City Desk: Work It Out

ONE of the hands writing this-the right-looks odd. Two-thirds of it is normal—four fingers, much of a thumb, skin, veins, little hairs. But the back of the wrist, the palm of the hand, and the base of the thumb are encased in a contraption of white plastic and black Velcro straps, which keeps the thumb from boogying around the keyboard. It can still hit the space bar, but it does so with a convulsive, Dr. Strangelove swat (no automatic writing in German yet). I look like I am turning into a mannequin.

How did this happen? The country is partly responsible. Rakes, pitchforks, pickaxes, trowels: Even though man made these tools, they aren’t quite made for man. They do the job, whether moving or digging, but they also do a job on you. The main culprit however is the computer keyboard. Homer reciting, Balzac penning, Jimmy Breslin banging away at his typewriter, all wrote more words than I have but they could not produce them in such rapid bursts. Thanks to this convergence of the Neolithic and the Information Age, the bones over which my tendons used to glide now snag at them like plectrums. My wrist plays “Oh, Susanna!” on itself.

About the Author

Richard Brookhiser

Historian Richard Brookhiser is a senior editor of National Review and a senior fellow at the National Review Institute.

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ONE of the hands writing this-the right-looks odd. Two-thirds of it is normal—four fingers, much of a thumb, skin, veins, little hairs. But the back of the wrist, the palm of the hand, and the base of the thumb are encased in a contraption of white plastic and black Velcro straps, which keeps the thumb from boogying around the keyboard. It can still hit the space bar, but it does so with a convulsive, Dr. Strangelove swat (no automatic writing in German yet). I look like I am turning into a mannequin.

How did this happen? The country is partly responsible. Rakes, pitchforks, pickaxes, trowels: Even though man made these tools, they aren’t quite made for man. They do the job, whether moving or digging, but they also do a job on you. The main culprit however is the computer keyboard. Homer reciting, Balzac penning, Jimmy Breslin banging away at his typewriter, all wrote more words than I have but they could not produce them in such rapid bursts. Thanks to this convergence of the Neolithic and the Information Age, the bones over which my tendons used to glide now snag at them like plectrums. My wrist plays “Oh, Susanna!” on itself.