We know him, or think we do, but it doesn’t matter. Our thoughts do not deter his immutable presence that defies human frivolity.
He’s my favorite literary non-character of all time and one I identity with more than any other, even Gregor Samsa.
Bartleby embodies our existential map and personifies torments that have conjoined my psyche throughout my life.
What better persona than Bartleby to present to the world through my writings here, and elsewhere.
Dead letters! does it not sound like dead men? Conceive a man by nature and misfortune prone to a pallid hopelessness, can any business seem more fitted to heighten it than that of continually handling these dead letters, and assorting them for the flames? For by the cart-load they are annually burned. Sometimes from out the folded paper the pale clerk takes a ring:—the finger it was meant for, perhaps, moulders in the grave; a bank-note sent in swiftest charity:—he whom it would relieve, nor eats nor hungers any more; pardon for those who died despairing; hope for those who died unhoping; good tidings for those who died stifled by unrelieved calamities. On errands of life, these letters speed to death.