The Typewriter

The Typewriter

“Take one of the typewriters,” they told him. “Nobody minds if you borrow one for a couple of days. After all, if you already knew in your mind what you want to say, then you just have to sit down at the typewriter and knock it off. Come on! Courage, man! You’ve got it all straightened out upstairs, haven’t you? Well then, the rest is a pushover.”
He spent a long time going from one office to another in search of a suitable typewriter, but none of them was to his liking. They were either too cumbersome, or too heavy to the touch, or of an appearance he was sure would never harmonize with his personality. At all events, not one of these typewriters suited him, not one of them was appropriate to the quality of the ideas which were to be typed upon it. He was aware that the choice of typewriter might turn out to be of vital importance from the very moment he began to type; every part of the machine with which he failed to familiarize himself beforehand might easily spring a surprise on him when he began typing, and this might stop the movement of the words that darted through his mind with the speed of meteors, bearing the ideas he was about to set down.
This did not mean that the concept, the idea he wished to set down on paper, was weak simply because it was weak simply because it was liable to vanish at the slightest shock; far from it. For some time now this idea had been growing inside him with undiminishing vigor; he had felt it rising within him like an unborn child inside its mother’s womb. There were moments when it would overwhelm him completely, breaking out in every word, in every look, in every movement of his hands. At such times he was unable to keep his hands still, and would nervously fumble with the buttons on his coat or thrust his hands in and out of his pockets. When these fits of nervousness overtook him, he would sometimes be driven to ask his hands, “Where, for Heaven’s sake, where d’you want to go?” Even when he was not doing anything with his hands, that is, when he was not buttoning and unbuttoning his coat or thrusting them in his pockets, he would gaze at them; his fingers would be twitching slightly, whispering to one another. They were capable of doing absolutely anything just to conceal that central power which moved them.
He was convinced that in all this fumbling and rummaging, in all these movements, there was evidence of the energy of ideas, and that if all this energy could in some way be imprinted upon his surroundings, transferred to some object, there could be no doubt that in this imprint, in this object, there might be embodied his thought, his great idea. Inspired by this belief, he would sometime start examining the buttons around which, a short while ago, his fingers had been curled. Or he would begin peering into the pockets in which, a short while ago, his hands had been thrust. Needless to say, these investigations never led to anything. He, of course, was no fingerprint expert. Perhaps there really were signs and imprints on his buttons and on his pockets, marks that might have meant something but that could not be seen with the naked eye.
Then they told him to get hold of a typewriter. This would at least give his fingers something to do, they said, and this would produce an impression, leave behind a sign which would contain in itself the entire content of his thought, so that whenever he read this mark he would be able to recall his thought and find gratification in it. Indeed since other people would also be able to see what he had written, it might enable them to experience something of his ideas for themselves.
So, he spent a long time hunting for a typewriter, but he simply could not find one that suited him. He want round to all the offices in town. But everywhere the result was the same; he would always end up by telling himself, “No, this won’t do, either; it has some levers and wheels that are quite unfamiliar to me.” He began to despair of ever finding a typewriter that would live up to his very specific expectations. And he was desperate, because he certainly could not construct such a machine himself.
One day, however, as he was wandering aimlessly and dejectedly down the street, he came upon a friend. “I hear you’re looking for a typewriter,” the friend said. “I’ve got one at home, if you’re interested. It’s a very old one, I’m afraid, but if you like we can go round to my place and take a look at it; perhaps it will be what you want.” They set off for the house. He went along, out of respect for an old friendship, since he had little hope of finding what he wanted. They arrived and climbed up to the attic where, from the darkest and dustiest corner, his friend pulled out a black object which he said was a typewriter. Once they had cleaned off the thick layer of dust that had accumulated, he could tell by the shape of the case alone that this was the very machine he had been looking for. They quickly opened the case. And there it was – the one and only typewriter worthy of his idea.
