Powdered Whigs
I've been reading a lovely little self-culturally-boosting book called "How the Scots Invented the Modern World", tracing out the historical rise of the Scottish Enlightenment, and how it rose more or less simultaneously with (slightly before), and fed, 'The' Enlightenment of the Continent, leading in turn to many of the social, economic and legal systems we call Western Civilization.
During this little jaunt out of my own field, I've been struck by how closely my own personal beliefs seem to align with the selected writing snippets of some of the intellects of the time. Note to self: Must read more.
Along the way though, I've found myself inquiring about the seeming fall of writing in modern culture. We don't write, we type. We don't mail, we blog. Anyone can 'publish' a tract. Wonderfully democractic and liberating.
But really unsatisfying, in my mind. I want the scratch of nib on paper, the flow of ink across rough fibers... *something* that gives me feedback on a physical and tactile level that the act of creation not only *exists* but that by god, it just might *matter*. Carpal tunnel is not that feedback.
Screw the Internet, I want a quill.
During this little jaunt out of my own field, I've been struck by how closely my own personal beliefs seem to align with the selected writing snippets of some of the intellects of the time. Note to self: Must read more.
Along the way though, I've found myself inquiring about the seeming fall of writing in modern culture. We don't write, we type. We don't mail, we blog. Anyone can 'publish' a tract. Wonderfully democractic and liberating.
But really unsatisfying, in my mind. I want the scratch of nib on paper, the flow of ink across rough fibers... *something* that gives me feedback on a physical and tactile level that the act of creation not only *exists* but that by god, it just might *matter*. Carpal tunnel is not that feedback.
Screw the Internet, I want a quill.