A pocket knife

I bought this for my son when he was born; when he’s old enough he’ll be allowed to use it when we go to the woods. It’s a beautiful object and a marvellous tool, and the temptation to use it myself is great; but I think a pocket knife is something that should be yours alone.  My pocket feels empty without one of my two Opinels, one of which I’ve had for over 25 years, its carbon-steel blade blackened and scuffed, its point slightly crooked.  

Like the denim in the previous post, this was made by a master craftsman, someone who has spent their life working towards perfection. As Charles Eames said, “Choose your corner, pick away at it carefully, intensely and to the best of your ability, and that way you might change the world.” If Trevor Ablett lived in Japan, he would be a Living National Treasure.  

In La premiere gorgee de biere et autres plaisirs minuscules, Philippe Delerm writes about simple pleasures that are the essence of life. One is called “A knife in the pocket”; forgive my bad translation of the original French:

Not a kitchen knife, obviously, nor a thug’s flicknife. But not a penknife either. Let’s say an Opinel No 6, or a Laguiole. A knife which could belong to a hypothetical tall and perfect grandfather. A knife that he would slide into his wide chocolate moleskin trousers. A knife that he would pull from his pocket at lunchtime, picking up slices of saucisson with the point, or slowly peeling an apple, before refolding the blade in his fist. A knife which would be closed with a bold and ceremonious gesture, having drunk his coffee from a glass - which would let everyone know that it was time to go back to work.   

Trevor Ablett, now in his 70s, still makes pocket knives every day; and what knives they are. One day, when he is dead, and I am dead, this knife may still be in my son’s pocket, its blade scratched and worn, its tip nicked, its handle gently rounded and smoothed by a lifetime’s use. And he will feel it in his hand, and it will pierce his heart.