“The pen is mightier than the sword.” The familiar phrase was penned in 1839 by English author Edward Bulwer-Lytton in his play “Richelieu; Or the Conspiracy.”

The entire passage reads “True, this — beneath the rule of men entirely great, the pen is mightier than the sword. Behold the arch-enchanter’s wand — itself a nothing! But taking sorcery from the master-hand to paralyze the Caesars, and to strike the loud earth breathless! Take away the sword — states can be saved without it!”

I agree, I think. I have no experience with swords, other than viewing them in museums or seeing them wielded by swashbuckling heroes or villains in the movies. Pens, however, I think I know.

Words are indeed powerful, and can build up, exalt, bolster, support, encourage, laud and flatter. They also can criticize, denigrate, tear down, insult, castigate and disparage.

However, unlike swords, pens can only kill dreams, hopes and reputations, not the physical body.

I would be horrible with a sword. I would be a danger to anyone and anything in the immediate vicinity, including myself. I can draw blood with one of those many-bladed razors, so I shudder to think of what I could do with a long blade of highly sharpened, polished steel.

But pens I can handle, most of the time. Occasionally I’ll stick one in the pocket of my shirt and it will leak, leaving behind an unsightly pool of ink and dooming the garment to the rag bag.

I am, in fact, something of a connoisseur of pens. Right this moment I have three in my pocket, plus six more in a coffee cup on my desk.

My philosophy is, one can never have too many pens. Which leads me to a confession. I am a pen thief. Well, not a thief exactly. I prefer to think of myself as a serial pen adopter.

We have a drawer in our kitchen filled with pens of every shape, size and description. Most bear the logo of some entity or another — from hotels and resorts to cruise lines, from lumber yards to banks, from funeral homes to churches. You name it, we’ve got it. Some actually write, many don’t.

Whenever I go somewhere where they are offering pens I take one — or two. I never check out of a hotel room without swiping the pen and the little notepad they always leave by the phone. As a result our pen drawer also contains enough little note pads to contain the more than 560,000 words that make up the English translation of Tolstoy’s “War and Peace.”

This is not stealing, these businesses and institutions provide these pens both as a convenience to customers, as well as advertising gimmicks.

I do not borrow pens from other people and fail to return them — often, and then not intentionally. I just stick these writing instruments into my shirt pocket absentmindedly. That’s not stealing, it’s simply a sign of an overworked brain.

Likewise I never pick up a pen from someone else’s desk not meaning to return it. The next thing I know I have a pen in my pocket and I don’t know how it got there. Call it pen-nesia.

One of the pens in my pocket I received as a gift from my bride. It is a beautiful instrument with my initials engraved on the side and embossed with gold. It is, thus, too pretty to use. Thus I use a pen given to me by a now deceased friend as an advertising promotion. The third pen I carry is a red one issued to me by the company, or purloined from a colleague, I’m not certain.

The cup on my desk contains two with no identifying marks. One is a rollerball pen, the other is just a plain pen. Three have logos. One bears the name of a local chemical sales and service company, while the other bears the moniker of a prescription osteoporosis treatment, Boniva. All were adopted, I am fairly certain. Yet another was company issue (I think) and the last bears the logo of Air Force Health Professions. I know I didn’t steal this one, it was given to me by an Air Force recruiter I interviewed a while back.

I can relate to Vaclav Klaus, president of the Czech Republic. Klaus, during a recent visit to Chile, appeared with Chilean President Sebastian Pinera at a ceremony during which the two men announced a trade agreement between their two countries.

As Pinera was speaking to the assembled media, Klaus is seen on video picking up the pen, admiring it, then nodding, whether in agreement with Pinera’s rhetoric or in approval of the pen, it’s hard to tell. Then he sits back and puts his hands below the level of the desk at which the leaders were sitting, where he apparently transfers the pen to his left hand. Klaus then appears to put the pen in his pocket, again out of sight of the cameras, then buttons his jacket with a self-satisfied smirk and closes the box that, until moments earlier, contained the purloined pen.

Czech officials say their president did nothing wrong, that pens are always given to visiting delegations, along with notepads. Chilean officials agreed, saying Klaus was free to take the pen, which was encrusted with Chilean lapis lazuli stones, prized for their intense blue color.

Klaus then admitted to having a pen taken from a NATO summit last fall and a notepad lifted from the Latvian parliament. Hey, Vaclav, I’ll trade you my Boniva pen for that NATO summit model.

Klaus’ actions, of course, did not go unnoticed. The clip of his pen liberation was posted to YouTube and recorded more than 3.5 million views as of Thursday afternoon.

The president’s actions have inspired a Facebook campaign back in the Czech Republic, in which the public is being asked to send pens to Klaus’ office May 2 “as the president obviously has nothing to write with,” according to the Facebook page.

That’s harsh. By the way, can I borrow a pen?



Mullin is senior writer of the News & Eagle. E-mail him at jmullin@enidnews.com.