Bureaucracy is the enemy of art, language, literature and self-expression; it is an anti-culture of conformity, office politics, passive-aggressive behavior and constant infighting of the most vicious yet insignificant kind, where “content” is the digital detritus of workplace emails involving proposals to schedule a meeting (about having a meeting, to discuss having a meeting about having a meeting); the missives have no personality — they contain nothing of importance — except the frequency of their transmission and receipt, elevating the act of busyness over any attempts at deliberation or introspection; the currency of communication within this environment is the paper trail and its intangible and ethereal equivalent, secured in that nowhere sky of the cloud; the default response among these men and women of quiet desperation, stationed within their three-panel, burlap cubicles of relative silence, save the sound of keystrokes and the cooling fans housed within each computer terminal within each of these miniature prisons — the automatic reply among these workers is not worth reading.
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Thus, their demand for content is not a summons for style.
To write with personality — to be a jazz impresario of prose, able to perform a saxophone solo without the slightest exhalation; to do a riff of such spontaneity and power, and then catch a quick breath and segue into a more subdued tempo — that takes talent.
Bureaucrats want noise, not music.