My personal favorite: Nobody's Home: Candid Reflections of a Nursing Home Aide by Thomas Edward Gass
Glad to see The Pale King mentioned. That's what popped into my head immediately when hearing the topic on the podcast.
On the Best Book About Work.
Most readers of "The Metamorphosis" (1915), by Franz Kafka, would not think of it as a novella about work, and for good reason. The central event of the story occurs right at the outset: Gregor, a young salesman, and the only son of the Samsas, finds himself transformed into a gigantic insect when he wakes up one morning to go to work. Not human now, Gregor could not go to work any more, no matter how desperately he yearns to. But the astonishing truth is that only Gregor's body has changed shape; inside, he is still human. If the patient reader pays attention to Gregor's memories, she will begin to wonder whether what made him morph into an indescribable animal was his own unmentionable unconscious wish to escape the unending nightmare of his life as a salesman. His daily life, a circular one, consisted of catching a train early in the morning, reporting to his office, then visiting clients in town, and returning home. He has no time to read anything except train schedules; has no friends; he is treated like a slave by his manager; and, at home, the only one he talks to is his younger sister Grete. But he is proud to be the sole support of his family after its business collapsed. Kafka leaves it to us to view Gregor as trapped in a dehumanizing no-exit world. Duty toward family turns him into a totally self-sacrificing son. But did he not, being human, want to end his joyless and humiliating life that has turned him into a machine?
Most readers of "The Metamorphosis" (1915), by Franz Kafka, would not think of it as a novella about work, and for good reason. The central event of the story occurs right at the outset: Gregor, a young salesman, and the only son of the Samsas, finds himself transformed into a gigantic insect when he wakes up one morning to go to work. Not human now, Gregor could not go to work any more, no matter how desperately he yearns to. But the astonishing truth is that only Gregor's body has changed shape; inside, he is still human. If the patient reader pays attention to Gregor's memories, she will begin to wonder whether what made him morph into an indescribable animal was his own unmentionable unconscious wish to escape the unending nightmare of his life as a salesman. His daily life, a circular one, consisted of catching a train early in the morning, reporting to his office, then visiting clients in town, and returning home. He has no time to read anything except train schedules; has no friends; he is treated like a slave by his manager; and, at home, the only one he talks to is his younger sister Grete. But he is proud to be the sole support of his family after its business collapsed. Kafka leaves it to us to view Gregor as trapped in a dehumanizing no-exit world. Duty toward family turns him into a totally self-sacrificing son. But did he not, being human, want to end his joyless and humiliating life that has turned him into a machine?
Nicholson Baker's "The Mezzanine." Funniest book about office life ever.
Fine articles both, from the delightful Alice Gregory & so learned Rivka Galchen who ploughed through all of Pliny the Elder - that makes reading work, doesn't it?! I have no titles or authors to add to those listed by the two authors as amended by their reader-commenters but my own WRITE SOME NUMB'S BITCH, Mametish horror tales from the world of tele-marketing & extreme corruption which is in the process of being published, but brings to mind that there is a magazine devoted to and called WORK http://www.workliterarymagazine.com/submission/michael-roloff-6302014/
Germinal by Emile Zola, about the plight of French coal miners, changed my life.
The Easter Parade by Richard Yates merits mention. I still recall vividly the father and daughter's trip into the city to the office building in which the father worked. Calls to mind something Lewis Mumford wrote about a city being a place where, over the course of a weekend, a child can come into contact with all of the types of work that there are.
Stewart O'Nan's "Last Night at the Lobster".
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Don't forget Moby Dick, which analyzes all aspect of one profession, our original oil industry, from the tools and techniques to the racial make-up of the work force and hierarchy, the financing and pay-scale, all aspects of the animals that were hunted and then processed, and both the ugliness and the heroism of the work. It is the epic of work.
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Studs Terkel 'Working.'
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Louisa May Alcott's WORK.
Galchen seems to be driving at my first reaction, namely, the definition of 'work' here is far too narrow. Books that turn on commerce and transactions, on labour and accomplishment, on vocation and calling, on just getting by in the world of Mammon, would also qualify, I think; not just the satirical, analytical, or even sympathetic portrayal of cubicle rats navigating the corporate maze or the portraits of businessmen, doctors, etc in Sinclair Lewis.
