![The 27th Letter](https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/AEn0k_t7TJAD6VNmF75MtbBMhYkLuJCQBhVS9LFyWzkGVXcKgAnQcCLtlaAEPOj7Yh2AdIfG-q5tmpPIYL7nIgZeYegLceob-wP9ZsvqX_LBb1tQGDf0YQaoV5llp7sR1_WX6rTQtABobG6_-cnOYryD1qxzZqUWMoimgGPTnu7WWcKnjkzZs6WbC_31t0-o_QsKhA=s0-d)
In the alphabet recited by nineteenth-century schoolchildren, it followed Z. And per se and, they would say, and per se and. A logogram masquerading as a letter, a letter that is also a word—like a and I and even o, but no—a letter that is only a word, the plainest word of all. A word we could do without, to be honest, if we had to. We don’t have to, and thank the language gods for that.
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