Pushing Paper

Tags:: amateurs,; ambition,; getting paid,; labor,; office work,; tedium

Into this office comes Bartleby, whom the narrator sets up in a corner of his own office, behind a high green folding screen, out of sight but within earshot. Things start off well enough; the copyist does his work and does it scrupulously. And as the narrator himself admits, this is not easy work. To verify the accuracy of a copy, one copyist will read the copy aloud while another checks it against the original. “It is a very dull, wearisome, and lethargic affair,” the narrator tells us. “I can readily imagine that, to some sanguine temperament, it would be altogether intolerable. For example, I cannot credit that the mettlesome poet Byron would have contentedly sat down with Bartleby to examine a law document of, say five hundred pages, closely written in crimpy hand.”

The problem, of course, is that Bartleby turns out be no more willing to work than the mettlesome poet. On Bartleby’s third day at the office, the lawyer summons him over to assist in checking a copy of some document or another:

Imagine my surprise, nay, my consternation, when, without moving from his privacy, Bartleby, in a singularly mild, firm voice, replied, “I would prefer not to.”

I sat awhile in perfect silence, rallying my stunned faculties. Immediately it occurred to me that my ears had deceived me, or Bartleby had entirely misunderstood my meaning. I repeated my request in the clearest tone I could assume, but in quite as clear a one came the previous reply, “I would prefer not to.”

“Prefer not to,” echoed I, rising in high excitement and crossing the room with a stride. “What do you mean? Are you moonstruck? I want you to help me compare this sheet here—take it,” and I thrust it toward him.

“I would prefer not to,” said he.

The story follows the consequences of Bartleby’s refusal not only to copy but to cooperate with any sort of instruction whatsoever. He remains where he is, behind his screen, day and night, impervious to requests, entreaties, blandishments. The other copyists become resentful, clients ask questions, colleagues gossip. The formula “I would prefer” works its way into the conversation of everyone in the office. Eventually the lawyer decides to relocate his office; Bartleby stays behind in the building. The landlord, finding this bad for property values, has the copyist shipped off to prison, where he wastes away, preferring not to eat or drink or exercise. The story concludes with a rumor that the narrator heard in the months after Bartleby’s death. Before coming to work at the law office, it seemed, Bartleby had worked in the Dead Letter Office, delivering undeliverable mail to the incinerator. “Sometimes from out of the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring—the finger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a banknote sent in swiftest charity—he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities. On errands of life, these letters speed to death.”

Some of the greatest minds in modern criticism and philosophy have pondered the meaning of Bartleby’s refusal to work. Their interpretations range from brilliant to clever to silly. I would only add that there is nothing particularly surprising about Bartleby’s one-man job-action. I wouldn’t want to copy a five-hundred-page legal document “closely written in crimpy hand” either. And once I realized what I could get away with—get away without—why stop there? By withdrawing his labor, he forces us to recognize that what he does is labor. To recognize that paperwork is also work.

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The Underwriter's Bedside Book,published by Lloyd's of London Press in 1987 is an anthology of writing given over to the paperwork laden-world of insurance. It contains many contributions from the highly literate whose lives took them into this line of work, eg Conrad, Kafka and James M Cain to name but a few.

Posted by Sam Ignarski on Fri 18 Mar 2011
And the world just keeps getting more and more this way, Kafka, et al, as "[mirrors] of tomorrow. http://learnmeproject.com/

Posted by JRD on Sun 3 Apr 2011
I would prefer not to comment.

Posted by Mike Cope on Mon 4 Apr 2011
Check out Jose Saramago's "All the Names," a quiet novel (in contrast to his tour de force "Blindness") about a bureaucrat who works in the central records office. The building is so massive and full of records that it is almost perpetually being expanded. A great account of paperwork and love. Yep.

@Mike Cope: Ha!

Posted by John Ryan on Mon 4 Apr 2011
"The man whose life is devoted to paperwork has lost the initiative. He is dealing with things that are brought to his notice, having ceased to notice anything for himself."
-- C. Northcote Parkinson

Posted by The Sanity Inspector on Mon 4 Apr 2011
The Faber Book of Office Life explores more of the nuances of white collar tedium drawing on a wide range of literary sources.

Posted by shane cahill on Mon 4 Apr 2011
Similar misgivings about paperwork can be found in Banjo Patterson's Australian classic poem "Clancy of the Overflow" http://www.the-rathouse.com/ClancyoftheOverflow.html

Posted by Figgles on Mon 4 Apr 2011
Your article reminds me of a Doonesbury strip in which a war veteran writes his memoir of military office work during World War II: "Hell in Triplicate: A Company Clerk Remembers."

The heroes of paperwork are not those who do the work, but those who figure out how to reduce the need for it or, at least, the time needed to finish it. These heroes, perhaps, are guys like David Allen of "Getting Things Done" fame or Timothy Ferriss of "The 4-Hour Workweek". You don't know paperwork reductionists are your heroes until you realize how much time they've saved you.

Posted by Mr. Poet on Tue 5 Apr 2011
Mr. Kafka,

An interesting piece on an ostensibly tedious subject. Another worthy addition to the modest canon you describe is Nikolai Gogol's "The Overcoat," a long-ish short story worthy of any shortlist of essential Russian literature. Gogol tells the story of a lowly civil servant (a copyist!) and his quest to procure a new overcoat in the harsh Russian winter. Akaky Akakievich's peers at "the department" make cruel sport of him for still being a lowly copyist even after years of service to the Tsar. However, Akaky isn't humiliated. He takes pride in his diligent work and revels in the marvelous letter-shapes he reproduces; something like a mediaeval monk. There's a good deal more to the story; highly recommended.

Posted by Misha D. on Wed 6 Apr 2011