The poetry of fountain pens is problematic and profound. Anyone who grew up with fingertips stained by the blood of a notoriously leaky nib, and who regularly employed the navy blue sash of a school uniform as an ink blotter, knows this. Knows too they would not trade in their memories for all the ballpoint pens in modernity’s spotless kingdom of convenience (where everything arrives disposable, a dozen to a pack, and distinctly lacking in romance). Remember a rainswept morning when late for the school bus you knelt over the silken depths of a glossy well to refill a forest green wand and rose like a young magician. Capillary action propelling you onto the blank page of day. To write your flawed and perfect story.
October 26, 2012