Chapter one
The case
My first job was to put the letters back. Every evening the compositors left their sticks on the bench, and every evening I broke the lines apart and dropped each piece of metal into its box in the case. The capitals lived in the upper case, the small letters in the lower, and that is why we still call them so.
The boxes were not the same size. The e had the largest, near the middle, where the hand falls without looking; the j and the k sat in the corners with the q, which nobody wanted. After a month I could feel the case the way you feel the stairs of your own house in the dark.
Old Petrie, who had set type for forty years, said the case taught you what a language is made of. English, he said, is mostly e and t and the space between words. A compositor who knows that sets faster than one who reads well.
He was wrong about the reading. The good ones read everything, upside down and backwards, as it went into the stick. They caught the author’s mistakes before the proofreader did, and they never said so.