'I am writing on a table with a green cloth, lit by two candles, and taking my ink from an ointment jar'.
I have just stumbled across these words in a letter written by Gustave Flaubert to Louis Bouilhet on 1 December 1849. The young Flaubert, who had yet to make his name with Madame Bovary, was in Cairo; his infamous travels in Egypt had just begun, and he had recently sent his mother a note in which he likened the sand of the desert at sunset to ink.
I have suspected for some time that Flaubert was an inkthusiast. A previous Ink Quest entry recalled, for instance, some of the inky moments in Madame Bovary, such as the heroine's noting that arsenic tastes like ink. The hilarious Bouvard and Pécuchet, meanwhile, inkorporates a spillage of ink and revolves around two copyists who have fine handwriting. And the author himself only appears to become emotional about his impending departure for Egypt when he has to pack away his pens and papers. (See the travel notes relating to his journey from Croisset to Cairo for this latter inkident.)
The image of Flaubert dipping his pen into an ink-filled ointment jar that sits in front of him on a well-catalogued table is a wonderful one, partly because it has reminded me that inkthusiasts devoted to fine fountain pens and elegant colours always know precisely where their ink is coming from, simply because they probably spent hours considering which shade to use, and then filled the pen with care and patience. To love writing instruments, in other words, is to be aware of originks. Users of ballpoint pens and other pre-filled, disposal atrocities, by way of complete contrast, know nothing about where their ink (I use the term loosely) has come from and how it found its way into the pen. Their role in proceedings is minimal. They're writing blind, with history scribbled out.
For once, I know how they feel: one of my pens currently contains an ink without a name, without a past, without a source. How on earth have I allowed myself to wander inkto such terrible territory? I shall enlighten you, dear readers.
I was rather traumatized to learn last week that honorary Penquod crew member Arty had lost his Parker fountain pen. Perhaps in an attempt to negate the trauma, Arty reported that he was going to take the opportunity to upgrade to a better model. He identified a budget and asked my advice. I pointed him in the direction of the Pelikan M200, which is, in my opinion, the finest fountain pen available for less than £50. But poor Arty immediately found himself facing a problem: finding a nearby pen shop with a decent selection of Pelikans for careful trial is impossible.
I decided to break the golden rule of nibbery. Yes, dear readers, I lent him my M200 for several days. I can't say that I slept a wink during this time, but the anxiety was worth it, for Arty soon reported back that he was now ready to purchase a Pelikan. (He's actually going for the M215.) By the end of the week, my M200 was safely back in my hands and the world, thanks to my selfless action, contained a new Pelikfan.
My pen came back to me without a scratch, but Arty had refilled it. I'd invited him to do this if the existing Caran d'Ache Grand Canyon ran out, so I wasn't remotely troubled by his actions, but what did take me by surprise was the colour of ink chosen by the new Pelikfan. I very rarely use black -- ink fact, I believe that I have no more than a small sample or two of this shade in my collection -- so the sight of the colour coming from the nib of my M200 was most unusual. Beyond that, I soon became obsessed by figuring out the identity of the ink. Brown inks I can usually name at fifty paces, but blacks are unknown territory for me. I suspect that Arty used Parker Quink Black, but I might be wrong. Cross? Waterman? Diamine? (All of these brands are available in the pen shop that lies not too far from Arty's house.)
Not knowing the source of the ink in my pen -- or even its name -- threw my entire life into disarray. Yes, I could have emailed or texted Arty to discover the truth, but I don't think that being inkformed would have entirely restored the order of things. I am normally in obsessive, autistic control of as many parts of my life as possible, and I am accustomed to being inkvolved in virtually every part of the writing process that occupies so much of my time. Suddenly finding that one of my favourite pens contained an unknown ink, and simultaneously realizing that I had not been involved in its selection or insertion, catapulted me into the realm of the unknown and the uncontrolled. The origink was unclear. The 'I' in ink had become a little smudged. An exinkstential crisis, all in all.
From now on, then, I'll be keeping a close eye on the origin of my inks. 'Origink, therefore I am' will be my mantra. If I have to follow Flaubert and dip into an ointment pot every few lines, so be it. (But how will the flow bear up?) Ink fact, I'm going to take to carrying such an item with me wherever I go. And so ends the fable of the anointment of an ointment.
Inks in ointment pot today: Herbin Cacao du Brésil; Sailor Brown; Aurora Blue.
PS (3 March, 9.20am): A new honorary Penquod crew member who shall go by the pseudonym 'Ken' has been in touch with some crucial questions relating to the mysterious ink in my Pelikan M200:
What if Arty matched manufacturer of ink to manufacturer of pen and used Pelikan 4001 Black?
This is possible, of course, but I can think of nowhere in the city that sells Pelikan ink, and I don't believe that Arty has yet been drawn into the all-consuming world of inkternet purchases.
What if Arty used - the horror! -- india ink?
Again, this is possible, but I can see no signs of catastrophic clogging in the pen, so I'm pretty certain that Arty filled it with fountain-pen-friendly ink?
What if I cannot ask Arty to be sure of anything?
Ah, the postmodern condition. To be sure, I cannot be sure that Arty is sure of anything. If anything, anything is sure to be anything but sure.
What does it take to become an honorary crew member of the Penquod?
What are the thirty-nine steps? What is the speed of dark? Did you sleep well? ('No, I made a couple of mistakes.') I'm afraid that I cannot reveal the answer to this question. I think that there's a moment in an old Philip K. Dick novel, possibly A Maze of Death, where a character is able to ask any question he wants, with the promise that a truthful answer will be given. He chooses to ask if God exists. He's told that he can't be given a reply because wouldn't believe the answer.
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