Paperwork

When it comes to paper, I've been through the mill.

The week in ink began badly. As I reported in a recent post, the Rhodia Webnotebook, while aesthetically pleasing, contains paper that is inkfinitely inkferior to that found in the regular Rhodia pads. I have put up with a bit of bleed-through and semi-feathering in recent weeks, however, because I like the way that my new acquisition feels and looks. Its striking orange cover reminds me of the colour of plastic that I imagine to have been used for seats on public transport in East Germany circa 1974. But I decided on Monday morning, when a hastily scribbled line turned into an utter mess on the shoddy paper, that enough was enough. What good is a collection of the world's finest inks if I don't have exquisite, smooth, reliable paper on which to write?

Having sulked for the whole of Monday, I paid a visit on Tuesday morning to Ryman in the centre of the city, for I had recently spotted in another branch of the stationery shop an intriguing possibility: a A5-sized, black, vaguely Moleskine-like sketchbook containing 110gsm paper and costing just £4.99. I soon found one of the pads on the shelves, but was a little disappointed to see that it was wrapped in plastic, which meant that I could not inspect the paper before making the purchase. Throwing caution to the wind, I asked one of the assistants if she could possibly remove the packaging so that I could open the book. I was expecting a contemptuous dismissal, but she willingly ripped off the plastic and allowed me to fondle the sheets.

Things looked good: the pages felt thick, friendly, and, crucially, devoid of the hideous waxy coating that makes Moleskine sketchbooks so infuriating for users of fountain pens. I handed over my card, put the book into my case, and strolled happily through the city to my office, serenading passers-by with Singin' in the Rain's 'Good Morning' as I went. After I had gone through the usual rituals at my desk (unpack the pens, switch on the kettle, prime a caffetière with French Roast), I removed the notebook from my briefcase and leaned back contentedly in my chair.

And then I smelled it: a curious chemical whiff. Mothball with a pinch of shoe factory. It was coming from the notebook. I pressed my nose to the faux-leather cover and inhaled. When I regained consciousness around fifteen minutes later, my nostrils were filled with the unpleasant scent. Nauseated, I attempted to negate the odour by sniffing my Acqua-di-Parma-scented wrist (perhaps the closest a modern gentleman can legitimately get to a posy). I felt a little better.

As a father of a seventeenth-month-old child, I am accustomed to breathing through my mouth during certain parental duties, so I decided to use my transferable skills and carry on my inspection of the notebook without using my nose. Whiff aside, things still looked promising: the elasticated strap (which, perhaps in an attempt to keep litigation from Moleskine at bay, runs horizontally across the covers) fitted nicely, the sheets appeared to have been bound firmly, and the little ribbon bookmark glistened gently in the light.

Still breathing only through my mouth, I picked up one of my pens and made my way over to the library. I had some references to chase up, so the notebook would be used for the very first time. As I entered the building, I happened to see honorary Penquod member Arty, who told me that he was busy 'weeding'. When I asked him what this meant in the context of a library, he informed me that certain texts that had not been borrowed for many years, or which have been made redundant by newer editions, were being removed from the shelves and placed on a table in the entrance of the library, from where people would be invited to help themselves. When he had finished explaining the activity of 'weeding' to me, he spotted the notebook in my hand and said that it looked rather appealing. Aware that Arty, as a Seinfeld fan, would have seen the episode where Jerry and Elaine discuss the curious smell of the Constanzas' house, I changed the subject quickly and, after chatting for a few minutes (during which time I kept the notebook as far away from him as possible), made my way upstairs.

When I had retrieved the books that I needed from the shelves, I settled down at a desk, found the first piece of information required, removed the cap from my Aurora Talentum, opened the sketchbook, and put nib to paper. I had high hopes. I thought that the odour emanating from the cover of the notebook would be cancelled out by the majestic performance of the paper. I thought that the ink would finally find a perfect home. I thought that I had discovered The One at last (and for only £4.99)

As usual, disappointment quickly set in. While not as vile as the paper found in the Rhodia Webnotebook, the sheets in the sketchbook are not very receptive to ink. If the nib is left in place on the surface for a moment, ink continues to be drawn from the nib, as if the paper has tissue-like qualities. This, of course, quickly leads to the dreaded bleed-through. Ink fact, even when a quick stroke is made, it's still possible to see the line on the other side of the page. (Isn't 110gsm substantial enough? Do I need to start demanding 2kg per square metre?)

