An article in The New Yorker, on the occasion of the 400th anniversary of John Milton's birth, has made little impression upon me--except for this detail concerning the income of Milton's father, a scrivener, which was evidently sufficient to make it unnecessary for his son to work for money. And not only that: Milton, having at the age of 23 completed seven years at Cambridge, "retreated to his father's house in the countryside for five more years of isolated, self-directed study." To an inveterate bookworm with a tedious job, this sounds like paradise regained. How many Miltons are unknown on account of having to work for a living?
Even considering that millions hate their jobs, work is overrated. Today I spent more than two hours explaining what we do to a consultant, whose job it is to explain to a software developer what our requirements are for a new system. Only the consultant doesn't really understand what we do, and by the time the story hits the developer's ear, it will be worse yet. We'll get something that does not meet our needs, and, having discovered the deficiencies, we will describe them to the consultant, who, without fully understanding, will relay a version of the bad news to the developer. . . and the whole sorry cycle goes on and on.
Well, I continue to get paid, which for me is the whole point. Yet it is discouraging. Someone has well said that, in primitive economies, where people hunt or gather or grow plants or practice animal husbandry, the connection between work performed and the fruit of that labor is easily grasped, a necessary condition for dignity. Not so for me, and probably not for you, either, with the result that the work we do begins to resemble slavery and the pay we receive takes on the aspect of charity. Why is my salary what it is? I really have no idea. It comes to me, however, the same amount payday after payday, no matter what I do (or don't) while pulling my 8-to-5. A few people in the world refer to me as their boss, and naturally they have lower salaries, but, while I attend meetings, they do the work that has to be done. Someone above me is responsible for arranging this crazy system and of course they earn--that verb is just a habit--more than any of us. None of it makes any sense to me, but I'll be back tomorrow. No scriveners in the preceding generation.
Here is the philosopher Nietzsche concurring in the view that work is overrated:
The eulogists of work. Behind the glorification of work and the tireless talk of the "blessings of work" I find the same thought as behind the praise of impersonal activity for the public benefit: the fear of everything individual. At bottom, one now feels when confronted with work--and what is invariably meant is relentless industry from early to late--that such work is the best police, that it keeps everybody in harness and powerfully obstructs the development of reason, of covetousness, of the desire for independence. For it uses up a tremendous amount of nervous energy and takes it away from reflection, brooding, dreaming, worry, love, and hatred; it always sets a small goal before one's eyes and permits easy and regular satisfactions.
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