That broad definition could include: Moby Dick, with its (I confess I find them unreadable) lengthy digressions on whaling. Vanity Fair - does it matter the work of Becky and her husband is basically, well, sharp dealing? They are creatures of the mercantile world, getting and spending. How about Jude Fawley the stonemason, and his foiled aspirations? Or that other scholar manqué, Isaac Casaubon, toiling at his fusty, futile tome where ideas go to die? (What about Sisyphus himself? A lot of us identify with him.) Or - plugging this every chance I get - the long out of print The Maze Maker, by Michael Ayrton, in which Daedalus tells us not only what he did and how he did it - Icarus' wings, Pasiphae's cow, the minotaur's maze - but why and what came of it all. He was the first artisan, the mortal archetype of Work embodied (after Prometheus and the gods themselves).
That broad definition could include: Moby Dick, with its (I confess I find them unreadable) lengthy digressions on whaling. Vanity Fair - does it matter the work of Becky and her husband is basically, well, sharp dealing? They are creatures of the mercantile world, getting and spending. How about Jude Fawley the stonemason, and his foiled aspirations? Or that other scholar manqué, Isaac Casaubon, toiling at his fusty, futile tome where ideas go to die? (What about Sisyphus himself? A lot of us identify with him.) Or - plugging this every chance I get - the long out of print The Maze Maker, by Michael Ayrton, in which Daedalus tells us not only what he did and how he did it - Icarus' wings, Pasiphae's cow, the minotaur's maze - but why and what came of it all. He was the first artisan, the mortal archetype of Work embodied (after Prometheus and the gods themselves).
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Yesterday on TV I saw the movie musical "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying" starring Robert Morse. Although it was made almost 50 years ago, it was still relevant and cleverly satirical about many aspects of corporate life. It was based on an equally hilarious bestselling book by Shepherd Mead, an executive with the Benton & Bowles ad agency who worked his way up from the mail room to a vice presidency. The full title of the book is "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying: The Dastard's Guide to Fame and Fortune." It was first published in 1952 and is still in print.
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A current favorite of mine is "Shop Class As Soulcraft" by Matthew Crawford, a thoughtful examination of what we call work. Crawford relates his personal journey from U. Chicago graduate degree holder heading up a DC think tank to his spiritual rebirth as the proprietor of a vintage motorcycle restoration business. A very good read that will set you to thinking about the true nature of 'work.'
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I enjoyed "The Invisibles" by David Zwieg, about odd, hidden jobs and the people who like doing them, often to a manic degree. I also fit the profile.
Thoreau, Henry. "Walden" (1854).
"Men have an indistinct notion that if they keep up this activity of joint stocks and spades long enough all at length will ride somewhere, in next to no time, and for nothing; but though a crowd rushes to the depot, and the conductor shouts "All aboard!" when the smoke is blown away and the vapor condensed, it will be perceived that a few are riding, but the rest are run over, - and it will be called, and will be, "A melancholy accident," No doubt they can ride at last who shall have earned their fare, that is, if they survive so long, but they will probably have lost their elasticity and desire to travel by that time.
This spending of the best part of one's life earning money in order to enjoy questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it, reminds me of the Englishman who went to India to make a fortune first, in order that he might return to England and live the life of a poet. He should have gone up garret at once. "What!" exclaim a million Irishmen starting up from all the shanties in the land, "is not this railroad which we have built a good thing?" Yes, I answer, comparatively good, that is, you might have done worse; but I wish, as you are brothers of mine, that you could have spent your time better than digging in this dirt."
"Men have an indistinct notion that if they keep up this activity of joint stocks and spades long enough all at length will ride somewhere, in next to no time, and for nothing; but though a crowd rushes to the depot, and the conductor shouts "All aboard!" when the smoke is blown away and the vapor condensed, it will be perceived that a few are riding, but the rest are run over, - and it will be called, and will be, "A melancholy accident," No doubt they can ride at last who shall have earned their fare, that is, if they survive so long, but they will probably have lost their elasticity and desire to travel by that time.