I used the sketchbook once or twice after Tuesday, but by Thursday I had sunk into a state of utter despair concerning the general quality of paper. All I want is a sheet that loves ink, that lets a nib slide gracefully across it, that refuses to feather, that keeps what's written on one side hidden from the other. I had assembled a bonfire of my many inkompetent notebooks in my garden, and I was about to light the fuse ... when I heard the day's post being pushed through the letterbox. Something told me that salvation had come, and so I put the match back in the box and stepped inside the house.

Salvation had inkdeed arrived. Among the junk mail and writs from the estate of Lazlo Biro was a beautiful envelope adorned with the impossibly elegant handwriting of Michigan-based honorary Penquod crew member Gerry. Inside I found a letter written in a lovely blue ink (a vintage Quink?). Even more exquisite was the accompanying blank notecard bearing the handless clock that I displayed at the top of the previous entry of Ink Quest and, in the bottom left-hand corner, the enigmatic words 'Ricceri - Firenze'.

The card is simply too beautiful ever to use -- it's a work of art, in short -- and so I will never know precisely how it responds to ink. I know, however, that it would be the softest, most scinktillating writing experience of my life. But I also know that I would regret ruffling its blankness with words. What could I write? What would be beautiful enough? W.B. Yeats' 'He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven'? Dylan Thomas' 'Prologue'? Ginsberg's 'Kaddish'? Wallace Stevens' 'The Emperor of Ice-Cream'? (I am obsessed by the line 'Let be be finale of seem' for reasons entirely unknown to me.) Or would it simply be safer to stick with Johnny Mercer's lyrics for 'Too Marvelous for Words'?

But these are idle dreams; the perfect paper must, precisely because it is the perfect paper, remain untouched. I have tried to think of a way around this, a way to let ink have its way, but I just keep drawing a blank.

Ink in use today: Noodler's Lexington Gray; Private Reserve Naples Blue.

Ink Quest will return at...

... with thrilling tales of the handless clock depicted above, my growing indignation concerning the ink-loathing Rhodia Webnotebook, broken dreams in the arms a cheap sketch pad, and countless further matters of equal import. I'm currently racing to meet a couple of deadlines, so I simply haven't had a moment to compose a proper entry this week. Keep your eyes on the clock, dear readers.

Inks in use today: Private Reserve Naples Blue (a recent gift from honorary Penquod crew member Eileen); Noodler's Nightshade; Noodler's Eternal Luxury Blue.

[Blank]

You're easily pleased.

Yesterday's post, which consisted of little more than a picture of a virtually blank piece of paper, pulled in more visitors than any other in the history of Ink Quest. It's clear that paragraphs of prose over which I have laboured for hours appeal to you far less than an empty sheet. With this in mind, the image above -- Malevich's White Square on White -- ought to keep you in a state of utter frenzy over the weekend while I think of something wholly uninkteresting to say.

Inks in use today: Noodler's Sequoia; Noodler's Eternal Luxury Blue.

Side-effect

Why must paper be paper-thin?

Today's entry is a brief one, dear readers, and it's prompted by requests from several dedicated followers of Ink Quest who are desperate to know more about the paper in my new Rhodia Webnotebook.

I thought at first that the sheets were just about thick enough to handle ink on both sides, but the photograph displayed above shows what happened last night when I used Noodler's Eternal Luxury Blue in a Sailor Sapporo with a Music nib. Yes, that's right: it's a fairly catastrophic case of what we inkthusiasts call 'bleed-through'.

I am, needless to say, extremely disappointed, and I simply can't understand why Rhodia has let the side down by not using its usual fountain-pen-friendly paper in these new notebooks. I will have to write on just one side of each sheet from now on, and the sideways quest for the perfect notebook will continue. I will not put this matter to one side.

Inks in use today: Noodler's Eternal Luxury Blue; Herbin Lie de Thé.

