Comments on my last blog post
have only succeeded in intensifying my thinking about the Olivetti Letteras 22
and 32 (no, Ted, you’re not missing anything; 1964 was definitely the year for
the 32*). The overriding impact of the comments was to reinforce the general
Typospherian view that typewriter preference is very much a personal choice.
Bill likes his Skyriter or Montana and goes for portability, while Richard
seems to prefer something a little larger (a Series 5 Smith-Corona, perhaps, or
a Royal Quiet De Luxe?). But the topic of choice made me wonder: What range of
typewriters did others have to choose one from, back in the day?
In
my case there was only one typewriter shop in town, Jim McNulty’s on Albert
Street (although Hay’s Department Store later sold Olympia SM9s). In 1965, I
probably went out of my way to walk down Albert Street at least three or four
times a week, after school, just to make sure the Lettera 32 was still in the
window. Someone else had to get it
before me – it was just too gorgeous for words. I have no idea whether Jim had
other portables for sale, the 32 was the only one in his window. When I did
finally did get my hands on it, and took it proudly into the Grey Star’s newsroom,
I quickly noted it was the only Olivetti on the seven desks. The editor had his
1956 taupe Lettera 22 amid the ash on his office desk, but in the reporters
room there were only Imperial Good Companions (albeit in an eye-catching deep
red) and Brothers. I didn’t think for one second I was kidding myself, in regarding
mine to be vastly superior in all regards.
It’s
a funny thing, looking back on it now, but when, after six years of yearning to
start a journalism cadetship, the last thing I thought of taking into the
newspaper office - when the chance eventually did come - was a typewriter. I
must have thought the tools of the trade were supplied. Well, the pens and
notebooks were, but not the typewriters. Of course, I did already own my own
portable, an Underwood Universal, which was given to me by my Dad in 1957. But
that machine got such a pounding on my home desk, I would never have taken it
anywhere else. It deserved its occasional respite.
When
I first started work at the newspaper, it was as an intern in the August school
holidays. Jack Turner, the chief of staff, scoured the building for me, and
found a clunky old Remington standard somewhere out the back, in the print
shop. I was far from unaccustomed to using standards, and the Remington suited
me just fine, although its racket probably disturbed the concentration of the
older reporters around me. Soon after joining the staff full-time, in early
December, I was given the nod to go down to McNulty’s and buy the Lettera 32.
The company paid for it, and would dock my wages a few shillings each week to
settle up. But the Olivetti was mine, all mine! And I loved the feeling that I
was its proud owner.
From
that point on, as I travelled across the world, working in Auckland, Sydney,
Cork, Dublin, London and then back in Australia, and was sent on assignment
around the globe –to places as exotic as Fiji and Egypt – I always used a
Lettera 32. I never considered a change for one moment. That enormous amount of
usage naturally entrenched my loyalty to and passion for the 32.
I
have to confess portability – the weight of the Lettera 32 in its snazzy,
tight-fitting carry case – was always an important factor, right up there with
never wavering reliability. In 1974 I worked so late in the Press Room at
London’s Twickenham rugby stadium that when I finally emerged, the lights were
out and the 20-foot high gates were locked. I got out, with typewriter, by
pushing the Olivetti through the palings and dropping it on to the ground
outside, then scaling the gates. I’d never have managed it with anything
bulkier.
Me, Auckland, June 1971
So
I came back to the matter of choice. Yes, the Lettera 32 greatly appealed to me
in 1965. For one thing, my editor owned a taupe 22 and, after all, he’d got it
at the Melbourne Olympic Games. More importantly, however, I liked the look of
the Olivetti, the way I liked the look of Carter Brown potboiler covers, of a
57 T-bird or a Triumph Spitfire (got to own a couple of them, too), or a Jaguar
Mark 2 (still dreaming). The Lettera 32 was sleek and modern and – well, very sexy.
I liked the concave keytops in grey plastic, I liked the steely blue colour. I
liked the state-of-the-art case.
Were
there any other criteria when it came to making my selection? Not one. I only
had eyes for this one portable anyway. But how the Lettera 32 typed, how it
suited my typing, what its features were - I didn’t give a single jot for such
things. It was so beautiful, I would have to fit myself around its needs, not
it around mine. It’s bit like the way one feels about a girlfriend: she could
say, “Go jump” and you’d ask, “How high?” It was the same for me and the
Olivetti.
We’re
told one never forgets a first love. I can’t say I’ve ever really fallen completely
out of love with the Lettera 32, it’s just that many other loves have come into
my life in the past 54 years, and some I’ve loved even more than the 32. But
I’ve never been able to abandon the 32 either. Oddly enough, when I was asked
about a machine for The Typewriter
orchestral performance in November, my mind drifted toward the 32 – now, I
suppose, I tend to think of it as my “old reliable”.
Most
Typospherians have, in the past decade or so, given themselves the chance to
use a whole wide range of typewriters. Many have collections, and can make a
daily choice from a selection of dozens. That’s what the typewriter obsession
is really all about – trying out new machines, experiencing as many as
financially and physically possible, being the Lotharios of typewriting. I’ve
never once received a “new” old typewriter without wanting to type with it
immediately. For me it’s a natural instinct. An insatiable curiosity, if you
like, an ever-present need.
With
these multiple experiences, preferences will naturally evolve. But while
Richard talks about “the first typewriter I would grab to use”, I don’t think
many us ponder that choice for very long. I’ve been asked the question, “What
would you take if the house was on fire?” many, many times, and the answer
probably changes every time. Hopefully, we’ll never have to make that decision.
So it’s not worth sweating over. For me, it comes down to this: the Lettera 32
was my first love, the love wore off, but the affection remains. Other
portables have, from time to time, filled the gap left in my heart. The Lettera
32 isn’t the one I’d grab in case of fire – they’re easily replaceable. Yet, for
all that, I can’t forget the way I felt about it in 1965, and how it succeeded,
back then, in mindlessly reducing my choice to one. It was the only choice I
remember having. Most of the blokes who worked around me on the Grey Star in 1965 can’t recall what they
used. I can and always will.
*Yes,
Ted and John, “The Magnificent Seven” will
be reprinted, hopefully sometime later this year.
