Size Matters

I've been making wild claims about the size of my nib.

It's not unusual to hear men exaggerating the size of all sorts of things belonging to them, but I have inadvertently been claiming that my pen is smaller than it actually is. (Please note, dear readers of a nervous or puritanical disposition, that there is a space between 'pen' and 'is' in the previous sentence.) There has, as George Constanza would say, been 'significant shrinkage'.

It all began when a colleague with an interest in stationery proudly showed off the fine line that her Pilot pen (alas, not a fountain pen) can produce. Inspecting the object, I noticed '0.4mm' written on the cap. 'That's nothing', I boasted. 'The nib on my Sailor 1911 can do 0.23mm. It's tiny.'

But it turns out that it isn't. Numbers have never been my strong point. I've spent my life believing that mathematics is a myth, a fiction invented by people who are out to get me. (I failed Statistics at 'O' Level with a rather poor 'D' grade, then resat the exam and got an 'N', which stands for, I believe, 'Not classifiable'.) But I've always been absolutely convinced that a Sailor M-F nib produces a svelte scrawl of 0.23mm. So much so, in fact, that I always think 'Oooh, a 0.23mm line' when writing with my 1911. When I happened to check the rather handy chart provided by Andy's Pens today, however, I discovered that it is actually the Extra Fine Sailor nib that creates a line of that width; the M-F lays down a comparatively obese mark of 0.36mm.

And here's the real problem: I said that I would bring my 1911 to a meeting tomorrow afternoon so that the skinniness of its line can be seen alongside the 0.4mm swath produced by my colleague's Pilot. Should I preserve the lie and chant 'Point 23, Point 23, Point 23!', as if I were a hooligan on a testosterone-drenched football terrace, hoping that the 0.13mm of flab surrounding my scribble will go undetected? Can anyone spot the difference between 0.23mm and 0.34mm at a glance? Actually, there are probably countless people to whom the discrepancy would be immediately apparent. I was, for instance, once taken by a friend to a house in one of the canyons above Los Angeles that belonged to a costume designer who had worked on Francis Ford Coppola's greatest films. The fact that she had dressed members of the cast in the Godfather movies was enough to render me starstruck, but I was truly amazed when she took one look at me and reeled off my vital statistics with perfect accuracy. She would surely see through my nib deception with Conversation-like insight. Can I be sure, then, that my colleague doesn't have a secret background in Hollywood costume design?

Given this risk, I should perhaps make a Costanza-like dash to Tokyo this evening, grab a Sailor pen with an Extra Fine nib at one of the airport's shops, and calmly make it back to work in time for the meeting as if nothing unusual has happened. Alternatively, I could simply explain that I made a mistake, point out that it could happen to anyone, produce a print-out of the sizing chart from Andy's Pens, and then, when the chair of the meeting gets to 'Any Other Business' on the agenda, launch into a speech about the bewildering array of nibs offered by the Sailor Pen Company. This final option is the most honest, but I'm not sure that I want to put too fine a point on this whole humiliating affair.

Ink in use today: Noodler's Eternal Brown

PS: An email from New York confirms my worst fears about the Noodler's Eternal Brown debacle mentioned in the previous post: Stefan has indeed identified the darker colour to be his own mix, 'Stefan's Surprise'. 'I didn't', he writes, 'take the trouble to label the sample of my prized mixture that I sent you, so I'm afraid that my negligence has contributed to the dilemma you now find yourself in. What can I do but admit the vial deed and throw myself on the mercy of the court.' What say ye, dear readers?

A Vial Business

Who do you love?

The Bo Diddley song of that name has been flowing through my mind for the last few days, dear readers. As I reported in my previous post, I am now the proud owner of a bottle of Noodler's Eternal Brown ink. I've been using the colour constantly since it arrived -- my Sailor Sapporo was refilled three times yesterday alone -- and I'm constantly amazed by its qualities: it flows like a dream, shades nicely, and, above all, is permanent.