He recognized it right away. Yes, there could be no doubt about it; this was the right one. He examined it carefully, although he knew quite well there was no need to do so. No matter how hard he tried, he would not have been able to find a single flaw, a single fault that might distort or interfere with the transmission of his idea. Indeed, it would have been far better were he to alter his idea to suit this all-too-perfect typewriter. The machine seemed to have been his language; the place of every tiny wheel and screw seemed familiar to him. “It’s pretty old, I’m afraid.” said his friend, not understanding the reason for the close examination. “It was left to me after my father died. One of the letters is broken, I think.”
“That’s nothing. It can easily be fixed. All that matters is that I’ve found the very machine I was looking for.”
Now that he had finally found a typewriter that would serve his idea, and now that a perfectly harmonious and balanced relationship was to be established between his grand concept and the typewriter that would transmit it, there was nothing left for him to do but to carry the machine from his friend’s house and take it to his own home. He wanted to take it home because he knew full well that, even if his friend’s house were put entirely at his disposal and he were allowed to type away there to his heart’s content, he would not be happy if his contact with the beloved object were to be qualified by the presence of a third person. This, clearly, would amount to the same as not having contact with the object at all.
Borrowing the machine would not be difficult. He simply had to take care not to offend anybody. This problem was as the phrase goes, of a purely technical nature. For the next few days he never left his friend’s side. He agreed with everything he said. No, he didn’t get down on his knees before him. He just offered his friendly approval and embodied the virtue of good old Christian loyalty. In brief, what happened was that during a few days he brought their friendship to such a point of intimacy that he was finally able to request that he be allowed to take the machine home with him, without fear that his request might give offense.
So, one evening, when he felt he was ready (he wanted everything to be worked out with mathematical certitude) he decided that the time was ripe to ask for the typewriter. He played his hand with great skill; his request was dropped casually into a most ordinary conversation as easily as if he were making an innocent remark about the weather. By so doing he avoided all possibility of a refusal. Although a more formal request might have appealed to his friend’s vanity and brought a vague reply such as “We’ll see” or “I’ll have to think it over,” a remark such as he had made, dropped with a certain off-hand nonchalance into a conversation in which many more momentous question were being considered, should not allow of such an answer. Since the remark had been so casually introduced it could only be received in the same vein, with a nonchalant acceptance strengthened by an awareness that the minor request should now no longer complice the already tortuous ramifications of their discussion.
While they were on their way to fetch the typewriter (yes, his friend had agreed to satisfy the request as quickly as possible and to give him the machine that very evening), he found it exceptionally difficult to maintain a normal discourse. However, they finally reached the house, and his friend entered and emerged shortly afterward, carrying the typewriter, which he handed over in its case, even with perhaps my life will be fuller and richer). One of them made a last remark about the weather, and then they parted. Alone now in the dark with the precious burden of the typewriter in his hand, he was overwhelmed by what had happened to him.
The experience was so powerful that it seemed unreal. He had, of course, anticipated great happiness on finally finding a typewriter, but he had never imagined that the difference between having and not having could be so enormous, so sharply defined. One minute there was something undefined, something remote, so far away that it could only be conceived of in the mind, and the next there was the firm feel, the mass, the weight of that something which one could go on forever touching and stroking, something that was too real and close even for one’s self. Suddenly, as though after a great catastrophe, all the surrounding realities seemed to disappear-streets, houses, trees, all seemed to have been carried away, never to return, and only he was left, a solitary castaway on a barren rock in the empty expanse of the sea.
He felt that now something had to happen to fill this void which surrounded him. Something had to happen out side of him as an answer to the happiness might be caused by anything. A small dust storm might break off a piece of the sky, an ordinary cough or sneeze might cause roof tiles to fail. So he would have to watch his step carefully. Now, for example, he would have to race across the street as fast as he could to avoid being caught unawares by a car suddenly appearing from around a corner. And then, when he reached the pavement on the other side, he would try to made his feet glide over the ground, because one false step might disturb the lovely machinery of the typewriter. How could he know? Anything might happen now. What if he stumbled over a loose paving stone? O Lord, all the little cogs and screws would be displaced within the typewriter as he fell, and afterwards nobody would know how to put them back into their proper places again.

2018-08-21T17:23:58+00:00 April 1st, 1999|Categories: Prose, Literature, Blesok no. 08|0 Comments