The Old Days, My Fountain Pens, and What Students Might Learn

Prelude

I've had ink on my hands most of life. I grew up with ink on my hands.

- David Mamet

When I was contemplating this topic, I discussed it with colleagues who were not encouraging: "What has a (expletive deleted) fountain pen to do with education abroad?" I understood their disbelief but somewhere an idea (however tenuous) was forming so I did what I often do when I am unsure- start writing with a fountain pen on yellow-lined paper.

I made two lists. The first was of those things that I love; the second, those things to which I'm indifferent. The first list included: my job in education abroad, a soccer team of profound ineptitude, whiskey rather than tea, jazz rather than classical music, my fountain pens, good writing paper, my books which have turned my apartment into a place of inspirational chaos, theater rather than cinema. I am indifferent to most television (with the exception of the blessed Judge Judy); "good food" takes up too much time; dogmas (of right and left, and of Rabbis, Priests and Imams), are enemies of thought; computers are OK but without personality.

These lists indicate, I think, a tendency to appreciate the unpredictable, an empathy for improvisation, a mistrust of those who think they are right. Somewhere or other in that list of idiosyncrasies there may be a connection with what I want students to take from their studies abroad, a little sense of the richness of disorder. Writing with a fountain pen is messy, it leaves you with inky fingers.

My two fingers on a typewriter have never connected with my brain. My hand on a pen does. A fountain pen, of course. Ball-point pens are only good for filling out forms on a plane.

- Graham Greene

Fountain pen and the Incident of the Letter

Not that long ago I was in my office writing a letter with my fountain pen and, as the ink was very wet, I used blotting paper to avoid smudging.

That sentence is in a foreign language, I realize: yesterspeak. While engaged in this arcane process, a young colleague came in and asked, in a bewildered tone, what I was doing. So, I offer these explanations:

In the dark ages we used to communicate through letters. We employed "writing paper" for this purpose. On these pages, we used a fountain pen filled with ink to make words without the necessity of typing on a machine. Ink is unruly and sometimes needed to be disciplined with blotting paper. There was also a thing called joined-up writing. We were actually taught how to do this at school. It is now a skill that is, along with alchemy, almost entirely redundant. Posh people call this cursive writing. It looks like this if you are good at it:

Letters usually begin with some kind of formal introduction: customarily, if you are writing to someone you do not know very well, you begin "Dear Sir," or "Dear Madam," or, in gender-neutral terms, "Dear Sir or Madam." After many years of communication, you are permitted to use the relatively informal mode of address "My Dear Sir" etc.

These have been replaced by other forms of address that our students use as a mode of introduction appropriate to employ even with complete strangers. Thus, "Hi," "Hello Dude," or simply "Prof" (when emailing your teacher) have become the norm. It might be churlish to suggest to students that there is a happy medium between "Dear Sir or Madam" and "Hello Dude" but that is, perhaps, an infringement of a sacred freedom (like wearing jeans at church?).

I am not really complaining but observing that we were, in my day, used to rather more formal modes of communication that, arguably, lacked functional immediacy.

It used to be worse. By way of example, two gentlemen in18th-century Florence on meeting each other outside the Duomo might express their pleasure at the encounter along the following lines:

A: "Sir, I am the last button on your lowest valet's tunic."

The customary response was:

B: "Sir, the last button on my lowest valet's tunic is a diamond."

Such delightful expressions of respect and self-deprecation have become somewhat rare in these utilitarian times but for those of us who cling to the writing rituals of the past, the ashes of formality may yet be found.

"Dear," for example, is a traditional form of opening address that does not necessarily signify affection. A letter might well begin with "Dear Mr. Smith" and then call the recipient a "cream faced loon" (Macbeth), observe that "thou smell of mountain goat," (Henry V), and urge "out you green-sickness carrion" (Hamlet). It is customary to end with the phrase "Yours sincerely," beneath which you sign your name. It matters not at all that everything above this conclusion is a thin tissue of barely credible falsehoods.

Writing the letter is only the beginning. It is necessary then to fold the paper and place it into a container known as an envelope. On the front of which, it is necessary to write the name and address of the person to whom the contents are intended. Such addresses do not contain @ or #. Then you lick a bit of the paper and stick it down. Then, you purchase a stamp (a small piece of sticky paper bearing a picture of someone you might vaguely recognize) and affix this to the front. Then, you search for an elusive box into which you place the finished object. This requires an act of faith that some official will collect it and deliver it to the person named on the front of the envelope.

What is a "Fountain" Pen?

My young colleague was not especially interested in Florentine social rituals or with the fact that "dear" and "sincerely" do not mean "dear" and "sincerely." She wanted to know what I was holding and why.

A fountain pen has only tenuous connection with real fountains such as this:

One link is that they both leak.

Ink is unpredictable. It has the habit of leaving your pen at times and in circumstances not of your choosing. This tends to happen when, for example, you place the pen in the top pocket of a light blue suit.

Given the perils associated with ink, one's hands are almost always covered in stains, and in the lengthy time that it takes to write a letter, it is reasonable to ask, why bother? In addition to the complexities of production, it is quite rare to receive a response. At best, an email might follow, saying something like "Hi, got your letter." In my experience the only people who get excited about this form of communication are computer experts. I make a point of handwriting thank you notes to IT people I meet on university campuses. I have seen these notes pinned to notice boards as if they were icons from an exotic age or a galaxy far, far away: quasi sacred texts to be contemplated in much the same manner that we stare at the treasures of the British Museum, mysteries that invite silent retrospection.

