"All I want is to get enough dough coming in to keep us solvent for the next year or so , till I can figure things out; meanwhile I want to retain my own identity. Therefore the thing I'm most anxious to avoid is any kind of work that can be considered 'interesting' in it's own right. I want something that can't possibly touch me."
"I mean the great advantage of a place like Knox is that you can sort of turn off your mind every morning at nine and leave it off all day, and nobody knows the difference."
So boasts Frank Wheeler in 'Revolutionary Road', the novel by Richard Yates recently made into a critically acclaimed film.
It's the sort of sentiment those who work in large corporate structures whether private or public may empathize with. Many may boast about it's easy, stress-free flexibility and yet as time passes and they find themselves still there, they, like Frank Wheeler, become slightly more embarrassed about telling people what they do for a living because it sounds rather dull and uninteresting.
So what keeps us tied to places of work like these?
I think most of us would agree with Frank when he says it's 'the people' he would miss if he had to quit.
"I mean hell, they're a pretty decent crowd; some of them anyway."
And there are other things too: the homely feeling of a familiar place and the 'ways of spacing out the hours of the day - almost time to go down for coffee; almost time to go out for lunch; almost time to go home –.'
An added interest is the odd office flirtation at the Christmas party or in the filing room.
For an in depth and entertaining look at positive aspects of work see Alain de Botton's The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work.
And yet there is something lacking. There doesn't seem to be any purpose in a job like this. Even when Frank Wheeler accidentally lands a project, it lacks real meaning - it's just another smooth talking sales promotion campaign.
However, the idea of escaping from this meaningless reality to the imagined artistic-intellectual milieu of Paris to write a novel while his wife gets a job to pay for their keep seems daunting and eventually even a little insane. Is it really the job preventing Frank's writing a novel or has he really got it in him to be a writer? These are the doubts that haunt those of us in dull, safe, meaningless jobs. Perhaps, as Frank decides, it's better to stay and earn a living, try to get a raise in order to afford a bigger house and holidays abroad rather than having to relocate and begin anew.
On the other hand, just working provides a sense of purpose for his neighbour – Mrs. Helen Givings. For most of her life she worked as an admin assistant in the Horst Ball Bearing Company.
' "It certainly can't be very interesting," her husband would say, "and it certainly isn't as if we needed the money. Why, then?" '
' "Because I love it," she'd said. 'Deep down what she loved and needed was work itself.'
' "Hard work," her father always said, "is the best medicine yet for all the ills of man - and of woman," and she'd always believed it. The press and bustle and glare of the office, the quick lunch sent up on a tray, the crisp handling of papers and telephones, the exhaustion of staying overtime and the final sweet relief of slipping off her shoes at night, which left her feeling drained and pure and fit for nothing but two aspirins and a hot bath and a light supper and bed - '
So, is it really the work itself that is the problem or our expectations of what work should be - or maybe the expectations others in society have of the work we do?
If work gives us an identity is it the identity we want?
Can we have a separate identity outside of the work we do?
"I mean the great advantage of a place like Knox is that you can sort of turn off your mind every morning at nine and leave it off all day, and nobody knows the difference."
So boasts Frank Wheeler in 'Revolutionary Road', the novel by Richard Yates recently made into a critically acclaimed film.
It's the sort of sentiment those who work in large corporate structures whether private or public may empathize with. Many may boast about it's easy, stress-free flexibility and yet as time passes and they find themselves still there, they, like Frank Wheeler, become slightly more embarrassed about telling people what they do for a living because it sounds rather dull and uninteresting.
So what keeps us tied to places of work like these?
I think most of us would agree with Frank when he says it's 'the people' he would miss if he had to quit.
"I mean hell, they're a pretty decent crowd; some of them anyway."
And there are other things too: the homely feeling of a familiar place and the 'ways of spacing out the hours of the day - almost time to go down for coffee; almost time to go out for lunch; almost time to go home –.'
An added interest is the odd office flirtation at the Christmas party or in the filing room.
For an in depth and entertaining look at positive aspects of work see Alain de Botton's The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work.
And yet there is something lacking. There doesn't seem to be any purpose in a job like this. Even when Frank Wheeler accidentally lands a project, it lacks real meaning - it's just another smooth talking sales promotion campaign.
However, the idea of escaping from this meaningless reality to the imagined artistic-intellectual milieu of Paris to write a novel while his wife gets a job to pay for their keep seems daunting and eventually even a little insane. Is it really the job preventing Frank's writing a novel or has he really got it in him to be a writer? These are the doubts that haunt those of us in dull, safe, meaningless jobs. Perhaps, as Frank decides, it's better to stay and earn a living, try to get a raise in order to afford a bigger house and holidays abroad rather than having to relocate and begin anew.
On the other hand, just working provides a sense of purpose for his neighbour – Mrs. Helen Givings. For most of her life she worked as an admin assistant in the Horst Ball Bearing Company.
' "It certainly can't be very interesting," her husband would say, "and it certainly isn't as if we needed the money. Why, then?" '
' "Because I love it," she'd said. 'Deep down what she loved and needed was work itself.'
' "Hard work," her father always said, "is the best medicine yet for all the ills of man - and of woman," and she'd always believed it. The press and bustle and glare of the office, the quick lunch sent up on a tray, the crisp handling of papers and telephones, the exhaustion of staying overtime and the final sweet relief of slipping off her shoes at night, which left her feeling drained and pure and fit for nothing but two aspirins and a hot bath and a light supper and bed - '
So, is it really the work itself that is the problem or our expectations of what work should be - or maybe the expectations others in society have of the work we do?
If work gives us an identity is it the identity we want?
Can we have a separate identity outside of the work we do?
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