chisels produce small flared cuts at the start and terminus of strokes, and incorporating these into the design is the origin of serifs. Albertus’s serifs are quite subtle, blending into the thick-thin variation of the strokes.

Faber and Faber editions using Albertus.

Wolpe was a designer for the British publishing house Faber and Faber from 1941 until 1975, where he designed over 1500 covers. He used Albertus on many of these; in most cases he drew the titles by hand, leading to variations in width and ornamentation. Even today, many decades after Wolpe’s death, Albertus continues its long history with the publisher.

street sign
Albertus on a London street sign.

Beyond its use in book design, Albertus has been used in London street signage starting in 1988. For a fascinating discussion of the history of Albertus and other typographical features of London, I recommend Glenn Fleishman’s short book, London Kerning, available as a PDF on his website.

On the other side of the pond at almost the same time, designer Warren Chappell produced the Lydian typeface, published by American Type Founders in 1938. In architecture, “Lydian” refers to an ancient building style from the western Anatolian region of Lydia. In music, “Lydian” is a mode where the scale is based not on the first degree (solfège do) but on fourth degree (solfège fa). Knowing this, the underwhelming reason that Chapell chose the monicker for his typeface is that his his wife’s name was Lydia.

If one squints at specimens of Lydian and Albertus, they seem remarkably similar in their weights and base forms. However, where Wolpe based his design on engraving, Warren emulated the handwritten form, specifically calligraphy using a steel brush nib.

Dip pen with a 1/2″ steel brush nib.

While some calligraphic hands are formed with flexible nibs (such as a crow quill) that produce wider lines when the writer presses harder on the ground, steel brushes make a consistently wide line when drawn one direction and a thin line when drawn the other way. The characteristic thick-thin of many hands comes from holding the nib at a forty-five degree angle.

Books from the 40s and 50s using Lydian.

In the 40s and 50s, Lydian became widely used in American book design, especially in the exploding field of mass market paperbacks, where it was equally at home in titles for classics, mysteries, and science fiction. Both Albertus and Lydian found synergy with the emerging technology of phototypesetting, a new method for transferring designs photographically to film for use with offset lithography. Since metal fonts were no longer required, letterforms were no longer constrained by limitations of storage or broken type.

Nancy Drew books with titles in Lydian.

For many Boomers and Gen-Xers, though, the most memorable use of Lydian was as the “Nancy Drew font.” The Nancy Drew series, begun in 1930, got a makeover in the 1950s with new cover and interior art, and these were unified by titles in Lydian. In 1962 the series was redesigned again into the format most remember, the yellow-spined editions with artwork printed on the cover boards. These books used a variety of typefaces, but many continued to employ Lydian.

Lydian
New books using Lydian. To be fair, the Maas book isn’t quite Lydian, but it’s definitely Lydian-inspired.

In recent years Lydian has seen a considerable revival in book design, particularly in covers for fiction, and particularly in designs that place the typography front-and-center. The handwritten, old-style letters provide a stark contrast to type made for reading onscreen, and Lydian’s long history in books creates a ready-made nostalgic and “literary” feel. It’s precisely these associations that I was thinking of when I used Lydian as the font for my Sophomore Lit podcast art.


Bonus self-promotion: Speaking of my design, I now have a Redbubble shop, where you can purchase a Sophomore Lit mug, or any of a number of silly designs on clothing, mugs, stickers, and other things, including the Intergenerational Sportsball League line, which imagines the generations as sports logos. Please take a look!

A few of the silly designs on my shop.