This book is maybe the most interesting I've read in five years.
It's just a collection of Lincoln's writings, photo-copies of his originals, with commentary and -- this is most helpful -- a typed version of what appears on the opposite page.
Reading the second inaug in his handwriting, or the letters to friends, or his instructions to generals (Let the thing be pressed) is interesting in this way, above all: The man had penmanship worse than any doctor you'll ever meet. If it wasn't for the typed version on the right page, much of the stuff on the left would make no sense. It's chicken scratch. For all his brilliance, for all the thought that he put into his words, he couldn't write them where anybody besides himself could read them. How funny. How cool, especially for all of us with the same problem/affliction/eccentricity.
And I couldn't get over that the president of the United States wouldn't draft up a letter, and have a secretary copy it down in more readable handwriting. The man didn't even make rough drafts and re-write them himself. All through his letters are cross-outs, edits, smudges and the like. A modern English teacher would faint.