Tower of Babble

I'm babbling more than usual.

While looking through the Sitemeter statistics relating to this blog this evening, I happened to notice that a recent visitor used the Google Translate function inkstantly to create a French version of my last post, 'Inkdignation'. (Those fluent in French may wish to consult this text by clicking here.)

I'm constantly fascinated by what slips and slides during translation, or what simply can't be translated at all. As I looked at the computer-generated French version of my prose, therefore, I was gripped by an idea: why not put the Google translation back through Google to produce a new English inkarnation of the entry, an entry twice removed? I hereby present you, dear readers, with 'Inkdignation: The Remix'. (Some of the sentences are priceless, and I particularly love how my original 'I will simply stick out my tongue' has become the completely different 'I will simply hold my tongue'.)

--- [BEGINNING OF TRANSLATION]

All ink corresponds to lick.

"Indignation", which my dictionary defines as "the anger in defiance supposed unjust or inequitable conduct or treatment", is perhaps the term that best suits my natural state of being, my "default", so say. As I fumed on countless occasions, the world is constantly made against me, constantly persecute me, although I have done nothing to deserve such treatment.

Let me give you an example, dear readers. On Saturday, we visited the city of Bath, where we (less ink Baby) lived between 1995 and 2003. Much has changed since we left, but Woods, who was in the city for over 200 years, remains his land near the corner of Old Bond Street. Woods has never been my favorite place to buy ink pens or when I lived in Bath - Papyrus, which unfortunately closed a few years ago, has a much more exotic selection - but he has some good memories. It was there, for example, that I, a novice, first learned that some models have interchangeable pen nibs, then watched with amazement as the assistant pushed through a fine in my Lamy Safari.

I could not pass without a brief visit Saturday to Woods, then, and I slipped while baby ink is driven by the Inkette. The store looks much as it did when I lived in the city, and I easily found my way on the shelves stacked with notebooks. Yes, dear readers, I was on a mission: I was looking for a Webnotebook Rhodia. Although I have more notebooks that I could perhaps never meet, I'm always looking for ONE, the perfect specimen. Although I like the look of Moleskines, I find the paper in notebooks too thin, the pages of sketchbooks are the perfect thickness, but, alas, are treated with a strange waxy substance that repels many ink pen to pen. Clairefontaine notebooks, meanwhile, poses the opposite problem: their paper is perfect, but their covers are not particularly attractive. Since I took the sight of Rhodia Webnotebook new office on drafting the site, I was concerned about my ink on their hands. Rhodia paper is well known for being a fountain-pen-friendly, and Webnotebooks resemble Moleskines, so I spent weeks on the assumption that the keyboard is perfect finally a reality. The problem was that nowhere in the South Wales appears to be stored.

I had a feeling that I would be lucky in the woods. I was right. Even if the main section of the store did not Webnotebooks on screen, I remembered that there is a second, smaller, semi-hidden room behind the first. I ventured, ignoring the sneering, suspicious expects the man behind the counter. (I am almost said: "What - you sell hard-core pornography there these days?", But decided against it.) At first I thought it was wrong be my lucky day, but I spotted a single Webnotebook orange on a plate. I caught and held its course in my heart. (This first excitement was soon to disappear: the paper is quite good, but it is not as good as Clairefontaine, and not as good as that found in the regular Rhodia notebook, for a strange reason.)

As I was about to hand over my card to the cashier, I noticed a bottle of Blue Night Herbin ink on the shelf behind the counter. I informed the assistant that I would like to buy carpets and Rhodia. Here's how the exchange:

"May I also have a bottle of Blue Night Herbin ink, please?"
"Sorry?"
"The Herbin ink. The color Blue Night. There. On the second board. "I have drawn attention to what I wanted.
"The what ink? "
"Herbin. Blue Night. The blue. There. That one." I was now jabbing my finger.
"This?"
"No, it is a scent of ink. The Blue Night on the side. He said" Blue Night "on the label."

The wizard finally understood what I wanted, but then looked at the bottle with a perplexed expression, as if she had arrived in stock for the first time that day. The expression is perplexed and then aimed in my direction, with an index added in disbelief.

