Some days ago I was trying to write a few good words, maybe like this
, so thought my flattery. Once nothing appeared, again and again, I thought about the silence, the unnatural silence, of even my ill attempt. Something was wrong, help was needed, sound needed to come from my manly attempt to compose doggerel. So away I put my sleek and quiet iPad only good for prose, and found a place not far where an old man sells and repairs typewriters still. On the phone he said he'd been doing it all his life and still making money at it, knew everything there was to know. He tried selling me an electric typewriter. So much for Solomonic wisdom, said I, he didn't know me. Told him I never used the electric stuff, but I had a manual Underwood once, and a Royal, but best was a Hermes, with a good feel, and she never asked for anything, just let me type, with a soft or hard touch, and words came out and I came to like the doing and the product. Did he have such a thing? Sometimes good things happen to fools, he said, for he had one in almost perfect condition, a Hermes 3000
. Dropping all prudence, I drove Clarence north an hour and bought the thing for ninety bucks. The pleasure was great, and--eventually--the doggerel came forth. The thing was a hit, a palpable hit. It still is. I love it and she puts up with me. Now I have discovered that the last typewriter factory
has closed its doors and I almost wept, but then--trusting in my iPad for the research--discovered that this ain't true
thank God! Now back to my Swiss made Hermes. You've heard the expression, made like a Swiss typewriter? Exactly. Precisely.