Sweet Frustration Revisited

The Ink Quest took me to Oxford yesterday. Many have been drawn to the city in search of beauty and truth, but I was simply interested in whether or not Pens Plus had a bottle of Omas Sepia in stock. (The last time I visited this fine establishment -- don't be put off by the rather poor website, which doesn't list half of the treasures to be found in the shop -- they only had Omas Blue, so I came away on that occasion with what immediately became my beloved Visconti Brown.)

The Great Brown Whale was, I hardly need tell you, nowhere to be found yesterday afternoon. The shop does have a very good selection of pens and inks, though, and I soon spotted a blue Stipula 'I Castoni' in one of the display cabinets. As you know, dear readers, this is the object whose promise of imminent arrival prompted the first 'Sweet Frustration' post below. Although I was allowed briefly to check that the pen had arrived intact from Italy, it was then cruelly whisked away by Mrs Ink until my birthday. It has, of course, been on my mind ever since, and every step around the house that I take is shot through with a frisson of anticipation. I know that it's here somewhere under the same roof, and I know that I now only have to wait one more day until we can be alone at last, but the waiting is killing me. How is a boy to sleep?

Seeing the very same object of desire in Oxford yesterday didn't ease the pain, of course. All that held us apart was a thin pane of glass. I was on the verge of asking if I could try out the pen, but two sudden pangs of guilt stopped me in my tracks. First, I would have been wasting the time of the shop owner, as I had no intention of buying the item. (I regularly feel that I'm wasting the time of people who work in pen shops; their faces as I ask yet another question speak volumes.) Second, I was struck by the feeling that the pen in the cabinet was not actually the pen that I am about to own. Yes, it looked the same and had the same name, but it wasn't my specific pen, which was faithfully and patiently waiting at home for me. Wouldn't touching the double have been an act of infidelity, a fling with a look-alike?

I walked away without giving in to temptation. And I was so disoriented by the whole experience that I left the shop without even buying a bottle of ink. (Yes, you read that correctly.) A Bob Dylan lyric kept echoing in my head: 'A lot of things can get in the way when you're trying to do what's right'. To cheer myself up, I walked over to the wonderful Blackwell's bookshop on Broad Street and bought a copy of the new Philip Roth novel, Everyman, which is all about the inevitability of death and the sheer unfairness of life. The book, incidentally, came with one of those little errata slips, as there are incorrect lines (but not actual typos) on pages 54 and 67. I took this as a sign: everything in the world is somehow flawed. Maybe the errata slip was actually part of Roth's plans for the book, in fact.

Today, however, as I have less than twenty-four hours to wait, the frustration has reached new levels, and I'm beginning to wonder if I should just have given in to temptation yesterday afternoon, been less repressed and high-minded. Perhaps I should simply have followed the advice of the unnamed central character in Everyman: 'Just take it as it comes. Hold your ground and take it as it comes.'

Inks in use today: Sailor Brown; Conway Stewart Blue.

Dr Inklove; or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying About the Quest

As I struggled yesterday evening to dust around the many ink bottles that lie upon my desk, I began to question the sanity of the quest. I think that it was discovering at the back of the collection a forgotten bottle of Diamine Golden Brown that might have been the real catalyst for my moment of doubt. 'What', I remember wondering, 'is a soon-to-be-thirty-five-year-old man doing with all this ink? Why am I still buying colours when I can't even remember what I've already bought? Where on earth will it all end? Will they eventually find me buried beneath a mountain of bottles, my ink-stained flesh half-eaten by my three cats?'

But don't worry: twenty-four hours on, I'm back to normal. Tomorrow's inks have just been chosen, and the pens for the day have been ceremonially filled. I overcame my doubts and fell back into the arms of obsession when I read, in a great post on the Fountain Pen Network message board, that Stanley Kubrick once bought all of the remaining bottles of a particular brown ink (I'd love to know which one) when he discovered that the colour was about to be discontinued. It turns out, you see, that he was obsessed with stationery. I wonder, then, if the mysterious black slab in 2001 is actually a giant Moleskine notebook. (Note to self: watch all of Kubrick's films again for signs of the obsession.)