Here's what makes me furious. I know that Woods inks Herbin stock for years. I know, furthermore, the assistant in question has worked in the woods for years, simply because I was watching the change puzzled individual feathers on my Lamy Safari to 2002. How on earth can we work in a shop pen for so long and still not know what a bottle of ink Herbin look like? Just for the record, I note that I did not say "Herbin Blue Night" with a french accent too. I did, however, refuse to pronounce the "H" at the beginning and the "t" at the end. They have been the source of the confusion? Should I do anything Anglicized (H erbinn Bleeooo Noooitt) to be understood? But what is the world coming to if an "experiment" ink seller has never heard " Herbin "pronounced in the french adequately? And why should I be treated like the idiot who has done something wrong?

It is not surprising, on reflection, I like the fiction of Philip Roth. Nobody rage, contempt, persecution, and all-round indignation as Roth. His new novel, ink, is simply drawn indignation, and I just reached a beautifully furious section where the protagonist, Marcus Messner, is in a lengthy discussion with the dean of his college. (This is the kind of rage, self-destructive dispute I am having with someone in "management" to my own university one day, without doubt.) Earlier in the book, although before 'indignation really takes hold, there is a treatment for all those who love the pen and ink. Marcus has just received a letter from a woman with whom he recently had a brief fling:

I had seen her using his Parker 51 pen to take notes in class - a reddish-brown tortoise pen - but I had never seen his handwriting or how she signed her name with the pen of this pen, 'narrow way she formed the "O", the strange height at which she dotted the two "i" s, along graceful swept up by the tail end of the conclusions "a". I put my mouth on the page and kissed the "O". He hugged and kissed. Then, impulsively, with the tip of my tongue, I began to lick the ink signature, patiently like a cat with his bowl of milk I lick away until it was no longer the "O", "L", the "i", "v", the second "i", "a" - léché until the tail was swept completely disappeared. I drank his writing. I ate his name.

I'll leave aside the possibility of inaccurate to refer to a "brown-red turtle" Parker 51. There is no question in my mind that this type of model, as far as I know, never existed . (I am ready to be corrected on this, I am not a historian pen.) This is fiction, after all, and that, furthermore, is one of the largest ink thematic scenes in the Western literature. (Has it leads you to lick your screen computers, dear readers, I can tell you that my iMac is a little moist.)

Indignation gave me an idea: I will return to Woods this week, and I'll lick a piece of Blue Night-covered with paper before entering the store. Then, when I asked what I would like to buy, I will simply hold my tongue.

Ink in use today: Herbin Blue Night. (A beautiful dark blue. "Soft blue", as honorary Penquod crew member Eileen put in a text message to me this weekend.)

PS (3.35pm): As the post today has a literary theme particular, it deems it necessary to add a postscript to the note Penquod 's sadness on hearing the news of the untimely death of David Foster Wallace.

PPS (September 16): As chance would that BBC Radio 3 broadcast a long and exciting, fun interview with Philip Roth last night, in which, among other things, he read passages of indignation. The program can be heard during the next seven days on the website of Radio 3. It seems to me that, in light of the recent poll ink Quest, we could have an election to determine the color of ink that best suits Roth magnificent voice. It is a shame that Noodler, which makes a shadow of Brooklyn called Brawn exclusively for art Brown, is not considering Roth hometown, making Newark a nuisance. (And I mean "nuisance" to a period of substantive compliance, of course.)

--- [END OF TRANSLATION]

Truly postmodern readers may wish now to put this text through Google Translate twice over. (In truth post-May readers would now like to put it through Google Translate twice as much.)

Ink in use today: Noodler's Sequoia; Noodler's Eternal Luxury Blue.

Inkdignation

All the ink that's fit to lick.

'Indignation', which my dictionary defines as 'scornful anger at supposed unjust or unfair conduct or treatment', is perhaps the term that best captures my natural state of being, my 'default setting', as it were. As I have fumed on countless previous occasions, the world is constantly set against me, constantly persecuting me, even though I have done nothing to deserve such treatment.

