Digressione letteraria semiseria sulle origini anglosassoni dell’impiegato di concetto (white collar), da Bartleby a Tailer. Ma lettura interessante anche per noi italiani, impastati di polverosa burocrazia ottocentesca…
Nikil Saval | Cubed: A Secret History of the Workplace | Doubleday | April 2014 | 31 minutes (8,529 words)
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I have known the inexorable sadness of pencils…
—Theodore Roethke, “Dolor”
The torn coat sleeve to the table. The steel pen to the ink. Write! Write! Be it truth or fable. Words! Words! Clerks never think.
—Benjamin Browne Foster, Down East Diary (1849)
They labored in poorly lit, smoky single rooms, attached to merchants and lawyers, to insurance concerns and banks. They had sharp penmanship and bad eyes, extravagant clothes but shrunken, unused bodies, backs cramped from poor posture, fingers callused by constant writing. When they were not thin, angular, and sallow, they were ruddy and soft; their paunches sagged onto their thighs.
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