One of my great heroes, Roland Barthes, found himself in the same position as Kubrick -- he once remarked that he had 'an almost obsessive relation to writing instruments', denounced the ballpoint in favour of fountain pens, and recounted in one of his later texts how he once bought sixteen bottles of ink in one afternoon. It seems that he was especially fond of a certain blue ink (again, I'm desperate to know the brand), as it's used in many of his manuscripts. One of his former students writes about being suddenly reminded of Barthes after his death, in fact, simply by seeing this particular shade again.

I've decided, then, that I'm obviously not being obsessive enough. If I want to reach the dizzy heights of Kubrick and Barthes, I'm going to have to stop worrying and take the quest to a new level. More energy and funds need to be channelled (or 'channeled', dear American readers) into the project. The shining paths of glory clearly lie on the other side of a monolith built from ink bottles. Please excuse me, I have an odyssey to worry about.

Inks in use today: Diamine Royal Blue; Sailor Brown.

Sweet Frustration

Is technology, rather than satisfying our every need, actually producing frustration?

Yes, dear readers, I write today in a gloriously frustrated state. For my forthcoming birthday, I have ordered a beautiful blue Stipula 'I Castoni' fountain pen. (Don't all obsessives choose their own birthday presents? Who else could be trusted to buy the right thing?) It's on its way to me from Italy, and I've been given a Federal Express tracking number so that I can follow its inky footsteps across Europe. I have, of course, been checking the FedEx website every couple of minutes, just in case there's been an update. I know, therefore, that it left Prato yesterday evening, arrived in Paris in the early hours of this morning, landed in Bristol at 9.32am, and that it is now, as the website tantalizingly puts it, 'On FedEx vehicle for delivery'. (Should I expect further updates? 'Just coming down your street', perhaps?)

Having access to such explicit information, but not actually being able to touch the item itself, has made me into a quivering wreck. I feel as if I'm being teased and driven into a state of uncontrollable frenzy by the fact that the object of desire is getting closer and closer ... but is still just out of reach. Worse still, I'm actually quite enjoying the whole experience, and I've even thought that it would be quite exciting to read a FedEx update that said 'Heading back in the direction of Italy for an unknown period of time'.

But what will happen when the package finally arrives, finally finds itself in my hands? Will I lose interest? Am I more interested in the torture of waiting than the actual having? Will I become frustrated at my lack of frustration?

Ink in use today: Diamine Royal Blue.

The Regal Has Landed

'All ready for Friday, is it?' The question, I must admit, took me by surprise. I was in the process of handing over the money for a bottle of Diamine Royal Blue ink in my local pen shop. 'Sorry?', I replied. 'All ready for Friday?', the sales assistant repeated. I looked closely at her face to make sure that she wasn't someone that I know, or perhaps one of my students. She wasn't. I began to wonder if I was being propositioned over a bottle of pigment. It's been my experience to date that women are not particularly drawn to a man who loves ink, but perhaps, I mused, I'd encountered a fetishist. (Is that, I wondered, why she works in a pen shop in the first place?) Still puzzled, I risked another question: 'Friday?' 'Yes', she replied. 'Friday. The Queen's birthday. You're buying Royal Blue ink aren't you?'

And so the reign of confusion was brought to an end. 'See', I even thought to myself for a moment, 'it is possible to engage in social exchanges from time to time'. But the optimism didn't last long, for a dark cloud began to form on my horizon as I walked back to the railway station. I don't like to colour Ink Quest with political commentary; this blog is, as you know all too well, dear readers, passionately committed to only the most inconsequential trivia. But I'm going to have to make a political statement now, I'm afraid, in order to explain my mood swing: I'm strongly opposed to the monarchy. There, I've said it. Call it a queenie strop if you want.

