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$Unique_ID{bob01494}
$Pretitle{}
$Title{Sketches, Old And New
The Office Bore}
$Subtitle{}
$Author{Twain, Mark}
$Affiliation{}
$Subject{day
}
$Date{1893}
$Log{}
Title: Sketches, Old And New
Book: The Office Bore
Author: Twain, Mark
Date: 1893
The Office Bore
He arrives just as regularly as the clock strikes nine in the morning.
And so he even beats the editor sometimes, and the porter must leave his work
and climb two or three pair of stairs to unlock the "Sanctum" door and let him
in. He lights one of the office pipes - not reflecting, perhaps, that the
editor may be one of those "stuck-up" people who would as soon have a stranger
defile his tooth-brush as his pipe-stem. Then he begins to loll - for a
person who can consent to loaf his useless life away in ignominious indolence
has not the energy to sit up straight. He stretches full length on the sofa
awhile; then draws up to half-length; then gets into a chair, hangs his head
back and his arms abroad, and stretches his legs till the rims of his
boot-heels rest upon the floor; by and by sits up and leans forward, with one
leg or both over the arm of the chair. But it is still observable that with
all his changes of position, he never assumes the upright or a fraudful
affectation of dignity. From time to time he yawns, and stretches, and
scratches himself with a tranquil, mangy enjoyment, and now and then he grunts
a kind of stuffy, over-fed grunt, which is full of animal contentment. At
rare and long intervals, however, he sighs a sigh that is the eloquent
expression of a secret confession, to wit: "I am useless and a nuisance, a
cumberer of the earth." The bore and his comrades - for there are usually from
two to four on hand, day and night - mix into the conversation when men come
in to see the editors for a moment on business; they hold noisy talks among
themselves about politics in particular, and all other subjects in general -
even warming up, after a fashion, sometimes, and seeming to take almost a real
interest in what they are discussing. They ruthlessly call an editor from his
work with such a remark as: "Did you see this, Smith, in the 'Gazette?'" and
proceed to read the paragraph while the sufferer reins in his impatient pen
and listens: they often loll and sprawl round the office hour after hour,
swapping anecdotes, and relating personal experiences to each other -
hairbreadth escapes, social encounters with distinguished men, election
reminiscences, sketches of odd characters, etc. And through all those hours
they never seem to comprehend that they are robbing the editors of their time,
and the public of journalistic excellence in next day's paper. At other times
they drowse, or dreamily pore over exchanges, or droop limp and pensive over
the chair-arms for an hour. Even this solemn silence is small respite to the
editor, for the next uncomfortable thing to having people look over his
shoulders, perhaps, is to have them sit by in silence and listen to the
scratching of his pen. If a body desires to talk private business with one of
the editors, he must call him outside, for no hint milder than blasting powder
or nitro-glycerine would be likely to move the bores out of listening
distance. To have to sit and endure the presence of a bore day after day; to
feel your cheerful spirits begin to sink as his footstep sounds on the stair,
and utterly vanish away as his tiresome form enters the door; to suffer
through his anecdotes and die slowly to his reminiscences; to feel always the
fetters of his clogging presence; to long hopelessly for one single day's
privacy; to note with a shudder, by and by, that to contemplate his funeral in
fancy has ceased to soothe, to imagine him undergoing in strict and fearful
detail the tortures of the ancient Inquisition has lost its power to satisfy
the heart, and that even to wish him millions and millions and millions of
miles in Tophet is able to bring only a fitful gleam of joy; to have to endure
all this, day after day, and week after week, and month after month, is an
affliction that transcends any other that men suffer. Physical pain is
pastime to it, and hanging a pleasure excursion.