This news saddened me greatly. Arthur C. Clarke’s science fiction was central to my interest in science. I grew up on a steady diet of his stories ever since I was first introduced to his stories by my father as a child. Whenever I found myself in a library or a bookstore at a loss for what to read next, I instinctively headed to his section to see if he had anything new to offer. He will be missed.
I carry around two Moleskine notebooks just about everywhere that I go — a small, pocket-sized ruled version, and a larger sketchbook version. They’re with me to capture notions, ideas, thoughts, whatever. There’s just one problem: I rarely write in them.
As a rule, I’m generally quite a neat and organized person. This is reflected in my hesitance to mar these exquisite vessels with my unkempt scratchings. Although I spent three years in high school under the strict and hand cramp-inducing tutelage of Mr. Knipe, the drafting teacher, my previously draftsman-perfect block lettering has degraded to only an archaeological remnant of recognizable writing. Such is the price of progress and years of clattering away at a computer keyboard.
When I think of the great minds of the ages – Da Vinci, Newton, and others – their flawless lines of precise penmanship put me to shame (even in the case of Da Vinci who wrote his backwards). Great thoughts deserve great handwriting, don’t they? And so I restrain myself from degrading the pages of these two notebooks with my dribbling scrawl. It’s a weird neurosis, but I’m not sure it’s one that has a psychological classification yet.