I'm telling you this because I've been wrestling for several hours now with an ethical question: should a republican buy an ink called Royal Blue? (What, incidentally, makes Royal Blue royal? Is it some kind of allusion to blue blood?) Does my shopping for the day make me a hypocrite? Have I, in purchasing a bottle of Royal Blue in the week of Queen Elizabeth II's 80th birthday celebrations, unwittingly joined in the festivities? (I do not, luckily, own any royal-sized paper.) Should I just go out this evening and buy a little flag to wave on Friday with the rest of the monarchists? Until Diamine ceremonially launches, as an antidote, Republican Blue, I shall remain in this state of royal confusion.

Inks in use today: Diamine Royal Blue; Noodler's Nightshade.

Pixelation

I've found a way to make typing a little more pleasurable, a little more like writing with ink.

Today will consist of little more than sitting in front of my computer, typing up some work that I've written out by hand over the last week or so. This is part of a routine with which I'm decidedly familiar, as it's been honed over the years into a gloriously inefficient process. First, I jot down ideas in a series of notebooks (I have about six on the go at the moment; I won't bore you with the system of classification and sub-classification). Second, I write these notes up into continuous prose on some kind of A4 sheet (I'm addicted to Clairefontaine at the moment; before that, yellow legal pads were a statutory requirement). Finally, I type the piece onto the computer, making just a few small changes as I go. Typeface is very important, by the way: Times New Roman exudes cheap banality to my eye; Garamond, on the other hand, is worldly, sophisticated, seductive.

I find the typing-up part of the process rather dull and mechanical. For me, nothing creative or exciting happens at this point. (Many people with whom I work, on the other hand, write their articles and books straight onto the computer screen. I cannot even contemplate such a practice -- 'That's not writing, it's typing', as someone once apparently said of Jack Kerouac's prose.) As I watched yet another line of black Garamond trudge across my white screen this afternoon, I was struck by a brilliant idea. Why not, in an attempt to liven up my afternoon by mimicking the endless joys of ink, change the colour of the text upon the screen? Conveniently, my word processor gives me 32 standard colours to play with (some of which, admittedly, could destroy a retina in seconds), plus a strange little utility to customize these shades.

After a little (t)inkering, then, I am delighted to report that I have been typing for the last hour in a rich brown colour. Garamond is splendid in black, yes, but you should see it now. This is love. I have found my new type.

Ink in use today: Levenger Cocoa
Type in use today: Garamond Cocoa

Enlightenment

I've always known that users of ballpoint pens are in need of enlightenment. It turns out that I'm not alone in my opinion, as a company called Magellan is now selling the Night Writer, a ballpoint with built-in LED that allows its holder to write in the dark. (You can find out more about this object by clicking here.)

Several things occur to me. First, what on earth is the owner of the Night Writer going to be scribbling after dark with his or her hi-tech gadget? "I have stayed up late so that I can use this tasteless object to commit yet another crime against the good name of pens and ink"? Second, is giving the object a name that recalls the title of a cancelled television series starring David Hasselhoff and a gregarious car really that wise? (Actually, I can answer that one: it's a match made in heaven.) Third, do the creators of the Night Writer not realize that their product is superfluous? We brave bearers of fountain pens and proper ink know that a genuine nib exudes a dazzling ray of light wherever it goes. Even when our ink is dark, we write lucidly.

Ink in use today: Waterman Havana.

Writing v. biting

I come to you today, members of the jury, with more evidence to support my theory that ballpoint pens are destroying civilization.

Someone I know told me yesterday evening about the horrors of having to fill in a form for a new employer with a biro that had been savagely bitten by previous users. Whole shards, he reported, had been torn away from the end of the pen. Leaving aside the question of hygiene (shouldn't ballpoints shared in the workplace be subject to some kind of risk assessment, or at least a daily sterilization procedure?), I put it to you that the bite marks reveal that biros are herding humans back to the status of wild animals. Who can resist giving the end of a ballpoint a little nibble, or perhaps a more meaty, atavistic chomp? But who would dream of doing the same thing to a fountain pen? The former invites the baring of teeth, reactivates the desire to bite into flesh, while the latter brings about restraint, dignity, composure. The nib, in this respect, is a leash.