This spending of the best part of one's life earning money in order to enjoy questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it, reminds me of the Englishman who went to India to make a fortune first, in order that he might return to England and live the life of a poet. He should have gone up garret at once. "What!" exclaim a million Irishmen starting up from all the shanties in the land, "is not this railroad which we have built a good thing?" Yes, I answer, comparatively good, that is, you might have done worse; but I wish, as you are brothers of mine, that you could have spent your time better than digging in this dirt."
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Thoreau, Henry. "Walden" (1854):
"By a seeming fate, commonly called necessity, they are employed, as it says in an old book, laying up treasures which moth and rust will corrupt and thieves break through and steal. It is a fool’s life, as they will find when they get to the end of it, if not before."
"By a seeming fate, commonly called necessity, they are employed, as it says in an old book, laying up treasures which moth and rust will corrupt and thieves break through and steal. It is a fool’s life, as they will find when they get to the end of it, if not before."
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Glad to see "Then We Came to the End" getting a nod here. Great, great book.
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my vote would go to William Gaddis for books about work/business
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Yes! I met him several times and he was always penetrating, truthful and droll on the subject. He knew far more than he let on. Re-read J.R.
Nickel and Dimed: On (Not) Getting by in America, by Barbara Ehrenreich. Her best, in my opinion. About trying to make ends meet on a minimum wage job (actually several minimum wage jobs).
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I think Upton Sinclair's The Jungle still stands as the most grueling book about work I have ever read. And Studs Terkel's Working (yeah, I know, easy choice) provides us with the greatest spectrum of lived-experiences of labor.
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Louisa May Alcott's WORK. Kind of like a 19th-century NICKELED AND DIMED.
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Kazuo Ishiguro's "The Remains of the Day" is a favorite. The protagonist aspires to have a life beyond his work--outside of his duties--and yet the duties are what he always comes back to.
Any writing on about coal mining and steel mill work also pulls me in--including Thomas Bell's novel "Out of This Furnace" and "Tough Heaven," a collection of poems by Jack Gilbert.
Any writing on about coal mining and steel mill work also pulls me in--including Thomas Bell's novel "Out of This Furnace" and "Tough Heaven," a collection of poems by Jack Gilbert.
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My vote is Denis Johnson's "Jesus' Son," about 'work' in the sense of menial work and jobs done just to put something in your pocket - screwing up being a hospital orderly, stripping the copper pipes out of your own abandoned house to sell for scrap. Work never looked so miserable and pointless.
I'd also like to mention Orwell's "Down and Out in Paris and London." Again, what a hamster wheel and how meaningless the actual work is. And Studs Terkels' magnificence "Working" - he quotes a clerk on her job: "A monkey could do what I do."
I'd also like to mention Orwell's "Down and Out in Paris and London." Again, what a hamster wheel and how meaningless the actual work is. And Studs Terkels' magnificence "Working" - he quotes a clerk on her job: "A monkey could do what I do."
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On the other hand, someone's got to wash those dishes. Most of life consists of meaningless repetitive work. There's a great scene in the movie of The Witches of Eastwick (I confess I don't know if it's also in the book) in which Daryl Van Horne, played by Jack Nicholson, seduces Alex, played by Cher: 'make the beds? they'll just have to be made again tomorrow. Wash the dishes? You'll wash them again tomorrow. ... all the futility of the world pouring into her.'
The people who manage to escape this usually have someone else doing it for them. Jesus and his followers couch-surfed around Palestine, prating about the lilies of the field - and rebuked poor Martha for attending to their needs, and praised Mary for just sitting there accepting his wisdom. He could take no thought for the morrow because someone else was taking it for him.
The people who manage to escape this usually have someone else doing it for them. Jesus and his followers couch-surfed around Palestine, prating about the lilies of the field - and rebuked poor Martha for attending to their needs, and praised Mary for just sitting there accepting his wisdom. He could take no thought for the morrow because someone else was taking it for him.
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Bukowski's Factotum.
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