Sanford’s e-mails paint a vivid and sad picture. It’s a picture of two people in love but tragically bound by commitments they have already made. A man who has been married for two decades seems to be discovering, for the first time, how love feels. He writes of solitude, longing, and spirituality in a style that oscillates between Spanish love songs and bad country music. He seems naive about everything: love, poetry, and e-mail. He is writing for publication and doesn’t know it.
Wise up, cheaters. Your passion for what’s-her-name may be gone with the sunrise, but text is forever. Just because it has vanished from your screen doesn’t mean it has ceased to exist, any more than your wife and kids cease to exist when you fly to Argentina.
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