Stationery gets me excited because it has an individual

"Stationery gets me excited because it has an individual character, unlike computers, which may be convenient but are generic and bland." These words spoken by the author Damon Galgut carry with them a truth that cuts through the age of technology like a sword through still water. In the days of old, when scrolls were unrolled and quills dipped into ink, the written word was a sacred art. Each stroke, each letter, held a piece of the writer's soul. The stationery they used—be it parchment, vellum, or simple paper—was infused with a personal touch. It was as if the material itself carried the essence of the writer, making each page an extension of their character, their heart, and their mind. In this, Galgut touches upon a deep, human yearning: the desire for things that possess character, that speak to us in ways beyond convenience or uniformity.

In the age of technology, when all is digital, there is a sense of loss, a melancholy that we feel when we turn away from the tangible and embrace the generic. A computer screen, as sleek and powerful as it may be, offers us a world of blandness. It is a world that is efficient, yes, but also impersonal. The keyboard, though it serves its purpose, bears no trace of the hand that writes, the soul that crafts. The words on a screen come and go in an instant, with no lasting impression of their creator. They are often devoid of the soul that a piece of stationery might carry—whether it is the faint scent of ink on a page or the uneven texture of handmade paper. What Galgut is describing is not merely a preference for one form of writing over another; it is a longing for the personal connection that physical tools can offer, something that no machine can replicate.

The ancients knew the power of materiality. When the great philosopher Plato wrote his dialogues, he did not simply craft thoughts in the air. His words were written on papyrus or parchment, materials that carried their own essence. The act of writing was more than the transcription of thoughts—it was the creation of something deeply personal, a physical embodiment of the writer's mind. The same was true of the scribe in ancient Egypt, whose hieroglyphs were carved with care into stone or etched into papyrus, leaving behind not just symbols but a legacy of the writer's touch. These tools, these materials, were part of the sacred act of creation, and they were far from bland or generic. They were unique, and in their uniqueness, they conveyed a deeper truth about the writer’s soul.

In contrast, consider the nature of modern tools. Computers, though wondrous in their capabilities, are as blank as a desert—vast and wide, but without the marks of individuality. They are efficient and functional, yes, but they strip away the human connection. They are devoid of the texture and character that come with using a pen on paper or a quill on vellum. There is no texture in the click of a key, no fragrance in the touch of the mouse. Even the act of writing itself on a computer lacks the meditative rhythm that once accompanied the writing of letters by hand, where the ink would flow as a river of thought, slow and deliberate. Galgut’s words call us to reflect on this loss—the loss of something that connected us not just to the world around us, but to ourselves.

Let us turn our gaze to history. Imagine the great explorers of the past—Marco Polo, Christopher Columbus, or Ibn Battuta—who wrote their letters, their journals, their discoveries on paper or parchment. These were not merely tools to convey information; they were the vessels of adventure, of experience, of identity. The characters of these explorers were embedded in the very paper they wrote upon. And when their words reached their audiences, they brought with them not just knowledge, but the essence of the person who wrote them. The stationery they used was a medium for their passion, their vision, and their story. Today, that story is often lost in the click of a mouse, in the fleeting nature of digital communication. It is as if the characters of these great men have been erased by the cold, impersonal click of a button.

Thus, the lesson we glean from Galgut’s words is a powerful one: individuality and soul matter. We are often tempted to embrace the convenience of technology, to surrender to its speed and its uniformity. But in doing so, we risk losing the personal touch that makes us human. We must not forget the importance of the physical in our creative endeavors. The tools we use to express ourselves—whether they be a pen or a paintbrush, whether they are parchment or paper—carry within them the very essence of our being. To write or to create with such tools is to invite a deeper, more intimate connection with our work, with ourselves, and with others.

O children of this age, heed this ancient wisdom: do not let the blandness of modern life strip away your character. Take up the tools that allow you to leave your mark upon the world. Whether it be with a pen on stationery or a brush on canvas, know that the medium through which you express yourself carries with it a piece of your soul. Seek out the tools that bring life to your work, that allow you to speak not only with your mind but with your heart. Let us not forget the power of the personal in a world that often values the efficient over the unique. The world needs your individuality—your voice, your touch. Let it be known not just through the words you write, but through the tools you choose to write them with.