To the concern of friends, colleagues, children, partner, and psychiatrist I collect fountain pens. I have loads of them and love, nurture, and care for them all. There exists a secret world of FPFs (fountain pen fanatics). We gather 3 times a year in London (events mirrored in other parts of the country and the world) at Pen Shows (https://ukpenshows.co.uk/). Obsessive, nerdy misfits, we discuss nibs, lust after rows of shiny new things and beautiful vintage objects, some of which go back to the Victorian age. At each of these, I tell myself sternly that I do not need any more, that I am here only to look, but a mist descends, and all will dissolve. Thus, I have hundreds of fountain pens; some of them dating back to the late 19th century.

Caption: My oldest fountain pens requiring much love and attention.

(Photo courtesy of Dr. Michael Woolf)

Caption: The price of passion.

(Photo courtesy of Dr. Michael Woolf)

The commitment required and discomfort suffered (enjoyed?) by FPFs is an enigma to anyone for whom a pen is a functional object rather than a love affair.

Let me try and explain. Writing with something that is over 100 years old (or thereabouts) is a special experience - archeologists will understand this - it connects you in some way with those who used it before. A door opens to speculation, fantasy, and dialogues with an imagined past. Perhaps Gladstone scribbled a note to Queen Victoria with the pen I'm using now, or perhaps Wordsworth described his lonely encounter with a host of daffodils. In contrast, a laptop simply stares blankly back at you; empty of expression, without history, it invites no speculative introspection.

As shocking as it may seem to some, Gladstone, Wordsworth, Queen Victoria, and millions of others, including George Eliot, Jane Austen, even Karl Marx, managed without the technology that we now consider essential for communication. They did not enjoy the advantages of social media, and were unable to demonstrate the powerful intelligence of a Donald Trump, nor could they express themselves with the grace and purpose of a Vladimir Putin, or with the ethical authority of the British Prime Minister, Boris Johnson (recently under police investigation). Nevertheless, they managed to function under conditions that our students would consider impossible.

Writing with a fountain pen is a sensuous experience. There is an intimate connection between mind, hand, pen, paper, and word. The relationship between writer and page is personal and outcomes are uncertain. We are not entirely sure what will happen. When we write directly on our computers, we lose evidence of this unpredictability; we have no record of our mistakes, changes, or thought processes.

One consequence is that a form of analysis has been removed from academic research in literary studies. The changes made on a manuscript reveal creative processes, special minds actively engaged with language, as evidenced in a page from Charles Dicken's Great Expectations:

David Wright, curator of the Wisbech & Fenland Museum (where the manuscript is held), said, "In the manuscript we view creative writing at its peak, with the narrative evolving so rapidly that he can barely restrain his pen within the limits of the page." In addition, the words and phrases chosen, and those discarded, are glimpses into an extraordinary mind grappling with meaning, seeking to describe worlds seen and imagined.

It is unlikely that our writing will have such significance, but it also demonstrates the ways in which we negotiate between mind and world, seek meaning in language, express doubt, debate the options we face. The preparation required and the time needed are almost inevitably spaces of contemplation.

The Metaphor and Education Abroad

I rely on my laptop like everybody else, but I don't have a relationship with it beyond utility. I also observe that mobile phones are often barriers to speaking to the person opposite or seeing the world around you. For students abroad, these technologies can be a kind of umbilical cord. They offer a way of limiting encounters with the unfamiliar.

There are several ways in which students abroad might avoid learning much. One of the most effective strategies is to take your body away but remain emotionally and mentally at home. Mobile phones, computers, and social media are ideally designed for this purpose. The consequences are that the places in which the students study are perceived through the filter of home. Relocation is predominantly physical: students are insulated from the impact of the new.

We all need tools to connect with our own thoughts and the thoughts of others - ways of mediating and representing realities. Unlike the technologies upon which we are dependent, a fountain pen needs very little to work effectively, no laptop, mobile phone, charger, or Wi-Fi. Bluetooth is an irrelevance (becomes a dental issue?). There are simply fewer barriers between the self and the thought,

What Is to Be Done?

The pen is mightier than the sword, and considerably easier to write with.

- Marty Feldman

Students are wedded to technologies, and I am not foolish enough to suppose that we can separate them for very long. They are not likely to be convinced by my arguments, nor do I anticipate them running out to buy fountain pens, but there are things we can do. We can insist that students do not use mobile phones or computers in the classroom (unless the professor uses them for pedagogical reasons - but why are they doing that anyway?). We can ensure that students don't use tech-tools on site visits. We might explain that it is more productive to look at the world around rather than a representation of another world on a screen.

We can also discuss these matters with our students and suggest that they voluntarily limit tech time. Entering new spaces effectively requires cutting the umbilical cord. That is the first thing that happens at birth. To become an independent thinker and observer requires separation from the motherland. We cut the umbilical cord many times in our lives as we learn to become students of the new.

One of the more depressing cliches in education abroad is that we have to "meet students where they are" That precisely contradicts the aims and objectives of our work. Taking students away from where they are is at the heart of what we do. Physical, emotional, and intellectual relocation, albeit for a limited time, is an opportunity to enrich consciousness. The fewer the barriers between the students and the places in which they study, the more likely it is that the impact of the new will penetrate minds and hearts. That motivates our endeavors. We are not doing our work to meet students where they are. As all educators seek to do, we aim to take them from that place to other worlds where they may be challenged by the unexpected.

And so, I end with that thought. I have a letter to write.

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