I’m a book critic, a person who evaluates words for a living, and the city, surely, offers its own shifting types of poetry, worth pausing to observe and consider. So on a sunny day in July, I spent a day in Manhattan — along with my two kids, Penn and Harriet — in search of language on a smaller, more fugitive scale. We walked across the city and took subways and cabs, looking at everyday words: the language of street signs and menus, MetroCards and T-shirts. Our close attention was rewarded. This was a movable feast.

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