Nib and Finial: The Ritual of Fountain Pens

Writing in the flesh

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I walked into my office this morning and clicked on all six of the lamps that I prefer to the dreadful fluorescence embedded in the drop ceiling. I sat down at my desk, coffee near to hand. Its smell mingled with the scent of the many books I’ve managed to shoehorn onto my shelves. Then, I unscrewed the body of my Waterman and pulled out the empty, freshly cleaned cartridge I use in place of a more expensive converter.  I opened my cigar humidor, lately doubling as a repository for pen tools, and pulled out a syringe. 

Ink from Mont Blanc runs more smoothly in my Waterman than Waterman’s own offerings. Besides, it’s always gratifying to open a bottle that looks like it was designed for expensive cologne. I took a sip of coffee, enjoying the lamplight on the gold and silver of the nib and finial. Then, as I have done many times, I used the syringe to extract just enough ink to fill the cartridge. I reassembled the pen, waited a moment for the feed to saturate, and then started writing this paragraph.