Texting is a fundamentally sneaky form of communication, which we should despise, but it is such a boon we don’t care. We are all sneaks now. It’s as if we have an endless supply of telegram boys who, in a matter of seconds, can not only locate anyone on the planet on our behalf, but also tap him on the shoulder and hand over a sealed envelope marked “For Your Eyes Only”. My favourite text – which I lovingly preserve – was sent to me by a friend in Greece, when I was staying the other side of the harbour from his house. “AM WAVING” it said, and I looked across with my binoculars, and so he was. The oldest form of communication was thus served by the latest. It seemed daft, but also right.

The joy of text | Review | guardian.co.uk Books