"The transition
from hot metal to cold technology in the newspaper world was more
than what cosmologists like to call a quantum leap'.
"Certainly in
production terms it was that, but for journalists and composing
room staff it was something akin to major surgery of the soul. It
was like waking up to discover that a magic you had not previously
given full credit had walked out on you, and all the old familiar
sounds had been replaced by a clinical, sterile silence.
"The theatre
of war had become a laboratory, and old hands looked at new contraptions
with a startlement and panic that was practically tangible and most
certainly infectious. What added to the alarm was the fact that
this package came with its own language, not a word of which anyone
spoke. What could we make of this?
"Well, in terms
of efficiency, speed and scope, today's technology leaves yesterday's
craft standing, as a liner does a square-rigger, and that is an
apt analogy when assessing the transition. Unfortunately, many of
the caballistic customs and exercise have gone forever, and even
the titles of the craftsmen no longer exist. Gone are the stonehands,
the compositors, the linotype operators; gone is that old custom
of banging out, when a retiring craftsman walked the length of the
composing room with tears in his eyes while his colleagues hammered
with anything metal upon anything metal; gone is the urgency of
stone-subbing, when that traditional battle between sub and stonehand
was fought out at ten-minute intervals, with a three-foot table
of solid steel to keep them from each others' throats; enemies with
the greatest respect for each other, when the paper was eventually
put to bed.
"Not even the
telephones sound the same. They trill now, when previously they
jangled raucously amid the clatter of typewriters, the shouts of
"Copy!" the fug of newsroom smoke, and in the background the constant
gossip of chattering Linotypes."
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