About my Olivetti Lettera 32

My new typewriter is an Olivetti Lettera 32. It arrived by mail last week.

The brilliant Gerald dela Cruz restored the machine. He even added an extra—an old typewriter case that he painted over.

This Olivetti model sparked my interest years ago. I had read that the writer Cormac McCarthy had used one for most of his novels and screenplays. I looked up the model online. I liked how it looked—a certain quiet elegance and a pragmatic design seemed to emanate from it. Maybe I was being melodramatic.

Holding the machine and typing away random thoughts on old paper lying around the house, I realized I had not been exaggerating at all. This Olivetti is a truly gorgeous machine.

Why do I choose to collect typewriters anyway? I have several computers at home. I have several printers as well. But unlike these machines, they all run on electricity. Word processors are fine things, but they don't quite capture the beauty of typed letters, the carriage moving forward, the intelligent yet rhythmic sound of the keys soothing the mind as it figures out what thoughts to verbalize. The process is hypnotic.

I saw a YouTube clip of Woody Allen showing off his old typewriter (an Olympia Portable).The cover had been lost, but the machine seemed built to last forever. He also demonstrated the analog way of copying and pasting. He would literally cut portions of the manuscript and paste them wherever he wanted, say, for a paragraph to appear. He used a stapler, a pair of scissors, and glue. It is still fascinating to watch.

I don't really know where I'm going with this. But that's the thing with typewriters. Deleting a word or a line is inconvenient. I saw a YouTube tutorial that discouraged the use of correction fluid—or "Touch and Go," in my generation—because it could destroy the machine's type slugs. I suppose the alternative is to avoid errors altogether or simply accept that they can appear anywhere in the document.

The Olivetti Lettera 32 is a precious addition to my typewriter collection, which already consists of a Smith-Corona, an Underwood, an Erika Weinrich, and a Hermes Baby. I put them on rotation. I use them as often as I can.

I write stories and essays and lists with them. They bring me so much joy. To see them and to work with them—I'm amazed at human ingenuity.

But on a more specific note about the Olivetti:

First, I like its size. It is portable. The old journalists and writers used to carry this around. One of these days, I might just bring it to a café.

Second, I like its functionality. The keys are beautiful. The carriage moves smoothly. The bell is soft but still satisfying to hear.

Third, I like how it looks. The color is a shade of green—closer to olive, I suppose. I should look that up. It's true: it is indeed elegant to look at. But it also gives off a very serious vibe.

Delight

Sitting on a desk, in a relatively quiet corner of Changi Airport, while waiting for the plane that will take me home, I read L.M.Sacasas’s essay, “The World Is Something To Behold, Not Just Use.” He writes:

We are made to take delight, all creatures according to our kind. I believe that this delight is not only our highest purpose, a kind of play that bleeds into worship, but also an indispensable way of knowing the world.

The essay is infused with much wisdom, offering a counterpoint to the Machiavellian pragmatism that our modern world upholds, giving primacy to beauty and delight as ends in themselves because they are God’s gifts to us.

Sacasas argues—rightly so—that the world largely sees the value of things largely for their usefulness rather than the delight they can inspire in us.  

In God’s gracious economy, beauty leads the way. Before we learn to make good use of a thing, we must behold and delight in it. Perhaps it is only by first delighting in a thing that we can then discern how to put it not just to effective use but to a use that can truly be called good.

Olivetti Lettera 32 is coming to town

When Sheila Heiti interviewed the recluse Elena Ferrante, Ferrante wrote back: "I’ve written a lot, but sometimes I’ve had a hard time considering what I’ve written to be worth publishing." That’s what I’ve been doing privately. Writing, putting words onto blank paper, each page an adventure because I don’t exactly know where it’s going to lead. The fun is in the exercise. The story that emerges might be different from what I had originally intended for it to be. The human brain is a mysterious thing. An image, or a prompt, or a word can initiate the desire to transform something into stories. A sudden turn of a phrase, or the appearance of one character, can create turns in the narrative. Using a typewriter helps. I suppose it’s the inability to do anything else—you can’t browse anything, you can’t check your email, you can’t surf in the internet—and the rhythmic staccato created by the pounding of the keys that amplify the pleasure. I don’t get lost in the story. I’m finding my way through, with a vague sense of when and how the story ends. The background noise certainly helps.

I told my mother she should expect a package in the mail any time this week or the next. I placed an order for an Olivetti Lettera 32, restored and cleaned, the body bearing its original paint. I’ve wanted to get a Lettera 32 for years now, but I couldn’t quite justify the purchase. Why add to my small typewriter collection? How many typewriters does one actually need? After reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy and some of his interviews and profiles, including the fascinating article in the Atlantic, I contacted Richard dela Cruz, the brilliant man who restores these ancient machines from his shop in Quiapo, and right after I sent him an inquiry, he told was just about to complete finishing touches on, guess what, an Olivetti! I read somewhere that Uncle Cormac used that typewriter model, not the actual typewriter that's on its way to my house, for most of his stories.