I will give you an example, dear readers. On Saturday, we visited the city of Bath, where we (minus Baby Ink) lived between 1995 and 2003. A great deal has changed since we left, but Woods, which has been in the city for over 200 years, still stands its ground near the corner of Old Bond Street. Woods was never my favourite place to buy ink or pens when I lived in Bath -- Papyrus, which sadly closed a few years ago, had a much more exotic selection -- but it features in some happy memories. It was there, for example, that I, a novice, first learned that certain models of fountain pen have interchangeable nibs, and then watched in amazement as the assistant switched the Medium to a Fine in my Lamy Safari.

I couldn't let Saturday pass without a brief visit to Woods, therefore, and so I slipped in while Baby Ink was being entertained by the Inkette. The shop looks very much as it did when I lived in the city, and so I easily found my way to the shelves stacked with notebooks. Yes, dear readers, I was on a mission: I was looking for a Rhodia Webnotebook. While I have more notebooks than I could possibly ever fill, I am always searching for The One, the perfect specimen. While I love the look of Moleskines, I find the paper in the notebooks much too thin; the pages in the sketchbooks are the perfect thickness, but, alas, are coated with a strange waxy substance that repels many fountain pen inks. Clairefontaine notebooks, meanwhile, pose the opposite problem: their paper is perfect, but their covers are not particularly attractive. Ever since I caught sight of the new Rhodia Webnotebook on The Writing Desk's website, I have been keen to get my inky hands on one. Rhodia paper is well known for being fountain-pen-friendly, and the Webnotebooks resemble Moleskines, so I have spent weeks assuming that the perfect pad is finally a reality. The problem has been that nowhere in the South Wales area appears to stock them.

I had a feeling that I would be in luck in Woods. I was right. Even though the main section of shop had no Webnotebooks on display, I remembered that there is a second, smaller, semi-hidden room behind the first. I ventured in, ignoring the sneering, suspicious looks from the man behind the counter. (I very nearly said, 'What -- are you selling hardcore pornography back there these days?', but decided against it.) At first, I thought that it wasn't going to be my lucky day, but then I spotted a sole orange Webnotebook on a shelf. I grabbed it and held it to my racing heart. (This initial excitement would soon fade: the paper is pretty good, but it's not as good as Clairefontaine, and not as good as that found in the regular Rhodia pads, for some bizarre reason.)

As I was about to hand over my card at the till, I noticed a bottle of Herbin Bleu Nuit ink on the shelf behind the counter. I informed the assistant that I would like to buy it as well as the Rhodia pad. Here is how the exchange went:

'Could I also have a bottle of Herbin Bleu Nuit ink, please?'
'Sorry?'
'The Herbin ink. The Bleu Nuit colour. There. On the second shelf.' I pointed at what I wanted.
'The what ink?'
'Herbin. Bleu Nuit. The blue one. There. That one.' I was now jabbing my finger.
'This one?'
'No, that's a scented ink. The Bleu Nuit next to it. It says "Bleu Nuit" on the label.'

The assistant finally figured out what I wanted, but then looked at the bottle with a puzzled expression, as if it had arrived in stock for the first time that day. The puzzled expression was then aimed in my direction, along with an added hint of incredulity.

Here's what makes me furious. I know that Woods has stocked Herbin inks for years. I know, moreover, that the assistant in question has worked in Woods for years, simply because I watched the bewildered individual change the nib on my Lamy Safari in around 2002. How on earth can someone work in a pen shop for so long and still not know what a bottle of Herbin ink looks like? Just for the record, I will note that I did not say 'Herbin Bleu Nuit' with an excessively French accent. I did, though, refuse to pronounce the 'H' at the beginning and the 't' at the end. Did that cause the confusion? Should I have anglicized the whole thing (Herbinn Bleeooo Noooitt) in order to be understood? But what is the world coming to if an 'experienced' ink seller has never heard 'Herbin' pronounced in the correct French manner? And why should I be treated as the idiot who has done something wrong?

