You know what astonishes me? That there are so many “must reads” of literature, that I, a robed and hooded graduate of the University of Oregon’s hallowed English Literature program, have not read. I spent last evening rectifying one of these egregious oversights by reading “Bartelby, the Scrivener” by Herman Melville. I’ve never read it because I always thought it was about some guy on a boat etching intricate designs on whale teeth. Of course, the educated reader will immediately recognize my error. “Scrivening” is not the same as “Scrimshaw.” And at this advanced age, I now know the difference. However, when the story first entered my consciousness many, many years ago, I only knew Herman Melville for “Moby Dick,” which pretty much excuses, one will allow, my internal stereotyping of Melville as a writer who could be expected to include scrimshaw in a story somewhere. Anyway, the upshot is that I made assumptions which have stuck with me in my subconscious lo these many years.
So imagine my surprise last night when I picked up a collection of writings about New York, and found “Bartelby, the Scrivener” in there, with the subheading, “A Story of Wall Street.” Wall Street? What on earth? Would there be some salty sea-dog sitting on the corner of Exchange Place, plying his craft on a piece of sea-ivory? But then I filtered the title through my now-mature consciousness, and realized that this would be a story about a *law clerk* and my interest level went up immeasurably. Because for some reason I find law clerks more interesting than scrimshaw artists.
In any event, I can now say I have finally read “Bartelby, the Scrivener” and I found it the most enjoyable novella I’ve read in a long time. The style was exactly the type I like, somewhat florid but wry and suggestive nonetheless, and I liked all the characters, with the exception of Bartelby, who I wanted to slap around. Of course, I’m sure everyone wanted to slap Bartelby around by the end of the story. I’m sure he represented something … the collapse of the American work ethic, Melville’s depressed ennui over the slow sales of “Moby Dick” … I have no idea. But it matters not. The story was incredibly creepy, and I loved it.