I received a dramatic shock during the week, however, when I opened my ever-expanding ink book to add my latest flame to the pages set aside for browns. Just as I was about to touch paper with pen, I noticed that I had already written 'Noodler's Eternal Brown' in the section. I had no memory of doing this. Even stranger, though, was the fact that the existing sample bore no resemblance whatever to the colour with which I am currently in love.

I eventually managed to reconstruct events and work out where the ink used to write the earlier line came from: it was in a vial sent to me by a generous member of The Fountain Pen Network some time ago. While sorting through some bottles recently, I came across the nearly empty vial and used the last few drops to write in the ink book with my Aurora Talentum. Reminded of the delights of Eternal Brown, I then placed my order for a whole bottle.

What still baffled me, however, was the difference between the ink in the vial and the ink in my new bottle. I've displayed Exhibits A and B above, dear readers, so that you can see what I mean. At the top is the original sample from the vial; below that is the ink I received last week from Iowa. This isn't a slight variation, is it? The first picture shows a dark, chocolate-like colour, but the second reveals a brown that's closer to the pale, rusty tones of Diamine Sepia.

I've been trying to solve the mystery for days, and I think that I have this evening finally cracked the case. I put it to the jury that I muddled my vials. While I certainly received a sample of Eternal Brown in 2006, I was more recently sent by Stefan an identical plastic container of a spectacular mix that he'd made by combining Noodler's Galileo Brown with Noodler's Black. If the members of the jury care to scroll down to the Ink Quest entry dated 6 April 2007, they will see a reference to this ink, there identified as Stefan's Surprise and described, moreover, as 'a truly majestic dark brown'. I now believe that it was this shade that I recently rediscovered and mistakenly took to be Noodler's Eternal Brown. The court calls Stefan as a witness and asks for his learned opinion on this matter.

While the jury is out, I'm left to ponder which ink I really love. I've been captivated by Noodler's Eternal Brown since it arrived from Pendemonium, but I was led deliriously to buy this bottle by a completely different colour (which I none the less believed to be Noodler's Eternal Brown). Which, then, do I really love? Is this the end of the honeymoon period with the colour that arrived last week? My dilemma brings to mind That Obscure Object of Desire, the brilliant Luis Buñuel film in which the woman loved by the protagonist is played by two completely different actresses. He never seems to notice, though, but I have spotted that something is awry. I need to give serious thought to which ink I truly adore. Is it the real Noodler's Eternal Brown, or is it the shade that I wrongly took to be Noodler's Eternal Brown. Might it be the two of them at the same time, or have I ruined my desire for both with some vile act of inkfidelity?

These are big, possibly bigamist's, questions. Answering them may take a vial.

Ink in use today: Noodler's Eternal Brown.

Ink Runs

To run, or not to run.

In a couple of weeks I have to travel to the north of England to examine at another university. It's only a flying visit, but I've been thinking, as I always do when preparing to travel, about inkquisition possibilities while I'm away. I've already checked the ink situation in the city in question with an inkthusiast who lives there, and I've been informed that Quink from WH Smith is about as good as it gets. However, the train journey home will take me through Birmingham, which is home to one of the branches of The Pen Shop. (Devoted readers of Ink Quest will remember, no doubt, a post from 20 October 2006 in which I reported my acquisition of Caran d'Ache Grand Canyon from this very outlet.)

But here's the problem: I'm not going to have a great deal of time between trains in Birmingham. It's possible, then, that I may have to break out of my usual leisurely saunter and into a determined sprint if I am to make it to the shop and back to the platform before my connection leaves. (I'm reminded, in fact, of an episode of Seinfeld in which Kramer believes that he can dash from the subway train to a legendary hot dog stand on the platform, buy a snack, and get back on the same train before the doors close. As so often with Kramer's great schemes, it ends in disaster.) To make matters worse, the route from Birmingham New Street Station to The Pen Shop will take me very close to Muji, and if the Inkette learns that I have been past a branch of her favourite Japanese shop without buying her a gift, all of my inks will be poured down the drain. It seems, then, that my ink run might actually require me to run.

