Postcard from Paris: A stylophile's paradise

POSTCARD FROM PARIS | A STYLOPHILE’S PARADISE

In kindergarten, my Catholic mother told me that if I said nine Hail Marys every Tuesday, the Blessed Mother would give me something I wanted. Of course, I dutifully said my prayers. Then Mom asked what I wanted. Without a moment’s hesitation, I cried out. “A fountain pen!”

Mom walked me across the street to Woolworth’s, where she purchased my first fountain pen, a Sheaffer, for 29 cents.

Thus began my life as a writer and, more importantly for this postcard, a stylophile, which is a person, according to the Urban Dictionary, “who finds fountain pens inherently interesting.”

I began collecting them more than two decades ago when I looked for one to celebrate my 50th birthday and realized most were out of my price range. Fortunately, I stumbled into the world of less-expensive, vintage fountains pens, specifically those manufactured during World War II, which corresponded to my budget and lifelong fascination with that conflict.

Here’s a photo of a portion of my collection.

My penmanship, as the nuns at St. Mary’s would have told you, is execrable, but a fountain pen in your hand trains your fine motor skills, among other benefits. You’re forced to write more slowly, and the result is much clearer.

I just like the feel of a fountain pen in my hand. I’ve spent hours cleaning and polishing them, which makes me a dork or a hobbyist, or both. But stylophilia, which sounds like a disease, is the only hobby I’ve ever had.

I’m passing it on to another generation. My three grandchildren, 11, 7 and 5, are fascinated by my pens and love to write and draw with them.

I’ve gone more modern recently, buying inexpensive German-made Lamy Safari pens, a favorite, under $25, of many writers I know.

In Paris last September, I discovered Melodies Graphiques, a tiny (by American standards) and magical papeterie, or stationery store, in the Marais District on the right bank of the Seine River. It was like walking into Woolworth’s when I was five years old, only much, much better.

The shop is run by a genial Italian, Giacomo Nottiani, who stocks inks, dazzling notebooks, and jaw-dropping fountain pens.

We visited him this week, the very day we arrived. He showed me his latest arrival, a sleek orange metal Kaweco made in Nuremberg, Germany. I hesitated for two days because it cost $77, not that expensive but more than I have spent on a pen in a long time. On day three, I caved.

I brought it home yesterday and will use it to write a postcard to my Nieman Storyboard editor, Jacqui Banaszynski, whose belief in the value of writing postcards inspired this mini-series while I’m visiting Paris. In the parlance of stylophiles, it’s a good writer.