Some Merits Of Pen And Paper

I started my piece titled ‘Considering The Cultural Merits Of The Holodeck’ by noting a series of technological difficulties I have encountered of late. A laptop repair I arranged a month ago did not cure my ailing keyboard, so I bought a Chromebook from Curry’s. When I set it up, I felt energised by the thought of using this new sleek model.

After finishing the aforementioned piece, I lost my mobile phone before finding it in the most unlikely place. I called my network provider to remove the block I had placed on it to prevent its misuse if it fell into the wrong hands; this proved too tough a demand. I had to go into a store and make an in-person request that solved the issue. By the time I purchased the new laptop, I had had more than enough problems with electronics. When I began to write on my new system, I was very grateful that the exasperation I have felt with technology of late began to fade. For an hour, all was fine, and then darkness. I mean it. Complete darkness. The screen turned black. I need to press the power button, I thought. I did. And then nothing. I tried resetting it. Nothing again. Then, from me, energy drained as readily as air from a popped balloon.

Next morning, I found myself back at Curry’s. The customer service person swiftly diagnosed the problem in about five seconds. The screen was screwed. I was told that a new Chromebook could be with me in about three days. I accepted this. I do not recall any apology. I did not expect anything special, just something to recognise that I had lost some time. It's disappointing that they did not compensate me for the nuisance. A £10 voucher would have kept them in my good books. Alas, I consoled myself with the thought of a short wait for a new computer.

Some electronic retailers do not prioritise customer service as much as they should. Most lives are deeply enmeshed in electronics. Producers can make things that break easily or within a short time. A pair of headphones, a tablet, or a laptop need not last as long as one might expect because less people are prepared to go without.

Despite recent frustrations, I am always mindful of how technology enriches life. The internet is a great educational resource. Insightful podcasts, documentaries, and vlogs are at the tip of our fingers. We can communicate with family and friends while they are on the other side of the world. Information is made more secure through online archives. In the past, war, cultural vandalism, and accidents could cause the tragic loss of historical records. Now, digitisation can act as a safeguard and can cushion unforeseen disasters. Researchers can also access vital copy without undertaking long journeys.

As wonderful as these developments may be, a strong case exists for preserving the older ways. Of all the tech misfortunes I have experienced of late, the hardest to deal with was the loss of my phone; this was not just because I use it for communication, research, and entertainment. I could not recall if I had backed up my contact numbers anywhere. Even if they were stored online, what would I have done during an internet outage? I had no contingency plan. A phone book and a working landline would have eased my sense of emergency. I have vague memories of my parents and grandparents having a phone book. I hardly hear of a ‘‘phone book’’ now.

The ubiquity of email and electronic word processing means that most people do not have to use handwriting a lot to navigate daily life. People may still sign registers and pass some handwritten notes to colleagues in the office, but most complex written information is presented on a screen or monitor. Even when a signature is required, we often scrawl onto a hand-held device before accepting our delivery. We do not need to write lengthy letters to break painful silences as our ancestors may have done centuries ago. That is if they were lucky enough to have been taught to read and write. If the internet, or worse, electricity, were to fail due to some unforeseen catastrophe, capable handwriting could be valuable. The practice also has its artistic merits, calligraphy being one.

What if your bank tells you that “you don't share our values” and withdraws their services from you? Remember what happened to Nigel Farage and others. If your boss is a ‘‘Cultural Studies’’ graduate, and you have the temerity to suggest that a man with a cock and balls should not share the same bathroom as your prepubescent daughter, or if you are an insufficiently self-effacing white heterosexual man, this could be you one day. Due to the ideological conformity of several institutions, finding a new bank may not be easy. In such a situation, a healthy supply of paper money would help. I understand that we use polymer notes in Britain, but this is not the case everywhere, and the same principle applies.

Cash is of ready application in less dramatic circumstances. Card readers that process transactions are fallible and will malfunction and break. Companies refusing cash will have to adapt to such a situation or lose revenue.

Cash helps guard against invasions of privacy. With every card payment you make, your bank gathers more data on you. To what ends? Can we always be sure? A bank does not need to know your every move.

Some people prefer cash over bank cards because it helps them to manage their spending habits. People can feel a sense of disconnect from money when tapping a piece of plastic to complete purchases. Using notes and coins can involve the handling of multiple tactile objects.

Cash facilitates social trust; we expect others to count our money and to receive the correct change after buying something.

Cash has immense cultural value. The head of a prominent figure on a note can convey national identity, promote group solidarity, celebrate achievements, and affirm ideals.

Non-electronic currencies are cultural artefacts that tell us about the societies they come from.

Anyone who still reads the established press may be grateful that newspapers are readily accessible online. The news cycle is fleeting; physical copies of passing papers can seem unnecessary. Magazines and other titles are different. Those who still buy hard copies of their weekly or monthly favourite may enjoy the ritual of opening a fresh edition. Before almost everything moved online, this experience was probably more common and appreciated. Some still prefer things this way. An issue broadly spread invites immersion into a freeing and rewarding reading and aesthetic experience. Ensconcing oneself peacefully with a nice drink and devoting time to enjoying interests and fine writing appeals. Looking at small phones and monitors can narrow and restrict our vision and sense of comfort.

A well presented and pleasantly illustrated periodical containing quality writing is worth preserving. A magazine can be kept, ready to evoke an abiding memory, and it may have uses for reference. The online equivalent of bookmarking an article does not compare. It does not imprint anything of significance into the mind. Decisions to store and preserve physical objects accord them a status that “saving” and “starring” cannot; this is owing to the difficulty of assigning to passing web pages a distinctiveness that marks them out from the never ending mass of internet material. Would you sooner see a contemporary paper copy of a match day programme for the game your team played to win a cup or an online version “posted” on the same day? The latter will never fetch anything at an auction, that is for sure. If an offline item of this order had adjoining buttons inviting us to “minimise”, “maximise”, or “close”, it would be made cheap by such mechanical options. “Downloading it” “from the app” will not move our emotions; buying something at an event may lead us to cherish an item and bequeath it to posterity. The offline copy leaves us with more than just another “file”. As with cash, handwritten texts and words in print are cultural artefacts that tell us about the societies they come from.

Devices have a dynamic of incessant alerts and notifications eager to ambush the tranquillity of a nice read. Turn these notifications off, and endless tabs and feeds are still a click away, ready to drag you onto this or that page. If you manage to resist this, you might be interrupted by an incoming call. On a wonderful day in a beautiful park, a failing battery or power bank could truncate your study. Printed material forestalls these problems, and this is without considering the impact of too much screen time and unnatural light.

It would be remiss to finish a piece concerning the merits of paper without noting its role in facilitating wholesome pursuits like drawing and painting.