suspended my fountain pen privileges a year ago because I did not have the composure, the self-control, the gentleness, to use this device properly. Few do. Cinch up too eagerly on the sharp nib, graze its crenellated underbelly and you are smeared with a black slick, marked as a bungling, impulsive novice. This danger, of course, is the flip side of the pen's essential appeal: generosity of fluid.Fountain pens teach patience, finesse and respect for the teasing, lambent touch. When dry, the nib catches and scrapes, requiring light tapping or a measured centrifugal swing to elicit flow. Press too hard and it will divot and bleed. Those feisty scribblers who force the pen, who clamp down and jerk it about in a defiant, needling motion, as if administering a tattoo, are easily identified. The fountain pen cannot be pushed, like its contemporary counterparts, only pulled. Coax it properly, however, and you will usher a rivulet smoother than that of the slipperiest rollerball.
The pen I will return to when I permit myself, if I permit myself, is the same refillable Sheaffer Cartridge, with translucent plastic barrel, flexible nib and metal cap, that my mother deployed to fill date book and checks when I was a child. The process of inserting the Sheaffer cartridge insertion is peculiarly gratifying: twist the nib mechanism onto the barrel and the pressure builds as a skewer descends into the plastic cartridge, eventually releasing the ink reservoir if enough force is applied. The resistance of the cartridge and eventual ingress of the skewer, though not felt directly, and only blurrily visible through the translucent fuselage, can be conjured with startling clarity through the sudden easing of the nib rotation. This happens in a rush, always slightly sooner than expected, the flow of ink coinciding with a flush of blood to cheeks.
Photograph by Nola Lopez