And that's the real problem, dear readers, for I absolutely refuse to engage in this activity. Running is something that I associate with sporty, upbeat, earnest souls in sweaty man-made fabrics. And I, of course, am militantly opposed to all forms of sport. Besides, I've always firmly believed that nothing is important enough to warrant a sprint of any kind. I have, for instance, missed two trains this week because I arrived at the station to find them ready to depart, but refused to run to the platform. On the second occasion, the driver of the train actually caught my eye as I crossed the bridge. He seemed to be imploring me to jog. 'Come on, tubs', said his facial expression. 'You can make it if you stop ambling'. But I clung to my principles, maintained my leisurely pace, and watched the train for Ink Towers leave the station without me.

The question, then, is bigger than the one that troubled Hamlet: to run, or not to run. Is ink worth a sprint? I know that The Pen Shop stocks Caran d'Ache inks, and I'm keen to get hold of a bottle of Storm, but is it worth becoming sporty just to lift the precious trophy? I want the ink, but I have dedicated my entire adult life to a disdain for physical exertion, and I'm not sure that I can stop being inactive now. (Yes, I know that I will probably die from a heart attack before I'm forty, but I'd rather drop dead in the prime of life wearing a neatly pressed pinstripe suit and with a dry brow than be seen pounding the pavements at the age of eighty-five in a moist nylon tracksuit and luminous running shoes.)

When faced with such dilemmas, I have a question that I usually ask myself: what would Cary Grant do? He's something of a role model for me, and I doubt very much that he ever ran through a city. Yes, I'm fully aware that he did some serious sprinting in Hitchcock's North by Northwest when the crop duster appeared, but there are two key factors to consider at this point. First, it's clear from his gait that he's not used to running. Only one who is an elegant idler by instinct could move so awkwardly, could flail his arms so uncomfortably. Second, and more important, he's wearing an impossibly stylish grey suit when he flees the plane. (So elegant, in fact, that he apparently questioned Hitchcock's request that he throw himself to the dusty ground while wearing such fine clothing.) It is simply impossible to imagine Cary Grant willingly breaking into a sweat while sporting leisure wear. If he had to get from Birmingham New Street to The Pen Shop in a short space of time, I'm sure that he'd have a limousine waiting for him on the station's forecourt. Or possibly a gleaming helicopter. A little internet browsing has unearthed two suitable firms -- Home James Chauffeur Service and Adventure 001 Helicopters -- from which I will be requesting more information.

While I was asking myself the Cary Grant question yesterday afternoon, the postman knocked on the door of Ink Towers and presented me with a package from Pendemonium. Inside, of course, was my bottle of Noodler's Eternal Brown, a fantastic and subtle ink with which I've been writing ever since. The words that I've produced cannot ever be erased without destroying the paper, for the ink in question is one of the Noodler's shades that does not budge when attacked with water, bleach, or ammonia. This, in other words, is an ink that will not run. Why, then, should I?

Ink in use today: Noodler's Eternal Brown.

Eatink

I'm not the only one with a taste for ink.

As I sat in the garden beneath the blazing sun this afternoon, I came across an interview in the Observer newspaper with Kirk Douglas. 'My first memory of London', he recalled, 'was filming with Laurence Olivier and Burt Lancaster. We had fish and chips in newspaper every day. The ink made it taste fantastic.'

It's years since I saw a chip shop wrapping its wares in old newspaper; the practice is one that I associate with my childhood in the 1970s. These days it's usual to receive your order wrapped in fresh white paper that's produced especially for this purpose, although I have once or twice seen shops using fake newspaper, large sheets printed with fish-and-chip-related puns for headlines: 'A salt and battery in city centre', 'Cod help us all', and so on.

