AlexPGP's Corner

I've got an old Mont Blanc Meisterstück №146 fountain pen that's been lying around for years, unused, because the last few times I filled it and tried writing with it, the flow of ink would quickly become excessive and any joy associated with using it to write would be washed away. Research suggested this excessive ink flow is a common problem with the №146, and the solution is to have the pen "serviced" (in exchange for a hefty chunk of cash, natch).

I had hoped to drop by Dromgoole's in Rice Village one of these Saturdays when "The Pen Doctor" was in, but the one time I managed to do so—about a year ago, if memory serves—found me at the end of a pretty long line of folk in need of his services, and so I thought I'll come back another time, and went home. Not surprisingly, "another time" has yet to come around again. My bad.

This leads me to something that happened during a break in yesterday's work, which is that I ran across a paper titled Luzhin and the Freudian Chessplayer, which (according to the title page) I wrote for RUS 217, taught by Professor Radley, during my undergraduate days at Stony Brook. One of the few clearly memorable moments of those days for me was the afternoon I stopped by Professor Radley's office to pick up—discuss and pick up, actually—the graded paper, because it was during the discussion that Professor Radley took out his Mont Blanc Meisterstück, posted the cap for writing, and scribbled some additional comments in the margin as they occurred to him. Among these was the following:


I recall thinking, watching Professor Radley continue to make notes as we discussed the paper, that he wasn't just writing, he was writing! And that impression was long-lasting, so much so that when a book I wrote about Turbo Pascal was finally published, I got a Meisterstück №146 to celebrate.

As it turned out, that pen went AWOL during a trip to Las Vegas about five years later, the result of my putting the ink-engorged thing down next to my place setting at a restaurant instead of back into my pocket, and then forgetting to pick it up as Galina and I left the establishment. We returned ten minutes later to find the table cleared and alas, nobody knew anything about any pen. In the end, my current pen was purchased to replace that one.

But returning to the paper, its purpose was—if memory serves—to "compare and contrast" views of chess play (and in particular, of a strong chess player) from the point of view of Nabokov as expressed in The Luzhin Defense, on the one hand, and of Freudian psychology, on the other. In rereading the text of the paper, I conclude that I must've really been feeling my Wheaties when I wrote it, because some of what I wrote clearly lacks the appropriate stodgy register of a term paper:

Was young Luhzin unconsciously egged on by a desire to kill his father? Was he motivated by a fear of castration? Or did, perhaps, an unfortunate incident which transpired in the course of his toilet training condemn him to the unceasing contemplation of themes chessic?

Unfortunately, Dr. Freud, the world's resident authority on subliminal urges, cannot comment on this state of affairs. He is dead. And while he, in fleeting about this veil of tears, did no theorizing as to the motivations lurking in the psyche of the chess player, there are those who, in spreading the Joyous word, have done so.

I then went on to present some of the ideas stated in The Psychology of the Chess Player, written by Reuben Fine, a world-class player and Freudian psychologist. I seem to recall that this was one of the "easiest" term papers I ever wrote, from the perspective of marshaling my ideas.

In any event, like any good writer, Radley saved the important part for last—there, on the final page of the paper, was my grade, an A-.

(Professor Radley died late last year, and I feel fortunate that I was able to visit with him some years ago, at his Manhattan law office (where he was a partner), and tell him just how much the subjects he taught and the passion with which he had presented them to us had meant to me over the course of my life.)

After reading the paper and Radley's comments yesterday, I felt it was time to take matters in hand (it doesn't take much, go figure), so I gathered what I needed to "service" my Meisterstück (a large paper clip and some silicone grease, as it turns out) and spent entirely too much time disassembling the pen, cleaning it, "greasing" what needed to be leaktight, and then reassembling it. (Apart from the two false tries that occurred when I attempted to reinsert the nib and feed into a part that I had just finished screwing back into the pen, the whole procedure went surprisingly smoothly.)

I then filled the pen with Iroshizuku ama-iro ink (made by Pilot) and, between yesterday and this morning, set about writing on all sorts of paper. The ink flow is strong, but not overpoweringly so, and what is most important—the ink flow hasn't gotten out of hand!

Other time-wasters yesterday included cutting the grass around the house. Our "landscapers" have exhausted their good will, and I am inclined to divert what would have been paid to them for my own nefarious purposes.

And now, back to translation!

Cheers...