Question

Then it occurred to me that I was in conflict with a habit. It is my
practice to do my writing with a pencil Days, even weeks, pass without
my using a pen for anything more than signing my name, on the other
hand there are not many hours of the day when I am without a pencil
between thumb and finger. It has become a part of my organism, as it
were, a mere extension of my hand. There, at the top of my second finger
is a little bump, raised in its service, a monument erected by the friction
of a whole forest of pencils that I have worn to the stump. A pencil is to
me what his sword was to D'Artagnan, or his umbrella was to the duke
of Cambridge, or his cheroot was to Grant, or whittling a stick was to
Jackson, or - in short, what any habits is to anybody. Put a pencil in my
hand, seat me before a blank writing pad in an empty room, and I am, as
they say of the children, as good as gold. I tick on as tranquilly as an
eight-day clock. I may be dismissed from the mind, ignored, forgotten​

Answer 1

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