I wonder if Kirk Douglas is right. I'm fairly sure that chips tasted better in my childhood, so perhaps he's correct about ink adding flavour to food. This blog is all about how ink is tasteful, the spice of life, but I'd never really taken this literally until this afternoon. Yes, I discussed on 26 January how ink and diet might be linked, but it's not until now that I've thought of ink as a diet in itself.

I've been experimenting with some new Chinese recipes recently, and I'm fairly pleased with the results. But while my Ma-Po Tofu is exceptionally tasty, it's not quite right. Something is missing, even though I've followed the recipe very carefully and used only ingredients bought from the Chinese supermarket in Cardiff's Grangetown area. Until today I'd suspected that monosodium glutamate was the key, and I was ready to sprinkle some into the wok in the name of perfection. (I've read 'Why doesn't everyone in China have a headache?', Jeffrey Steingarten's brilliant piece on the MSG panic; I am no longer scared of the illicit white powder.) Now, though, I'm wondering if ink is what my cookink needs. Are those packages labelled 'All-purpose seasoning' often seen in Chinese supermarkets really powdered ink? Does MSG secretly stand for Must Scribble Grandly? Which ink, moreover, would be the most suitable for finishing off a Chinese dish? It would have to come from the city of Beijink, clearly, but would it also have to be a Maoist red? Would Noodler's Tiananmen square the circle?

I must leave you now, dear readers, for my stomach is rumbling. I must retire to the dine-ink room and nib-ble.

Ink in wok today: Waterman Havana.

Abraham L'Inkhorn

This blog now comes with a health warning.

Shortly after posting my previous entry, I received an SOS call from honorary Penquod crew member Stefan. The morose tone of the lines had, he reported, driven him to a near-suicidal state. Things were looking so bleak, in fact, that he ended up filling his Omas Paragon with Noodler's Black ink. 'Your corpse-strewn blog entry put me, literally, in a black mood', he wrote. My anti-Midas touch has struck again: bring me golden happiness and I will turn it into the darkest misery.

Stefan's message also drew my attention to a newly discovered letter written by Abraham Lincoln in July 1863, just three days after the Battle of Gettysburg. Addressing Major General Halleck, Lincoln confirms that Vicksburg has surrendered to General Grant's forces, and he hopes that the Civil War will soon be over.

My first degree was in American Studies, so the document is of great interest to me. But it's even more fascinating for inkthusiasts (who may, inkidentally, wish to download a high-resolution copy of the letter from the website of The National Archives). Abraham was clearly in a hurry that day: look at the smudges, the ragged handwriting, and the misspelling of 'literal'. And look, dear readers, at the gorgeous colour of the ink. Almost 150 years later, it is, Stefan raved, wonderfully opaque, deliciously dark. I hereby rename the author of the letter Abraham L'Inkhorn.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I have received an email about recycling from my employer. It contains, among other things, the following handy hints for saving the planet:

- Turn off taps when you have finished using them.
- Put recycling in your office's recycling bin.

My eye was really caught, however, by the suggestion that members of staff only print hard copies of documents when it is really necessary to do so. 'Think before you ink!', quipped the email. Are my employers not aware of just how much I think before I ink? Have they not seen the box containing dozens of bottles of ink that sits upon my desk, and do they not know about the nightly ritual in which I select the colours for the following day? Above all, can they not see the ecologically dubious contradiction in urging us to think before we ink and, in the same breath, filling our departmental stationery cupboards with plastic, disposable ballpoints? If they really want us to think before we ink, it's clear that they need to introduce a programme for providing all employees with hand-finished, ethically sourced Omas fountain pens and a selection of exclusive, elegant inks. Disgusted by the continued erosion and bureaucratic sterilization of British higher education, I usually refuse to give my employers more than the thirty-five weekly hours for which I am contracted to work, but I'm willing to make an exception here and fly to Italy to discuss and test prototypes with the Omas designers.

