an old writer and his words

  • OCCASIONALLY

    I can still remember that dayin San Francisco, on Columbusjust down from City Lights Books,a young man sitting on a milk crateanother in front of him on whichhe perched an old typewriter.“A dollar buys you a poem”he said with a mix of hopeand resignation, his fingers poisedover the worn keys, their lettersfading as was his…

    Lou Faber

  • GREATLY EXAGERATED

    Many now say the age of great literaturehas died, the mortal woiund inflictedby the advent of the self-correctingIBM Selecric typewriter, when wordsbcame evanescent, as suddenly goneas when they spilled onto the page. Others, I count myself among them,believe the wound was not fatal,deep certainly, but yet there remainsa faint pulse, ressuscitation possiblewith the application of…

    Lou Faber

  • CAT PEOPLE

    We spent one morningof our visit to Key West wanderingaround Hemingway’s home. The six-toed cats seemed to realizethat we were cat people, cameover to us, took us asidefor a petting and conversation. He was a tough old goat,they said, or so our ancestorstold itm and we cannot beginto understand why you,cat people, so obviously intelligentwould…

    Lou Faber

  • EXTINCTION

    My granddaughter is intenselyconcerned with the growing lossof species, and rightly so, and Ishare her fears, though I feellargely powerless to do anything. She has the faith of youth, a beliefthat she and her peers can,with work, effect a lasting change,climb up the slippery slope whichwe have cast them down, and saveother species from a…

    Lou Faber

  • SPACED OUT

    I laughed at my parents when they talked about a typewriter as something of a marvel when they were so commonplace. Of course as a boy, half the fun of helping my father at work was knowing the mimeo ink would stain my fingers purple for a week and even borax would only render them…

    Lou Faber