In Praise Of Typing An Anodyne

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 208, 3 September 1938, Page 5 (Supplement)

In Praise Of Typing

An Anodyne

For Women

students and teachers knit voraciously. They surely absorb more wool from the market than do housewives and mothers. Why? Because the soothing monotony of the needles seems to release some pent-up tiredness of the brain, provides a " outlet for nervous energy, changes the tempo from quick concentrated thinking to quick automatic fingering . . . relaxes • . . rests. Typing i* I'ke knitting. There is much the same automacy about it, producing the same soothing relaxation. Once I found it hard to believe this. It seemed marvellous to be able to type with any degree of accuracy and speed. As office junior and message girl, it was with awe that one watched and wondered as a senior, translating from shorthand notes, fingers busily flipping the keys, at the same time gave orders about even more intricate matters such as filing. *1 o be able to talk and type at the same time! Oh, miraculous! But typing was hard to learn. With muttering lips, whole being concentrated, trying to help those funibli ng fingers, we repeated qwert, yuiop through long

hours. And then later, when the keyboard was more or less mastered, strange sentences, as strange as any learned in early French lessons, like queer meaningless phrases given in psychology to promote sequence of thought, filled'the foolscap pages. . . . "The Zuyder Zee was formed by an eruption of the ocean"— "A haddock, a haddock, a black-spotted haddock; a black spot on the back of a black-spotted haddock." But even still one could not type, and in moments when copy was called for urgently, went back to the old method of using the two forefingers —a method in which one could undoubtedly develop great speed. The typewriter is modern. Just as the quill superseded the whittled stick plunged in berry juice, the stylo superseded the quill, the fountain pen the stylo—so the typewriter is challenging the pen and pencil. It is less romantic certainly. "The pen" has so long stood for all that is great. "The pen is mi-ihtior than the sword." How apt it is. How can one find such a line about a typewriter. "Take up thy pen and write!" And Cervantes—"The pen is the

By Wheturangi.

tongue of the mind." Marvellous injunctions all of them so true, so gluing with glamour to youngsters who are inspired to make a bid for fame and fortune with their pens. How can they find the same joy and inspiration in the metaphoric typewriter? It is so blase, so shining and superior; not like a pencil that grows to one's own character, snubpointed and badly sharpened, or with long, slenderly turned lead, or chipped and smoke-blackened where one pokes the fire; scarred with teeth marks at the top or still as crisp and brightly polished as new. There are some who can write with none but red or blue pencils, some who can express themselves with any old stub of lead. A typewriter is always the same, whoever its owner, brightly polished if new, or slightly rusted, the keys in their steps blank and uncxprcssivc—no individual marks upon it. But for those who call for romance in their implements, it is

cuinuiiug lu rcuieuiuvr Lucre jn uu cnuing of St. Francis, the patron saint of journalists, seated at the typewriter. Thus k even this most modern and everyday instrument made holy, touched with the glow of history and romance... made worthy in its lowliness to become "mightier than the sword." The carriage horse is a symbol of an era that has passed, of days that were more leisurely, perhaps more proud and courteous. But though the horse is bo longer the public figure it once was, we have in its place the motor-car —slim and shining, beautiful in repose, in movement a thing of sleek swiftness, pulsating with energy—a modern athlete, lean, well-developed, trained. So is the typewriter equally a modern symbol, an emblem of the world of commerce— gleaming silver and black, shining, a tlrng of power, motivated by the mind and fingers—subservient and faithful, acknowledging the master mind. But oh, the sweetness of leaning once again to touch the keys—to flick the roller back again at the end of the line, to hear the little bell ring its warning, the satisfaction of drawing out the finished sheet, neatly printed. For after a morning of shorthand, of concentrated listening . . . searching for the right word . . . going through the weekly figures, adding till one's head reels and staggers . . . then it is joy indeed to turn a>rain to the typewriter. To feel one's fingers moving across the keys without effort, without thought, to hear the pentle regular click and tap, to be soothed again into an eagerness, a readiness for work by the automatic click and easy slide of the machine.