Already a subscriber? Log in
However, penmanship is not the point. The new objective is to get everyone to write anything and anyhow on any surface with any sort of pen on any occasion, but frequently and legibly, in the expectation of giving and taking pleasure, of beneficial therapy, and — if science is any guide — of improving the mental agility of children. It’s a bold claim, supported by a useful sketch of the main schools of handwriting in the past, French, German, and American as well as English; a note on Hitler’s handwriting and its imitators, some of whom were unaware that the Führer had given up writing by hand in the 1930s; essays on handwriting in Dickens and Proust, and more on the weird but lucrative science of graphology.
There is a horribly funny story about the author’s attempts to buy a new fountain pen in some big London shops two days after Christmas, which fits into the argument — somehow. For he is a fountain pen man, tiny lever, rubber sac, unscrewable cap and all — but so enraptured by the technology and universal empire of Biro, Bic and Cristal that he sometimes writes like a ballpoint salesman. He shows that pens can be objects of passionate desire and absurdly overpriced: not the most compelling case for using them.
Here and there he puts in short interviews with A, B and C, who are asked about their own and other handwriting. Embarrassment, self-depreciation and fond reminiscence are the foreseeable reactions, and if these are true to life, the invitation to scribble more and often has a chance of success.
Hensher recommends writing lessons in the school curriculums, like they have in France; which is why French exercise books are all defiled with little squares like graph paper, to keep the ascenders and descenders the same lengths.
That degree of regimentation (which works) is odious to our way of thinking. But something can be done to prepare children for writing beforehand. For example, if you live near a common, poultry market or farm, get them to collect goose feathers. Do you shoot? A fat crow will pluck nicely. Then ask them to shave the shanks of the feathers so as to leave tufts at the thin end. Those plumy articles with which heroines write billets-doux in films are fiction. Next, harden the quill in hot sand, i.e. in a tin of sand, warmed over moderate heat. Not too hot or the pen will blister. Children can watch and smell this process and try it themselves.
Then you show them how to carve the thick end into a nib, and split it evenly up the middle. That takes a very sharp knife; too sharp for them to use, but they can learn to hone it. You will probably have to buy the ink, since chemists no longer seem to stock iron sulphate, but however you get it, let the little ones dip and scrawl, and spill and spar, and the resulting theatre of ink, feathers, blood and tears may appeal to children of moderate ability aged four to eight enough to set them on the track which may eventually bring them to the sweet Roman hand.
As for adults, let them have Philip Hensher’s book. It deserves to sell.
Also in Book Reviews
Also by Eric Christiansen
Latest
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in