 |
 |
 |
 |
|
 |
 |
100
island.When I visited Baboon Island, it housed a total of twenty-two-far more than the carrying capacity of
the island (which is roughly estimated to be seven chimps). In addition, a dam has been proposed for
170downstream. Its construction would spell the end of Baboon Island. Finally, pressures to use Baboon Island
for other or additional purposes might become too powerful for the government to resist.
175 18) Janis Carter feels these threats acutely, because any of them would nullify the efforts of a major part
of her life. She hates the idea that the chimps might end up in an elaborate zoo. She has long wanted to
move the chimps to a more primitive refuge. But so far she has not found one, and the possibilities that
remain become more limited with each passing year.
180 19) Although Lucy and eight other chimps in Carter's care live a life that is less restrained than that of any
captive chimp, the sad probability is that these and other chimps even those now wild — will always be
hostage to the whims of man. However, Carter still retains the faint hope that someday Lucy will be able
185 to vanish into the jungle so that neither Carter nor anyone else will know where she is.Then Lucy might be
said to be free.
Lucy has lived at the sufferance of the people around her, and her life to a degree reflects the ethos of
190 her time. She was initiated into the mysteries of that indefinable thing called language, which we use to
separate ourselves from the rest of creation. But then her human guardians decided that she should be a
chimp. She found herself stripped of her privileges and discouraged from using the system of communica-
195 tion that she had spent the better part of her youth learning. At different times in her life human beings
have been parents, mentors, friends, jailers, rulers, judges, and gods. She now waits, perhaps wondering
what she really is, and what our bizarre, moody species has in store for her.
From: The Atlantic Monthly, March 1986
MIGHTIER THAN THE PEN
A revised, and revised again, view of the word processor. by William Swanson
1)
Five years ago the editors of this magazine asked me to let them set up a word processor in my
office. «Learn to work the thing», they urged me, «then write an article about your experience.» I said no. I
5
said that I was scarcely able to deal with, much less master, a four-slot toaster. As far as writing devices go, I
said, I had neither the desire nor the need to abandon my beloved Hermes 3000 manual typewriter. Send
your word-processing machine off to one of your high-tech specialists, I commanded the editors, no doubt a
10 trifle disdainfully.
2)
Then, one evening at a friend's house, I sat down at the keyboard of his brand-new Kaypro computer
and actually processed a couple dozen lines of words. I swiftly replaced a middling verb with a muscular
15 one, effortlessly rearranged and streamlined the structure of a clunky sentence, neatly corrected a spelling
error and tidied up my punctuation, and, finally, after all the revisions, called forth and produced, in only a
matter of seconds, a lovely, letter-perfect «manuscript.»
3) I have done my own work on a word processor for almost a year now. I am only too happy, when
20 asked,usually by a word processing colleague, to discuss this or that feature of my machine. To the more
general question of how do I write, I respond perhaps a trifle disdainfully, «With an IBM PC, of course. Not
that it should matter.»
25 4) To a more critical question I would have more difficulty responding. I could not tell you with absolute
certainty, that the quality of my work is the better for my great technological leap forward. I think it is, I
think it virtually has to be, but I wouldn't want to swear to it. My editors have been non commital on the
30 quality question, though they've been very generous in their praise of the neatness of my word-processed
manuscripts.
5) As writing tools go, the word processor is, quite honestly, a wonder. In the field of writing and
35 publishing, it has to be the most important technological breakthrough since Gutenberg began moving his
type around. The magic of the word processor lies not in this or that individual function, but in its overall
enabling capability. Writers generally sit down while they work, and there is not a lot of heavy lifting — but
40 serious writing is nonetheless a wearying business. Simply put, the word processor reduces the drudgery of
converting the writer's thoughts to words on paper. It allows him to get down — first on a screen, and only
later, if and when he wishes, on paper — great quantities of words, with unprecedented speed and
convenience.