Previous Posts: Uncategorized / General: June 2012

Elite Type Dept.

A manual typewriter from my younger days poses no threat to my copy of Word. Sadly.

My parents weren't the only ones surprised to discover that my old manual Remington typewriter still worked. Actually, it was my father's — it passed into my hands after years after he had stopped using it. He'd bought it to write a paper, sometime in the early Sixties, and then I'd picked up on it and used it to write I don't know how much material for school. And then our computers came along, and the Remington was retired to a corner of the attic, where it stayed until this past weekend when I was seized with the overwhelming urge to pull it back out and rehabilitate it.

The good news: the typewriter still worked. The keys were all functional, the machinery all still in good working order. The bad news: it had been sitting in storage for so long, the rollers that helped advance the paper through the machine had been crushed flat on one end, and so it couldn't feed paper properly. This led to some other amusing realizations:

1) The text that comes out of a rundown typewriter, no matter how literate or carefully composed, always ends up looking like either a) the sleep-deprived ditherings of some tin-foil-hatted maniac who never leaves the house or b) a ransom note. Capital letters are either too high or too low. Lines run together. The paper skews as it reaches the end of the page. The "o" key must be a lamprey's mouth, so fiercely does it bite into the page. (The middle of each such character was embossed hard enough to fall out if I so much as curled the paper the wrong way.) You could write a love letter to your wife of a dozen years and it would still come off as the product of the sort of mind that prowled shady neighborhoods luring kids with candy.

2) You never completely get used to how much force is required to operate a manual typewriter. By the time I'd filled a single-spaced page, the tips of my fingers all felt like they'd been pressed against an industrial sander. Switching back to my regular keyboard felt like picking up a feather pillow after toting around anvils.

3) I'm sensitive, deliberately so, to how much paper I use. Rather than print something out these days, I just send a copy of it to my phone if I can help it. Typing directly on the paper now feels like the literary version of driving a car that gets single-digit gas mileage. Of course, I leave to the reader the irony of saying that when I've gone from a typewriter which uses zero energy (save for whatever Kcals I expend banging on it) to a PC setup which burns 300+ watt-hours.

And yet — there's something about the enforced discipline of a typewriter which is refreshing. You have to say things right the first time, and that forces you to think about every word and every sentence all the way through to the end, and beyond as well. A manual typewriter doesn't need to be rebooted or even powered up; all it needs is machine oil, fresh ribbon, and plenty of paper.

If I had the money to blow, I'd pick up a Royal (the last remaining manual typewriter still being made today) and use that for writing exercises in much the same way people write drafts longhand. But that $100 might well be better spent on the new kitchen floor, the new yard fence, the next doctor's visit ... or the replacement for this PC, which really is getting a little bewhiskered, and which I do use for more than just pounding out manuscripts.

I wrote all of the above in the time it took me to produce one double-spaced page on the Remington. The amount of work required to finish a single sentence was humbling ... and I work to get work done, not to humble myself. And while typewriters don't need rebooting or logging on, they find any number of their own ways to be just as obstructive, ways we have chosen to live without.

So maybe there really is such a thing as progress, and maybe you really can't go home again.

(Yes, Patrick Farley, this one's for you. Kudos.)

Tags: technology typewriters

Radio Silence

I'm likely to be mum for the rest of the month due to a big workload and my attention span getting yanked in too many directions for my own good. You might see the occasional vault post from me, but...

I'm likely to be mum for the rest of the month due to a big workload and my attention span getting yanked in too many directions for my own good. You might see the occasional vault post from me, but until stated otherwise, talk amongst yourselves.

Nose In The Air Dept.

Snobbism: the great defense against brain-rotting popular culture. Except that it isn't.

One of my friends recently picked up Brave New World, and while we were talking about it she switched tracks midstream and noted that a big part of why so many classics went under her radar is because they got spoiled for her by all the "snobs" in college. Some of them were people with degrees and teaching positions.

What does it mean to be a snob? Most of it as I see it has to do with a kind of cultivated elitism of self-denial. To wit: I don't watch TV; I don't read comic books; I don't do this and I don't do that, because that stuff rots your brain and I'm better than all that anyway.

Let us take a moment to pull the struts out from under the arguments against TV, because they do us no favors. It's always been fashionable to hate TV, so much so that it becomes too easy to throw around wholly spurious arguments against it.

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Tags: creativity culture TV writers writing

Imperfect Dept.

The myth of perfection, as misleading as ever.

I have a new pop-culture drinking game. Do a shot whenever you hear the words "Well, it's not perfect, but ..."

I am going to ask — nay, demand — that we end, here, now, and forwith, all this meaningless talk of "perfection" in art.

I have hinted at such a notion before (most recently in my look at Miles Davis's Kind of Blue), but I suspect it's high time I came out and made a separate discussion out of it.

Perfection, especially in the arts, does not exist. It is a hopeless misconception. It is no more a reality than is the possibility of putting handcuffs on the number "8".

At the very least, perfection does not exist in the sense of some embodied attribute that in theory is plainly accessible to all of us. The only place it exists at all, if it exists, is in the mind of the creator, in the sense that his intentions have come as close as possible to being satisfied in an earthly fashion. "Perfect" for him means his job is done, not only because the work has attained a quality he strove for but because his own limits prevent him from refining the work any further.

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Tags: creativity criticism Gaspar Noé Miles Davis movies writing

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This page is an archive of entries in the Uncategorized / General category from June 2012.

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