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Such a concern for beauty reveals the values underlying a classical educational model and their distinction from the values of a modern educational model. We believe that education aims at the good, true, and beautiful. If education aims to train students in beauty, then the form of education, even down to the letters with which we write our spelling words, ought to likewise aim at beauty.

Some weeks ago, as I was explaining my role as a teacher at a classical Christian school to several peers, we began to discuss the topic of cursive. I lauded the grammar-age children at my school, who use cursive for nearly all their daily work. “But why is cursive good?” a peer then asked me. I was tempted to answer that cursive is good because it is beautiful, but I knew such an answer would not satisfy him. Though I wished to be able to rattle off five clear reasons why writing in cursive is better than print handwriting or typing, I could not, and, as such, my peer’s question forced me to reflect.

In my reflections since our conversation, I have thought several times of Wendell Berry. Wendell Berry is a writer whose stories and novels often revolve around themes of community, place, and tradition; I was first introduced to Berry by Rockbridge’s own Mr. Vaughn. 

Berry attempts to resist a life of screens and machines. In this resistance, he writes his books by hand, and his wife types his work on a typewriter. In his short but widely-circulated essay “Why I am Not Going to Buy a Computer,” Berry expresses his distaste for computer companies and other companies of their ilk, saying that he wants to be “as little hooked to them as possible.” Yet Berry’s argument against computers relies on the fact that he, as a writer, does not want to use a tool that degrades his work instead of improving it. Berry writes:

“My final and perhaps my best reason for not owning a computer is that I do not wish to fool myself. I disbelieve, and therefore strongly resent, the assertion that I or anybody else could write better or more easily with a computer than with a pencil. I do not see why I should not be as scientific about this as the next fellow: when somebody has used a computer to write work that is demonstrably better than Dante’s, and when this better is demonstrably attributable to the use of a computer, then I will speak of computers with a more respectful tone of voice, though I still will not buy one.”

Now, I’m not sure if Mr. Berry writes in print or in cursive, but his preference for handwriting over typing makes a statement about his beliefs. Berry believes that some forms of writing—and living—are more conducive to truly good work, to the genuine expression of beauty and truth, than others. Berry believes that innovation and ease are not sure means to the end of good work. Berry’s stance suggests, too, that form matters: how we work has an impact on the fruit of our work. How we write has an impact on what we write. 

Instinct attests to the above proposition. We know that form matters: without question, we know that a lecture attended in a classroom, given by a teacher whom we know, will be more memorable than a lecture viewed on YouTube. The former allows us to receive the speaker’s wisdom more directly, due to our shared presence in the classroom. While the latter may be more accessible, its form is not as conducive to learning. Likewise, we know that a poem printed in a bound book will command more of our attention than an Instagram post claiming to be poetry. As many have written, a conversation in person is more likely to have a deeper and more personal effect than a conversation over messaging software.

In short, the meaning of a thing relies in part upon the form of that thing, the way that it is communicated. Or, in the famous words of media critic Marshall McLuhan, “the medium is the message.” We know that the medium or form of anything impacts its meaning, and yet we often neglect to recognize the implications of such a principle. But this principle has implications for many areas of our lives—from evangelism to education, and even in handwriting.
Cursive, as a form of handwriting, ennobles the written word in a way that type, and even print writing, do not. The form of cursive lends significance to the written content. This is part of why classical Christian schools emphasize cursive, a skill otherwise considered outdated and unnecessary. 

Cursive, as a form of handwriting, ennobles the written word in a way that type, and even print writing, do not. The form of cursive lends significance to the written content. 

In a classical Christian school setting—like that of Rockbridge, where I was educated, or that of the school in Pennsylvania where I recently taught—we want to teach our students that their work is important. What students at these schools write is not mere chicken-scratch. What students write are not simply notes to be thrown away. What students write is, instead, an integral part of and a representation of what they are learning. Some of their assignments are more important than others—composition paragraphs are more important than extra math calculations, completed on “scratch paper.” But all of their work is still important. And because we want to teach children that their written work is a vital part of their education, we teach that it is important that the form of that work‒‒that is, the students’ penmanship‒‒be well-ordered, and not only well-ordered, but beautiful.

Such a concern for beauty reveals the values underlying a classical educational model and their distinction from the values of a modern educational model. We believe that education aims at the good, true, and beautiful. If education aims to train students in beauty, then the form of education, even down to the letters with which we write our spelling words, ought to likewise aim at beauty.

A friend of mine, herself now a teacher at a classical Christian school, put it this way: “A century ago, penmanship was a significant part of school curriculum, with methodologies, textbooks, and handwriting drills devoted to it… Emphasizing excellent penmanship in the school setting would train students in a teachable skill that brings a sense of beauty back into learning.” Penmanship itself is an art, one little talked of today. Like any art or skill, penmanship requires a dedicated effort and time, but it also produces rich rewards.

For instance, studies show that cursive not only activates different areas of the brain than print writing, but that it develops more fine motor skills than print writing or typing, because, as one teacher writes, cursive letters “must be connected in a smooth and continuous motion. This can help students develop their hand-eye coordination and fine motor skills, which can have benefits beyond writing.” 

In addition to the “sense of beauty” brought by cursive penmanship, secondary benefits of cursive have been marked by researchers and teachers alike. For instance, studies show that cursive not only activates different areas of the brain than print writing, but that it develops more fine motor skills than print writing or typing, because, as one teacher writes, cursive letters “must be connected in a smooth and continuous motion. This can help students develop their hand-eye coordination and fine motor skills, which can have benefits beyond writing.” Cursive can also help children retain more of the information they are learning, as an article from Time magazine tells.

Apart from its usefulness, cursive brings beauty and even joy. How excited students are when they can finally sign their name in cursive! How proud they are of a neat page of cursive writing! A thing well done is a delight, and so, too, is a thing well-written.

I, too, have felt this delight. Before I began teaching grammar-school students, I had to refresh my memory of cursive. It came back to me easily, as I had been well-trained in penmanship as a grammar-school student at Rockbridge but slowly lost my handwriting skills when typed assignments became the norm in my education. Since taking up cursive again, I have found all my written work to be not only more beautiful but more enjoyable. A thing of beauty—even something as seemingly inconsequential as penmanship—is, as the poet John Keats once said, “a joy forever.”

Perhaps my instinctual response to my friend—that cursive is good because it is beautiful—was not, after all, so far off the mark.

This essay originally appeared in Voegelin View. The above version was edited slightly.

Sarah Reardon (née Soltis, Class of 2020) taught at a classical Christian school in Philadelphia. Sarah graduated from Grove City College in 2023, and her writing has appeared in publications such as First Things, Plough, Public Discourse, among others.