Typewriters
Robert Service had a nack for breathing life into inanimate objects. The following verse about Service's typewriter has been a favorite read for me. I cut my teeth on an IBM Selectric back in high school. I still remember the din of noise as students pounded away on those old word mills. Add the clang of carriage returns, the sighs of mistakes which needed correcting, and the occasional curse as a key would stick and it is not hard to understand why it was not a favorite class for me.
However, those early lessens paid off as I can still tickle the keyboard without looking down. I got to thinking of typewriters and their demise. I wonder if, with the advent of computers, typewriters are still being made. How many good folks lost their livelyhood as a result of the changeover to the computer age?
I think writing via the computer is easier, but not nessisarilly better when it comes to the results. I wonder how Service would have taken to the computer. Some how even with spell and grammar checkers, online rhyming dictionaries and such would his verse or his prose have improved.
My Typewriter
by Robert Service
I used to think a pot of ink
Held magic in its fluid,
And I would ply a pen when I
Was hoary as a Druid;
But as I scratch my silver thatch
My battered old Corona
Calls out to me as plaintively
As dying Desdemona.
"For old time's sake give me a break:
To you I've been as loyal
As ever could an Underwood,
Or Remington or Royal.
The globe we've spanned together and
Two million words, maybe,
For you I've tapped - it's time you rapped
A rhyme or two for me.
"I've seen you sit and smoke and spit
With expletives profane,
Then tear with rage the virgin page
I tendered you in vain.
I've watched you glare in dull despair
Through hours of brooding thought,
Then with a shout bang gaily out
The 'word unique' you sought.
"I've heard you groan and grunt and moan
That rhyme's a wretched fetter;
That after all you're just a small
Fat-headed verse-begetter;
You'd balance me upon your knee
Like any lady friend,
Then with a sigh you'd lay me by
For weeks and weeks on end.
"I've known when you were mighty blue
And hammered me till dawn,
Dire poverty! But I would be
The last thing you would pawn.
Days debt-accurst! Then at its worst
The sky, behold, would clear;
A poem sold, the garret cold
Would leap to light and cheer.
"You've toted me by shore and sea
From Mexico to Maine;
From Old Cathay to Mandalay,
From Samarkand to Spain.
You've thumped me in the battle's din
And pounded me in peace;
By air and land you've lugged me and
Your shabby old valise.
"But now my keys no more with ease
To your two fingers yield;
With years of use my joints are loose,
With wear of flood and field.
And even you are slipping too:
You're puffy, stiff and grey:
Old Sport, we're done, our race is run -
Why not call it a day?"
Why not? You've been, poor old machine!
My tried and faithful friend.
With fingertip your keys I'll flip
Serenely to the end.
or even though you're stiff and slow,
No other will I buy.
And though each word be wan and blurred
I'll tap you till I die.
* From Songs of a Sun-Lover, published 1949
Odds and Ends:
Here is a link to a nice site dealing with the history of the typewriter:
Mark Twain and his typewriter
To visit an interesting site dealing with Mark Twain and his typewriter go to this site:
