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Let me begin this post by admitting that I am no expert in handwriting, and that my own handwriting is nothing about which to be proud. That being said, I have observed that the attribute known as "flex" seems to have assumed something of the aspect of a Holy Grail in penmanship. Certainly, I mean no offense to those who value this attribute; and certainly, in the hands of expert penmen, the ability to utilize expressive variance in line thickness evokes my profound admiration: but my worship of flex is tempered by the following considerations: 1) I have read stories of modern and antique nibs being destroyed in the attempt to achieve line-thickness variation. 2) I have seen nineteenth-century and early twentieth-century examples of utilitarian handwriting--business and personal letters and such--that show considerably less flex than one typically finds in latter-day attempts to achieve this quality with a fountain pen. 3) Based on my observations under 2), as well as my own handwriting, and that of members of my family's older generation, it is my impression that, except for calligraphy and the most exalted examples of Spencerian handwriting, flex is something that usually happens naturally, without much conscious effort on the part of the penman. Even most modern rigid-nibbed fountain pens produce a natural and subtle line variation which, while far short of Spencerian standards, is nonetheless most attractive and expressive. 4) As one who regards the fountain pen as a useful tool, as well as a thing of beauty in its own right, I am personally most interested in pens that can write rapidly and easily on a variety of papers, and which are robust enough to survive in a utilitarian environment. It is my understanding, based in part on personal experience, that the more flexible nibs tend to be harder to manage, slower, and more fussy in regard to paper. It is also my understanding that the general trend of fountain pen nibs since the 1920s has been towards rigidity, reliability, and durability--for our forebears did not regard the fountain pen as an exotic trophy, but, rather, as a practical writing instrument, as we regard the computer today. 5) My father had an incredibly beautiful handwriting; but even though he used to reminisce about the eyedropper-filled Waterman's fountain pen that he owned as a boy, which, he related, was capable of great variation in line thickness, his own handwriting, with both fountain pens and ball-point pens, showed no more than the subtle variations in thickness of line to which I have already referred. Beauty and elegance in penmanship does not necessarily require flexibility in the thickness of the line. 6) When I learned penmanship in the early 1950s, using dip pens and inkwells recessed in screwed-to-the-floor desks, my teachers said nothing about variations in line thickness as a criterion of good handwriting--even though they apparently covered everything else, and drove me half-crazy with their punctiliousness. As regards the whole matter of "flex," I am reminded of the exaggerated messa di voce that was much in fashion amongst early-music musicians in the 1970s. Although loosely based upon the writings of Quantz and other 18th-century theorists, their execution of this adornment transcended the boundaries of good taste and belonged--like so much that they did (and still do, alas) to the realm of mannerism. Without, once again, impugning those who rightly cultivate the beautiful and expressive art of flexibility of line variation, I am sensible of the need to beware of being more orthodox than the ancients themselves in this respect.