It's little wonder, on reflection, that I love the fiction of Philip Roth. No one does rage, scorn, persecution, and all-round indignation like Roth. His new novel, ink fact, is simply called Indignation, and I have just reached a magnificently furious section where the protagonist, Marcus Messner, gets into a prolonged argument with the Dean of his college. (It's the kind of raging, self-destructive dispute I will have with someone in 'management' at my own university one day, no doubt.) A little earlier in the book, though, before the indignation really takes hold, lies a treat for all lovers of fountain pens and ink. Marcus has just received a letter from a woman with whom he has recently had a brief fling:

I had seen her using her Parker 51 fountain pen to take notes in class -- a brown-and-red tortoiseshell pen -- but I had never before seen her handwriting or how she signed her name with the nib of that pen, the narrow way she formed the "O", the strange height at which she dotted the two "i"s, the long graceful up-swept tail at the end of the concluding "a". I put my mouth to the page and kissed the "O". Kissed it and kissed it. Then, impulsively, with the tip of my tongue I began to lick the ink of the signature, patiently as a cat at his milk bowl I licked away until there was no longer the "O", the "l", the "i", the "v", the second "i", the "a" -- licked until the up-swept tail was completely gone. I had drunk her writing. I had eaten her name.

I will leave aside the possible inaccuracy of referring to a 'brown-and-red tortoiseshell' Parker 51. It doesn't matter to me that such a model, as far as I know, never existed. (I am willing to be corrected on this; I am no pen historian.) This is fiction, after all, and this, moreover, is one of the greatest ink-themed scenes in Western literature. (Has it driven you to lick the screens of your computers, dear readers? I can tell you that my iMac is a little moist.)

Indignation has given me an idea: I am going to return to Woods this week, and I am going to lick a piece of Bleu-Nuit-covered paper before I enter the shop. Then, when I am asked what I would like to buy, I will simply stick out my tongue.

Ink in use today: Herbin Bleu Nuit. (A lovely dark blue. "A gentle blue", as honorary Penquod crew member Eileen put it in a text message to me this weekend.)

PS (3.35pm): As today's post has a particularly literary theme, it feels appropriate to add a postscript to note the Penquod's sadness on hearing the news about the untimely death of David Foster Wallace.

PPS (16 September): As coincidence would have it, BBC Radio 3 broadcast a long, fascinating, amusing interview with Philip Roth last night, in which, among other things, he read passages from Indignation. The programme can be heard for the next seven days on the Radio 3 website. It occurs to me that, in the light of the recent Ink Quest poll, we could have an election to determine the colour of ink that best matches Roth's wonderful voice. It's a shame that Noodler's, which makes a shade called Brooklyn Brawn exclusively for Art Brown, doesn't, given Roth's home town, manufacture a Newark Nuisance. (And I mean 'nuisance' to be a term of fond respect there, of course.)

Des voix, la voix!

Nightshade -- by a shade.

Yes, dear readers, the Great Ink Quest Poll of 2008 closed earlier today. For the last week or so, readers of this blog have been furiously casting their votes for the colour most reminiscent of the sound of Roland Barthes' voice. I constantly kept a close eye on the virtual ballot paper, which is preserved above in its final state. (I have removed the panes from the right-hand side of the page now that they're no longer functional.) There was never any real doubt about which shade was going to win: Herbin Cacao du Brésil performed well, particularly in the final stages, but Noodler's Nightshade was always ahead, was always en bonne voie sur la voie à la voix, and I hereby officially announce that it has won the contest. Les voix ont choisi la couleur de la voix. I thank all those who voted, and I will shortly be preparing a vial of the victorious colour to post to the honorary Penquod crew member who recently sent me the recordings of Roland Barthes talking about my beloved Marcel Proust.

While there are many recordings of Barthes speaking, there is no known trace of the voice of Walter Benjamin. As I noted in a recent post, Benjamin, like Barthes, was a writer obsessed by stationery, fine pens, and ink. But, unlike Barthes, Benjamin was a Jew who spent the last years of his short life desperately fleeing from the Nazis who had taken over his native Germany and much of Europe. Although the recently published Walter Benjamin's Archive reproduces, as I noted in my earlier entry, many pages from Benjamin's beautiful notebooks, along with postcards, scraps of paper, and photographs, the editors constantly refer to what disappeared as Benjamin fled and eventually, fearing that he was about to be captured, took his own life.