From the Classic Typewriter: 

There are a few points in history where form meets function so deliberately that a work of art is born in the union. 

The Lettera 22 was designed by Marcello Nizzoli in 1950, and was an immediate sensation. It was awarded the Compasso d'oro prize in 1954. In 1959 the Illinois Institute of Technology chose the Lettera 22 as the best design product of the last 100 years. A specimen can be found in the Museum of Modern Art in New York City. 

Marcello Nizzoli followed up the wildly successful Lettera 22 design with the Lettera 32 thirteen years later. Though things got a little more square and less organic, something beautiful happened; one of history’s iconic typewriters was born. It’s been the machine chosen by countless writers throughout the century, including some of the most iconic creators of our times; Thomas Pynchon, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen. 

I should find a shelf to put my typewriters on display at home. These old machines fascinate the kids, including my godson Lance, who once asked me, “What is that, Ninong?” I told him how to load the paper onto the carriage, and how to adjust margins, and so on. I had never felt so old until that day. Yes, I should put the typewriters on a shelf, preferably with glass, so the dust doesn’t get through.  You might see the Smith Corona, the Hermes Baby, the Erika Weinrich, the Underwood, but certainly not the stories I’ve written—no, no. They will, unlike my typewriters, never see the light of day. 

Some books

No coherent reading plan exists in my head. I pick the books I want at the time I like to read them. I'm open for surprises, on the lookout for new names. Here are some books I've read. I write about them here for posterity. 

Muriel Barbery's The Life of Elves is a novel of poetic proportions. I'm not sure what I mean by "poetic" exactly, except to convey the relentless, rhythmic flow of imagery, her words pieced together to form sentences that make me say, "Oh wow, I've never thought of that before." At the center of this novel are two gifted girls—one from France, the other from Italy. Two worlds converge; the natural and supernatural meet through a bridge, a portal made possible by the lives of two girls, whose origins are mysterious and fascinating. The village faces extinction, and a war is looming. But the novel is brimming with hope, love, and community. 

Colm Tóibín's The Story of the Night brings us to Argentina, where a young man, born to an Argentinian father and English mother, explores his sexuality and personhood. The prose is beautiful, the story captivating but ultimately tragic. There came a point when the story brought me to scenes that made me remember the patients I'd met at the HIV clinic during my infectious disease rotation, particularly, and one patient, especially, who was dying of complications from AIDS, his parents waiting outside, as I asked him about his medical and sexual history. That patient, emaciated and helpless, refused to tell his parents about his diagnosis, and the lifestyle that ultimately led to where he was. His parents told me, as I was getting out of the room, "We know what he has, Doc. We don't want him to know that we know." He died a few days later. 

Jon Fosse's Septology arrived in the mail yesterday. I took the book with me to the porch where at first, the narrative overwhelmed me. The entire chapter is one, long run on sentence. I'm in the head of a man named Asle, who lives in the southwest coast of Norway. It is a book of solitude, I would say, or at least it reads that way to me; I'm on page 109 out of this 829-page novel, a compilation of books previously released as a trilogy, translated by Damion Searls. The blurb calls Septology hypnotic. My goodness, it really is. 

The porch

I woke up at 4 am, brewed coffee, and went out to my new favorite place to read: the front porch. I turned on the lights and read The Road by Cormac McCarthy. After a few pages—the father and son were at the beach now, and the son forgot the gun, and the father said it was okay, and they found the gun just where the son had left it—I heard the rhythmic chanting from the nearby mosque. The call to prayer. When the singing ended, the bird calls followed, getting louder by the minute. The birds must have been praying as they waited for the slow, steady sunrise. Our neighbor took his car out; he would go jogging at the City Hall. Nanay was still asleep in her room but would soon join me for coffee. 

The patio chairs were installed a month ago. My mother put in throw pillows last week. The porch is now an ante-room of sorts, a liminal space to entertain guests who drop by for a few minutes and who wouldn’t stay for a meal. I spend my early mornings there. The cool of the early morning refreshes me. On rare afternoons when I’m home, I stay there. The shade of the trees make the experience tolerable. During evenings, I enjoy the  breeze wafting through. The mosquitoes pick on me, but I repel them with citronella lotion I put on my limbs. 

I teared up as I read the last few pages of The Road. I hated myself for it—I’ve never been a crybaby—but the crying was therapeutic. I was glad nobody saw me, not even Paul, dreaming under the living room sofa. The Road opened me up and left me undone. I remembered my father, how his body felt to the touch when life was draining out of him, while my mother quietly and tearfully sang hymns near his ear, and we, his sons, said our goodbyes, as his soul ascended to glory.

He slept close to his father that night and held him but when he woke in the morning his father was cold and stiff. He sat there a long time weeping and then he got up and walked out through the woods to the road. When he came back he knelt beside his father and held his cold hand and said his name over and over again.

Ah, Uncle Cormac—how your words come alive and your stories continue.

