Despite the delight he took in open-hearted exchanges of confidences, Brainard also enjoyed the kind of writing that has nothing terribly revelatory to disclose, that seems intended simply to fill up a small space in the reader’s day. At one point in Love, Joe, he compliments Schuyler on composing “such nice letters even when you have nothing in particular to say”; at another, he tells the love of his life, Kenward Elmslie, “I hope you will consider it a compliment that I would never write such a boring letter to anyone but you.” Letter-writing was a way for Brainard to pass the time with loved ones. Throughout the book, he implores his readers to reply as soon as possible and advises them not to labor over their responses, as if their mere, unadorned presence on the page were enough to satisfy his appetite for companionship. This magnanimous, come-as-you-are attitude is an essential part of his charisma; Brainard clearly valued wit and wordplay, but he wasn’t needy for entertainment. He mastered one of the trickiest of social skills: securing one’s place in people’s lives without imposing oneself on them. That’s a rare quality in a field that tends to breed narcissism, and this may explain why multiple friends have described him as a saint. {read}