It's time for another "unofficial" holiday. Today, March 30th, is National Pencil Day. I can't tell you who or what is responsible for the origin of this day, but it interests me as I try to fill in parts of my education. I've been learning about and experimenting with different grades of pencils for drawing.
When thinking of pencils most of us imagine the bright yellow, wood-encased instrument with a graphite tip and an eraser on the opposite end. We call these 'lead pencils' even though they do not contain lead. The 'lead' is really graphite that is mixed with differing amounts of clay to produce grades of hardness and blackness. In pencil grading a 6H is harder than a 4H which is harder than a 2H. The blackness grading scale is similar. My 8B pencil produces a much blacker line than the 6B.
There is also an F grade
and this refers to a pencil that can be sharpened to a very fine point. The image above gives you some idea of pencil gradations. If you look carefully you may be able to see some little paw prints left by an inquisitive cat.
Pencils are great. You don't need electricity or a battery. Pencils will work even when held upside down. They won't freeze and they work underwater (so I'm told).
You can find some notable pencil users in an internet search. Over 300 pencils were used in the writing of John Steinbeck's East of Eden. Vladimir Nabokov wrote and rewrote everything in pencil.
In his 1957 novel, Pnin (which I haven't read) there is a descriptive and well-imagined reference to the use of a pencil sharpener.
You can find some notable pencil users in an internet search. Over 300 pencils were used in the writing of John Steinbeck's East of Eden. Vladimir Nabokov wrote and rewrote everything in pencil.
In his 1957 novel, Pnin (which I haven't read) there is a descriptive and well-imagined reference to the use of a pencil sharpener.
"With the help of the janitor he screwed onto the side of the desk a pencil sharpener -- that highly satisfying, highly philosophical instrument that goes ticonderoga-ticonderoga, feeding on the yellow finish and sweet wood, and ends up in a kind of soundlessly spinning ethereal void as we all must."
Vladimir Nabokov, Pnin, [1957]
