"Bartleby the Scrivener" is a short story by Herman Melville that was first published in 1853. It tells the story of a lawyer who employs a new scrivener, or copyist, named Bartleby, who has an unusual and perplexing behavior.
At first, Bartleby performs his duties as a scrivener efficiently and effectively. However, he gradually becomes more and more unwilling to do any work, constantly replying "I would prefer not to" when asked to do something. Despite the lawyer's repeated attempts to reason with him and understand his motivations, Bartleby remains stubborn and refuses to do any work or even leave the office.
The story is a poignant and thought-provoking examination of the nature of work and the human condition. Bartleby's refusal to do work can be seen as a commentary on the dehumanizing effects of capitalism and the monotony of office work. It also touches on themes of isolation, alienation, and the limits of human understanding and compassion.
The lawyer, who serves as the narrator of the story, is a complex and layered character. On the one hand, he is frustrated and annoyed by Bartleby's refusal to do work and is determined to get him to comply. On the other hand, he is also deeply puzzled by Bartleby's behavior and is ultimately moved by his plight. He tries to help Bartleby, even offering to pay for him to stay in a boarding house, but ultimately he is unable to reach him or understand his motivations.
In many ways, "Bartleby the Scrivener" is a tragic tale. It is a story of a man who becomes increasingly isolated and disconnected from the world around him, ultimately choosing to withdraw from society altogether. Despite the lawyer's efforts to help him, Bartleby ultimately ends up alone and removed from the world, choosing to die rather than continue to live in the conditions he finds so oppressive.
Overall, "Bartleby the Scrivener" is a thought-provoking and poignant exploration of the human condition and the nature of work. It is a story that speaks to the universal experience of feeling trapped and disconnected in a society that values productivity above all else.
Bartleby the Scrivener
This special writing is Bartleby, The Scrivener with the subtitle A Story of Wall-Street. My procedure seemed as sagacious as ever. At first I was indignant; but at last almost approved. But, in the end, in the tragic and evasive end, the novella had proved itself to be anything but simple and he was none of this and all of this, of course. Now, one Sunday morning I happened to go to Trinity Church, to hear a celebrated preacher, and finding myself rather early on the ground, I thought I would walk around to my chambers for a while. Nothing so aggravates an earnest person as a passive resistance. Upon asking him why he did not write, he said that he had decided upon doing no more writing.
âBartleby, the Scrivener on Apple Books
He would do nothing in the office: why should he stay there? And you must be as polite to him as possible. I will see you again. I always deemed him the victim of two evil powersâambition and indigestion. He put chips under it, blocks of various sorts, bits of pasteboard, and at last went so far as to attempt an exquisite adjustment by final pieces of folded blotting paper. With submission, sir, we both are getting old. It was rather weak in me I confess, but his manner on this occasion nettled me. .
Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall
I now said to myself, buttoning up my coat to the last button. Nay, that was out of the question. I observed that he never went to dinner; indeed that he never went any where. It was on the third day, I think, of his being with me, and before any necessity had arisen for having his own writing examined, that, being much hurried to complete a small affair I had in hand, I abruptly called to Bartleby. His father was a carman, ambitious of seeing his son on the bench instead of a cart, before he died. He refuses to do any copying; he refuses to do any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit the premises. He refuses to do any copying; he refuses to do any thing; he says he prefers not to; and he refuses to quit the premises.
Bartleby, The Scrivener by Herman Melville
Being under no disgraceful charge, and quite serene and harmless in all his ways, they had permitted him freely to wander about the prison, and especially in the inclosed grass-platted yard thereof. Accordingly, if any disinterested persons are present, he turns to them for some reinforcement for his own faltering mind. This is very strange, thought I. At least I see it, I feel it; I penetrate to the predestinated purpose of my life. Then the lawyer would give a great stare, and turn to me.
Melville, Herman. 1853. Bartleby, the Scrivener
I stood gazing at him awhile, as he went on with his own writing, and then reseated myself at my desk. The good old office, now extinct in the State of New York, of a Master in Chancery, had been conferred upon me. I thought Turkey would appreciate the favor, and abate his rashness and obstreperousness of afternoons. So calling Nippers from the other room, the paper was speedily examined. I had to check twice the year this novella was first published : 1853!!! Yes, my procedure had worked to a charm; he indeed must be vanished. So he sent him to my office as student at law, errand boy, and cleaner and sweeper, at the rate of one dollar a week. Here I can cheaply purchase a delicious self-approval.
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Revolving all these things, and coupling them with the recently discovered fact that he made my office his constant abiding place and home, and not forgetful of his morbid moodiness; revolving all these things, a prudential feeling began to steal over me. If, for the sake of easing his back, he brought the table lid at a sharp angle well up towards his chin, and wrote there like a man using the steep roof of a Dutch house for his desk:âthen he declared that it stopped the circulation in his arms. Luckily I had my key with me; but upon applying it to the lock, I found it resisted by something inserted from the inside. Moreover, if, after reaching home, he found himself at any time in want of aid, a letter from him would be sure of a reply. I thought to myself, surely I must get rid of a demented man, who already has in some degree turned the tongues, if not the heads of myself and clerks.
