Sunday, August 29, 2004
bartleby and i.
There is a classic story, Bartleby the Scrivener. It might be by Melville or one of those cats.
It is about a clerk in a law office, london i think [wall st?], before computers and typewriters,
who does less and less and eventually nothing, but won't leave.
*curiously i found the text on www.bartleby.com, which has great books online, a public domain repository. i'm all into those.
When I first read it, I wasn't sure quite what to make of it, comedy, horror, suspense?
Knowing a bit more now, it's a classic decription of clinical depression.
That's my situation.
I was brought up in a neo-victorian environment of high expectations, marked as a failure, a B student in household of A students, back when that meant something. Random beatings, well-intentioned, created leaned helplessness, while, since backtalk was verboten, i learned to suppress my rage, turning it inward, and became adept at being a passive-agressive brat.
This is a recipe for depression and introversion, probaby building on a genetic aspect. It was the 60s. Johnson was the tyrant in charge. Dad's home was his castle.
I was not diagnosed with major depression until I was 40, so my early years were painful, setting high goals, failing wildly. Drugs eased the pain and made life bearable, but didn't add to my coping skills. I limped along. Had a girlfriend for a few years and got through law school on the basis of that emotional support, now gone. Never made a go of it as a lawyer, it's more of an expensive hobby. Worked hard at a warehouse job, bought a house in the ghetto. Came into some family money which gave me the freedom to go crazier, lose everything over about 5 years. So at 44 i'm lost, drifting, in crisis.
I've been staying for 2 months with a guy whose condition is a lot like mine, and it gives me insight I've lacked, about what a bad roommate I've been during my more depressed times.
He won't get out of bed to work, so he's lost his job. he wont clean up after himself or the dogs, so there's a bug problem. The leaking pipe in the basement goes unfixed. And it seems like this month's rent won't get paid, but like bartleby he won't leave. The funny thing is he's the closest thing I have to a friend in real life right now; my other friends are on the computer or far away.
I need to kick him out, because the horror the horror, of the bugs and the dog smell, and that my being angry at him about these things is not healthy for me right now.
It is the age old problem - I can't stand people, people aren't comfortable around me,
without them i'm so lonely i can't stand it.
So if I were to re-read Bartleby, I would have a deeper understanding - of Bartleby, and of his co workers not understanding. But I don't have time to read. I'd stopped reading the morning paper. Stopped having it delivered because it just piled up on the porch.
I'm too busy not working. Like Bartleby.
There is a classic story, Bartleby the Scrivener. It might be by Melville or one of those cats.
It is about a clerk in a law office, london i think [wall st?], before computers and typewriters,
who does less and less and eventually nothing, but won't leave.
*curiously i found the text on www.bartleby.com, which has great books online, a public domain repository. i'm all into those.
When I first read it, I wasn't sure quite what to make of it, comedy, horror, suspense?
Knowing a bit more now, it's a classic decription of clinical depression.
That's my situation.
I was brought up in a neo-victorian environment of high expectations, marked as a failure, a B student in household of A students, back when that meant something. Random beatings, well-intentioned, created leaned helplessness, while, since backtalk was verboten, i learned to suppress my rage, turning it inward, and became adept at being a passive-agressive brat.
This is a recipe for depression and introversion, probaby building on a genetic aspect. It was the 60s. Johnson was the tyrant in charge. Dad's home was his castle.
I was not diagnosed with major depression until I was 40, so my early years were painful, setting high goals, failing wildly. Drugs eased the pain and made life bearable, but didn't add to my coping skills. I limped along. Had a girlfriend for a few years and got through law school on the basis of that emotional support, now gone. Never made a go of it as a lawyer, it's more of an expensive hobby. Worked hard at a warehouse job, bought a house in the ghetto. Came into some family money which gave me the freedom to go crazier, lose everything over about 5 years. So at 44 i'm lost, drifting, in crisis.
I've been staying for 2 months with a guy whose condition is a lot like mine, and it gives me insight I've lacked, about what a bad roommate I've been during my more depressed times.
He won't get out of bed to work, so he's lost his job. he wont clean up after himself or the dogs, so there's a bug problem. The leaking pipe in the basement goes unfixed. And it seems like this month's rent won't get paid, but like bartleby he won't leave. The funny thing is he's the closest thing I have to a friend in real life right now; my other friends are on the computer or far away.
I need to kick him out, because the horror the horror, of the bugs and the dog smell, and that my being angry at him about these things is not healthy for me right now.
It is the age old problem - I can't stand people, people aren't comfortable around me,
without them i'm so lonely i can't stand it.
So if I were to re-read Bartleby, I would have a deeper understanding - of Bartleby, and of his co workers not understanding. But I don't have time to read. I'd stopped reading the morning paper. Stopped having it delivered because it just piled up on the porch.
I'm too busy not working. Like Bartleby.
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