If the ballpoint is allowed to continue to reign, humans will soon be forced to live in pens. Muzzled for our own protection, we will see our thumbs gradually become non-opposable again. We will then lose the ability to write the story of how a simple plastic writing instrument undid the work of evolution and snatched the very ability to write from our clumsy hands.

Inks in use today: Noodler's Nightshade; Noodler's Walnut.

A second helping of Belgian waffle

I saw a couple of good friends from mainland Europe while I was in Belgium, and one of them asked me if I thought that my obsession with ink and fountain pens was simple bourgeois nostalgia (I'd clearly been waffling about the delights of Timmermans for too long).

I spent a day or two thinking about this question, and I finally came up with an answer in the most unlikely of situations. Killing time at Brussels airport (I had, as usual, arrived obsessively early; one friend with whom I was travelling back from Paris several years ago politely said 'Uh, I think I'll make my own way there' when she heard just how early I was planning to arrive at Charles de Gaulle), I wandered up to inspect the level above the main departure hall. In amongst the usual suspects -- a pizza outlet, an amusement arcade, a sandwich bar that closed as soon as I approached it -- I discovered something rather bizarre: a hair salon. And I don't just mean a lone barber's chair -- this was a full-sized unisex affair, complete with several chairs, sinks, and display shelves.

Even more strangely, a man was actually having his hair cut, and he blushed when I caught him smiling at himself in the mirror. What was the source of this man's delight? Why had he waited until he got to the airport to have his hair cut? (Could it be the best place in Brussels? Do whole families come here at night just to get coiffed?) And why, above all, should there even be a hair salon in an airport?

I wonder if the establishment is a remnant of an earlier moment, one at which air travel was a decidedly rare and glamorous affair. To take a plane in the 1950s, say, was not a regular, everyday activity. The skies were still enigmatic, a space of distinction. There were giants in the air in those days, and people behaved and dressed accordingly. Now, however, flying has become so cheap, degraded, and common that it no longer has an air of mystery. To travel by plane in 2006 is banal, little different from catching a train. (It occurred to me as I wrestled with the Ghent tram system, in fact, that I have been on a plane more often than a tram.) Only outer space retains an untouchable air of exoticism. Who, consequently, dresses up to catch a plane today? (People are more likely to dress down as far as possible, in fact, if Cardiff 'International' Airport last Sunday evening was anything to go by. In my effortless, habitual elegance, I felt most out of place.) Was the mysterious man yearning for a lost age of style and poise? Had he decided to have his hair cut in protest against the scruffy, casual figures roaming the departure lounges of the world? Does air style begin with hair style?

Why am I telling you this? What does a hair salon at Brussels airport have to do with the Ink Quest? Well, as I sat and puzzled over the incongruous establishment, I realized that my friend had, in sensing a certain nostalgia in my inksistence upon fountain pens, seen a touch of truth. Yes, I do yearn for the golden days when everyone wrote achingly nuanced lines with flexible nibs and proper ink. Yes, I believe that such things lend a touch of glamour to an otherwise bleak and meaningless existence. (Beckett could have been a children's television presenter, I'm sure, if only someone had bought him a decent pen.) Yes, I believe that we are turning our youth into uncouth, nuance-free monsters by teaching them that it is acceptable to write with ballpoint pens. Yes, I'll admit it: I judge people by their writing instruments and choice of ink. Does this make me superficial, vacuous, a hair-splitter? I readily admit that I am all of those things (and more), but this is different: civilization itself is being trimmed away.

Inks in use today: Pilot Black; Noodler's Walnut.