I must confess, though, that I have done something that will cause damage to the environment. After my recent squabble with Diamine Royal Blue, I calmed myself down by ordering a bottle of Noodler's Eternal Brown. (The quest for the perfect brown was, after all, where this blog began nearly two years ago, and I was not all interested in blue inks at that point.) Inkthusiasts will know that this beautiful, waterproof ink is made exclusively for Pendemonium, which is based in Fort Madison, Iowa, from where my purchase left by air yesterday. My bottle of Eternal Brown, that is to say, is currently causing eternal damage to the skies as it wings its way towards Ink Towers. The powers of my anti-Midas Touch are so strong that I leave a carbon footprint even when I'm only using my hands. I put as much recycling into my office's recycling bin as I can, and I'm always certain to switch off taps when I've finished using them, but I'm simultaneously destroying the planet.

Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then, I contradict myself;
(I am large—I contain multitudes.)

There is a civil war raging on the decks of the Penquod.

Ink in use today: Waterman Havana.

'Blues to your neighbor next door'

Comedy or tragedy?

This is the question that Melinda and Melinda, one of Woody Allen's best recent films, invites its viewers to consider when it plays out the story of a single character in two possible ways. And it's the question that I found myself considering yesterday at the level of ink.

I now have a clear and firm routine for the days when I have to go into work: I take three pens, and these are filled with a blue, a brown, and a miscellaneous colour. Yesterday I chose Diamine Royal Blue for my Aurora Talentum, but I soon realized that I'd made a mistake. As I sat at my desk marking essays and switching from pen to pen, I began strongly to resent the joyful, bright, light, breezy appearance of Diamine Royal Blue.

In short, I've realized that it's too happy a colour for me. It's comic, upbeat, full of life. As such, it's completely at odds with me. If I'm going to work with a blue, I need it to be a tragic and misanthropic blue, a bitter and glum blue, a blue such as Diamine Indigo, which has a sombre, grey, broken quality. 'You ain't been blue 'til you've had that mood indigo', as Sinatra once sang, after all.

I'll always choose tragedy over comedy. You can keep the breeziness of As You Like It and A Midsummer Night's Dream; leave me instead in the chilly darkness with King Lear or Titus Andronicus. Better still, I'll take Antigone with its 'I am nothing. I have no life. Lead me away...' A play's not a play unless the stage is strewn with corpses as the final curtain falls, in my opinion. And I'd much rather attend four funerals than have to sit through the relentless joy of four weddings. Why must people be so happy? Why is the concept of 'having fun' so popular? I've really never understood the desire to 'have a good time', and I can't for one moment imagine why anyone would want to do something as hideous as go to a party. (Why on earth is the idea of meeting people and talking to them so highly prized? And what's the deal with dancing?)

It's not surprising, then, that I'm drawn to sombre inks. Their colours provide an inksight to my character. Brown, my preferred shade with which to write, is an inherently moody colour, and the other bottles to which I repeatedly turn (Noodler's Nightshade and Noodler's Sequoia, for instance) contain liquids that are dark, moping, tragic. Perhaps I should launch That Inking Feeling, a special range of inks for fellow melancholics: Anchorites of Spring (a dull brick colour), Mourning Glory (a spectral grey), Fruit of the Gloom (a deep, dusky blue), Coffin (a dark, inscrutable brown), Funereally the Blues, Call Me Dismal (a storm-tossed sea in a bottle, complete with a picture of Captain Ahab on the label), and Néant (the blackest of blacks). These merrily miserable shades could be advertised on television to the sounds of 'A Fool for You', the classic Ray Charles song that contains, it's just occurred to me, a verse about ink:

Did you ever wake up in the morning,
Just about the break of day,
Reach over and feel the pillow
Where your baby used to lay?
Then you put on your crying
Like you never cried before
You even cry so loud,
You give the blues to your neighbor next door.

Inks in use today: Diamine Indigo; Omas Sepia; Noodler's Sequoia.