I've been rereading various texts by Benjamin in recent weeks, some of which I haven't looked at in over a decade. Even though I wasn't particularly inkterested in fountain pens and ink in the mid-late 1990s, I was impressed that I had heavily underlined (in pencil) many parts of a wonderful section of One-Way Street entitled 'The Writer's Technique in Thirteen Theses'. I'm not quite sure why I annotated the text in this way; I can only assume that I somehow knew that I would one day return to it with a sense of wonder. (Isn't every annotation a sort of bookmark?)

Thanks to the wonders of the internet, you can read Benjamin's little manifesto by clicking here. Of particular inkterest to me is the fourth thesis:

Avoid haphazard writing materials. A pedantic adherence to certain papers, pens, inks is beneficial. No luxury, but an abundance of these utensils is indispensable.

Shouldn't 'Avoid haphazard writing materials' become our rallying cry, dear readers? (I've spent the last few minutes trying to sing it to the tune of 'La Marseillaise', but it's quite tricky to fit it in where 'Aux armes citoyens -- / Formez vos bataillons' normally comes.) Shouldn't we be wearing t-shirts and badges (or 'buttons', as Ink Quest's many American readers would call them) emblazoned with that sentence?

But enough revolutionary talk. I've just remembered that the very first of Benjamin's theses runs as follows:

Anyone intending to embark on a major work should be lenient with himself and, having completed a stint, deny himself nothing that will not prejudice the next.

No one could deny that Ink Quest, which is not too far away from its three hundredth pronouncement, is 'a major work'. And I feel that overseeing a major election and writing today's entry counts as 'a stint'. I am, therefore, now entitled to 'deny [myself] nothing'. If you'll excuse me, then, I am going to sign off, walk downstairs, mix myself a Virgin Mary, begin the new Philip Roth novel, and fall asleep to the gentle sounds of Radio 4.

Inks in use today: Diamine Washable Blue; Noodler's Sequoia; Roberson/Penman Châtaigne.

PS (10.40pm: after Virgin Mary; after forty pages of Roth; recklessly on the verge of Radio 4): So eager was I to reveal the results of the election that I forgot to pass on to you, dear readers, a story of inky hope from the Medinkette (the Inkette's trainee-doctor sister). Blasted by stethoscope from the other end of the UK last night came the tale of how the Medinkette had been out on the wards of a hospital with a consultant earlier that day. When it was time to write down some observations on a patient's record, the consultant, the Medinkette reported, removed a magnificent fountain pen from his pocket and proceeded to write with an elegant brown ink. If you use a different colour from everyone else, spoke the wise one, you can always see at a glance your comments among the others. I have this morning instructed the Medinkette's college to fail her for not observing the model of pen and exact brand of ink -- what has become of the Hippocratink Oath? -- but I am now planning to have all of my ailments dealt with in the hospital in question, even though it is several hundred miles from Ink Towers.

PPS (7.45am, Friday): In the end, the night concluded on a wilder note than I could possibly have foreseen: I fell asleep to Radio 3, not Radio 4. I very rarely listen to the station in question (I'm not a fan of classical music), but I happened to notice that a programme about the music of Brian Eno, whose work I love, was due to air. Before that, however, came the final instalment of a series of broadcasts in The Essay slot entitled 'It's Big and It's Beautiful'. The theme of the episodes, about which I knew nothing until last night, appears to have been the relationship between old and new technologies, and yesterday's piece featured a lovely moment where the author described how unsettling it is no longer to have the comfort (I think she used that very word, actually) of pen and ink when officially recording the death of a relative at a computerized Register Office in the UK. Inkthusiasts can listen to the broadcast, along with all of the others in the series, by clicking here. Fans of Brian Eno, meanwhile, will find 'Late Junction' here.

Votencre

You have just one day left in which to register your vote in the Great Ink Quest Poll of 2008, dear readers. As you can see on the right-hand side of the page, Noodler's Nightshade is currently ahead by quite some way. I had expected Sequoia to do well, but its recent announcement about the pregnant seventeen-year-old daughter has clearly harmed its chances.