Ebola

I somehow put two and two together: a post from Drs. Scott and Jennifer Myhre, whose blog I follow religiously, and a Christianity Today article. Both refer to a young man serving as a missionary doctor in Africa during the deadly Ebola virus outbreak.

That man is Dr. Peter Stafford. I realize, with amazement and concern, that Peter is my age: 39 years old. He is a surgeon, specializing in burn treatment, ministering to patients in Nyakunde Hospital in Congo. He serves with his wife, Rebekah, 38 years old (around my age, too), who’s an ob-gyn.

The Myhres wrote:

And join us in thanking God for sparing Dr. Peter. He was severely ill, unable to walk without assistance and troubled by mental anguish and high fever by the time the evacuation flight could finally be arranged. His life was spared by the grace of God, the prayers of hundreds if not thousands, and the competent persistent work of many people in several countries. He’s nearly finished the treatment period and entering convalescence, as his family and another doctor (Dr. Patrick LaRochelle) have a final week of quarantine to be sure they escape infection, but so far so good.

He is on his way to full recovery. 

 What struck me most about the CT piece is this line: 

Peter felt intense fatigue; at times he could not stand up to look out the window. He also had an intense fever but no thermometer to measure it. He felt delusional and could not eat or sleep. He desperately wanted to see his family but did not have the energy to record videos to send them or find some other way of connecting.

“We had just learned with our kids these small little verses. One was, ‘When I am afraid, I put my trust in you’ [Ps. 56:3], and that was just continuously replaying in my mind,” Peter said.

At the peak of his productive years, Peter and Rebekah chose the path of service. I don't know the story behind it. But I imagine that God put in their hearts a burning desire to serve wherever God leads them. God's direction pointed them to the people of Congo. 

There are days when I feel unhappy with my career, ungrateful and indifferent to God’s grace that sustains me. When I read stories about people living their lives for the glory of God and the love of all people across the world I realize I must be content with my lot. I am where I should be. Where God leads me, I will, and should, follow. 

Pliable, tender, open and raw

Nobody saw me at Blackthorn Café last Monday. I was rereading The Road by Cormac McCarthy. On my table was a cup of pour-over coffee, a pick-me-up after a satisfying lunch. In the café were two girls, teenagers with make up, taking selfies; they were all in a different world altogether and couldn’t care less about me. It was the perfect setting for a good cry.

I’ve been inspired by last’s week’s New York Times Book Review Podcast episode, where host Gilbert Cruz interviewed author and Daily Stoic podcast host Ryan Holiday. They talked about The Road with fascination and awe.

The Road is about a lot of things, of course, but ultimately it’s about a father and his son, moving through a post-apocalyptic world, trying to survive with each other. Gilbert and Ryan, both fathers themselves, talked about the book with sacrosanct affection. It is, as with most, if not all, of Uncle Cormac’s novels, a masterpiece.

I recall Gilbert saying something about how his vocabulary expands when he reads any McCarthy novel—the words are weird and rare, but they exist in the dictionary. Fine examples: slutlamp, bloodcults, bulldrums, dogmushers, bogfolk, siwash. Or how it was brought up that Uncle Cormac didn’t like using quotation marks. Or how beautiful his prose is—the way he strings together words and sentences and tugs your heart and soul and mind with the story. Or how utterly violent yet elegantly human his worlds are.

Before heading out to the hospital, I looked for my brother’s paperback copy. The books at home are all over the place. They were not in any particular arrangement—certainly not in the Dewey Decimal Classification System—but I could at least recall a general area where I may have placed a particular novel, for instance. Now the books are even more jumbled. When the earthquake struck, a bookshelf collapsed. The books were scattered on the floor. Neneng, our househelp, put the books back in place. She did a great job of arranging the books, but it’s hard to find a specific book now.

I first read The Road in 2011. My father was alive then. It’s now 2026, Tatay has passed away. I thought about Amanda Petrusich's sobering New Yorker piece, where she wrote, “Grief forces a kind of radical transformation, for better or for worse. I found it to be a shockingly generative state: I’d never been more pliable, tender, open, or raw.” That’s pretty much the state The Road brings me back to: pliable, tender, open and raw. It's been eight years after Tatay had died.

The magic of literature is how infinite a piece of work can be read, depending on the reader's context, mood, overall state of mind. 

In The Road is a scene where the father pulls the trigger to save his son. The books encourages me to remember Tatay, in whose presence I felt most safe:

When they’d eaten he took the boy out on the gravelbar below the bridge and he pushed away the thin shore ice with a stick and they knelt there while he washed the boy’s face and his hair. The water was so cold the boy was crying. They moved down the gravel to find fresh water and he washed his hair again as well as he could and finally stopped because the boy was moaning with the cold of it. He dried him with the blanket, kneeling there in the glow of the light with the shadow of the bridge’s understructure broken across the palisade of treetrunks beyond the creek. This is my child, he said. That is my job. Then he wrapped him in the blanket and carried him to the fire.