Many now say the age of great literature has died, the mortal woiund inflicted by the advent of the self-correcting IBM Selecric typewriter, when words bcame evanescent, as suddenly gone as when they spilled onto the page.
Others, I count myself among them, believe the wound was not fatal, deep certainly, but yet there remains a faint pulse, ressuscitation possible with the application of utmost care. For there forbears florid phrasing in the forethoughtful flow of the fountain pen, precious and pure prose and poetry in the precise point of the Pilot pen.
Perhaps, if you happen upon this small scrap of scrip, you will see the possibility in this proposition.
We spent one morning of our visit to Key West wandering around Hemingway’s home.
The six-toed cats seemed to realize that we were cat people, came over to us, took us aside for a petting and conversation.
He was a tough old goat, they said, or so our ancestors told itm and we cannot begin to understand why you, cat people, so obviously intelligent would pay to see the old typewriter he hated, because the S and D keys always stuck
We scratched them behind the ears, sat by the empty pool, and waited for a literary inspiration we knew was never included in the ticket.
My granddaughter is intensely concerned with the growing loss of species, and rightly so, and I share her fears, though I feel largely powerless to do anything.
She has the faith of youth, a belief that she and her peers can, with work, effect a lasting change, climb up the slippery slope which we have cast them down, and save other species from a fate nature never could have intended.
But she cannot fathom the losses that I have seen, things I knew rendered extinct by her generation, and that of her parents, the cassette player, the typewriter, carbon paper, and stationery and a writing desk, to name only a few, but at least the haven’t outdated my Blackberry.
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 lilac. And the wet process copier with the pink tissue paper sheets seemed utterly remarkable. 10 rem Then I found the computer 20 rem and I could make a machine 30 rem actually do my will return without gosub. Now it seems so archaic as I look back at my own life all the while transferring 180 jazz albums to the thumb drive I will put in the car. What would Stanley Turrentine have thought of all this.