A full post will appear when the polling station has closed and the votes have been counted. I have politely turned down an offer of help with the latter activity from a correspondent identifying himself only as 'Jeb'.

Inks in use today: Private Reserve DC Supershow Blue; Sailor Grey; Roberson/Penman Châtaigne.

Anna-rchy

I think that I am losing control of the Penquod.

Honorary crew member Anna, who has been with the ink-hunting ship since the very early days, has been bombarding me with emails that simply say 'I vote for Poussière de Lune!', even though that particular J. Herbin colour does not appear upon the list of candidates in the Great Ink Quest Vote of 2008 announced in yesterday's post. I have tried to remind her how voting works (and asked her not to spoil her paper in November by writing 'I vote for Hillary!' in Poussière de Lune or any other colour), but I remain anxious about the outcome of the election of the ink that will represent the voice of Roland Barthes. Should the list have been twice or three times as long? Should I simply have taken suggestions instead, with no fixed list of candidates offered up front? Will the entire election be declared null and void by international observers? Inkbabwe! Inkbabwe!

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

La voie à la voix

Do sounds have colours?

I ask this because I have spent several days speaking to a question: which ink best captures the sound of Roland Barthes' voice? As I noted in a recent post, I have recently received a generous gift from a French reader of this blog: Un homme, une ville, a series of radio broadcasts by Barthes on the subject of Marcel Proust's Paris. When I offered to send some ink in return to the donor -- who still doesn't have a pseudonym, but n'est pas Trisha -- she replied that she'd be inkterested to see a shade that matches the sound of Barthes' voice.

I have been listening to the wonderful Un homme, une ville over the last few days, and I have found myself paying particular attention to what I can hear when petit Roland is speaking. (This is not just because I have to match sound to ink; my French isn't good enough to catch everything, so I've resorted at times to letting the beautiful sounds wash over me like music, drowning in what Barthes once called 'the magic of the signifier'.) For me, there is something special, something seductive about Barthes' voice. It has a certain quality that I find hard to pin down or describe. (If, inkidentally, you've never heard him speaking, there's a glorious clip on YouTube where he discusses the work of Jules Michelet. Oh, the elegance of the man!) What I'm seduced by, I think, is the grain of the voice. I've taken this phrase from Barthes himself, who wrote an intriguing essay of that name on the subject of the singing voice. The grain, he notes at one point, is 'the materiality of the body speaking its mother tongue'. And the grain, in short, is what I now need to translate into ink.

I've ruled out blue, even though Barthes often wrote with the shade in question. (For a reproduction of one of his blue-covered index cards, see this Ink Quest post from January 2007.) And black is, quite simply, far too unsubtle a colour. What I need, rather, is something enigmatic, something sophisticated, something at once melancholy and playful. And here, dear readers, is where you come in.

I have narrowed the choice down to four nuanced inks: Noodler's Nightshade, Noodler's Sequoia, Herbin Cacao du Brésil, and Rohrer & Klingner Sepia, and I have set up a little poll on the right-hand side of the page in order to determine the winner. You have one week to register your votes, mes ami(e)s. Your voice counts in this vox vox pop. With your help, I will find la voie à la voix.

Ink in use today: Noodler's Eternal Luxury Blue.

PS (7.20pm): As usual, disaster has struck. ('Fail better, fail again...') Two people have already been in touch with me about the choice of inks offered in the great Ink Quest poll, and I now realize that many other colours could have been contenders. With this in mind, I have just attempted to add more candidates to the ballot paper, but Blogger informs me that, because votes have already been cast, this is impossible. Perhaps, on reflection, it would have been simpler to enable the 'Comment' function so that readers could propose inks, but I always keep this function switched off, as I fear that a thousand adverts for Viagra would be erected beneath my delicate prose. I have looked into the possibility of allowing comments for just this one post, but such a thing appears to be unconstitutional. I vote, then, that the vote has been an utter catastrophe. American readers will be pleased to hear that I have resigned from my post of Votemaster General with immediate effect; November might just pass without the sight of a dimpled, hanging, pregnant or inky chad.

PPS (7.35pm): I have now added a second poll on the right-hand side of the page. Voix, là!