by Primo Levi
To these three episodes, which came to public attention, must be added numerous others, rumors of which spread by word of mouth but which were ignored by the officials because (as is obvious) any information about them fell, in turn, under the censor’s knife. A crisis situation erupted, resulting in a near-total defection of the country’s cultural forces: a situation that, despite a few feeble attempts at reversal, persists today.
There is, however, recent news that gives rise to some hope. A physiologist, whose name is being withheld, concluded one of his in-depth studies by revealing in a much discussed paper some new facets of the psychology of domestic animals. If pets are subjected to particular conditioning, they can not only learn simple jobs involving transport and organization but also make actual decisions.
Without a doubt, this is a vast and fascinating field, offering practically unlimited possibilities: to summarize what has been published in the Bitinese press up to the time of this writing, the work of censorship, which is damaging to the human brain, and is performed in far too rigid a manner by machines, could be profitably entrusted to animals trained for the purpose. Seriously considered, this disconcerting idea is not in itself absurd; in the last analysis, it is only a matter of decisions.
Curiously, the mammals closest to humans were found to be least useful for the task. Dogs, monkeys, and horses who underwent the conditioning proved to be poor judges precisely because they were too intelligent and sensitive. According to our anonymous scholar, they act far too passionately; they respond in unpredictable ways to the slightest foreign stimuli, inevitable in every workplace; they exhibit strange preferences, perhaps congenital but still inexplicable, for certain mental categories; and their own memories are uncontrollable and excessive. In sum, they reveal in these circumstances an esprit de finesse that would be detrimental to the goals of censorship.
Surprising results, on the other hand, were obtained with the common barnyard chicken: this animal’s success is such that, as is common knowledge, four experimental offices have already been entrusted to teams of hens, under the control and supervision, naturally, of experienced functionaries. The hens, besides being easily procured and costing little, both as an initial investment and for their subsequent maintenance, are capable of making rapid and definitive decisions. They stick scrupulously to the prescribed mental programs, and, given their cold, calm nature and their evanescent memory, they are not subject to distractions.
The general opinion around here is that in a few years the method will be extended to all the censorship offices in the country.
Approved by the censor:
*Here and throughout Natural Histories, an asterisk indicates that a word or phrase is in English in the original Italian text.
The Versifier
Characters
THE POET
THE SECRETARY
MR. SIMPSON
THE VERSIFIER
GIOVANNI
PROLOGUE
A door opens and closes; enter the POET.
SECRETARY: Hello, Maestro.
POET: Hello, miss. What a beautiful day, huh? The first nice day after a month of rain. It’s a shame to have to stay in the office! What’s the schedule for today?
SECRETARY: There’s not a lot: two convivial odes, a short poem for the young Countess Dimitròpulos’s wedding, fourteen advertising ditties, and a canticle for Milan’s victory last Sunday.
POET: A trifle. We’ll finish it all this morning. Have you plugged in the Versifier?
SECRETARY: Yes, it’s already warmed up. (Soft drone) We can begin right away.
POET: If it weren’t for that machine. . . . And to think, you wanted nothing to do with it! Do you remember two years ago, how exhausting and nerve-racking the work was?
Drone
THE VERSIFIER
Loud fast click-clack of a typewriter can be heard in the foreground.
POET (to himself, bored and rushed): Oof! Here the work is never done. And how dull it is, too! Never a moment for spontaneous inspiration. Nuptial odes, advertising jingles, sacred hymns . . . nothing else, all day long. Have you finished the copies, miss?
SECRETARY (continuing to type): In a minute.
POET: Hurry up, for goodness’ sake.
SECRETARY (continues to type furiously for a few seconds, then pulls the sheets out of the typewriter): Done. Just a minute, so I can read it over.
POET: Don’t bother. I’ll read it over myself later and make any corrections. Right now, put another piece of paper in the typewriter, two carbon copies, double-spaced. I’ll dictate to you, that way we can speed things up: the funeral is the day after tomorrow and there’s no time to waste. In fact, look, why don’t you put the paper with the black borders directly into the typewriter, you know, the one we had printed for the death of the Archduke of Saxony. Try not to make any mistakes, that way we might avoid having to transcribe it.
SECRETARY (does as she’s told; gets up, looks in a drawer, puts the paper into the typewriter): Ready. Go ahead and dictate.
POET (lyrically, but still hurried): “An elegy upon the death of the Marquis Sigmund von Ellenbogen, prematurely deceased.” (The SECRETARY types) Oh, I forgot. They wanted it in ottava rima.
SECRETARY: In ottava rima?
POET (disparagingly): Yes, yes, rhyming octaves and everything. Change the margins. (Pauses as he tries to find inspiration) Hmm . . . okay. Write:
Black is the sky, dark the sun, arid the fields
Are, without you, dear Marquis Sigmund . . .
(The SECRETARY types) His name was Sigismondo, but I have to call him Sigmund, you understand, if not, goodbye rhyme. Damn these Ostrogothic names. Let’s hope they’ll approve. On the other hand, I have the genealogical tree, here—“Sigismundus,” yes, we’re in business. (Pause) Field, shield . . . hand me the rhyming dictionary, miss. (Looking at the dictionary) “Field: shield, wield, kneeled, heeled, creeled,” what the devil is “creeled”?
SECRETARY (efficient): A part of the verb “to creel,” I would think.
POET: Right; they know all the tricks. “Stealed” . . . no, too slangy. “Sealed.” (Lyrically) “Oh, say can you sealed, by the dawn’s early light”—but no, what am I doing! “Peeled.” (Pensively)
. . . A man nearly ripe and ready to be peeled . . .
(The SECRETARY strikes a few keys) But no, wait, it was only a first try. Not even a try. It was an idiocy. How does one peel a marquis? Go on, cross it out. No, rather, change the paper. (With sudden anger) Enough! Throw it all out. I’m through with this dirty work. I am a poet with a degree in poetry, not a hack. I am not a dabbler, a poetaster. The marquis, the elegy, the epinicion, the ode, Sigismondo, they can all go to hell. I am not a minstrel. Here, write this: “To the heirs of von Ellenbogen, address, date, et cetera: In reference to your respectful request for a funeral ode, made on the date of et cetera, for which we sincerely thank you. Unfortunately, owing to intervening urgent business, we are obliged to decline the commission . . .”
SECRETARY (interrupting): I’m sorry, Maestro, but . . . you can’t turn down the commission. The job confirmation and receipt of down payment are here in our files. There’s also a penalty, don’t you remember?
POET: Of course, the penalty. We’re in trouble. Poetry! Ugh, what a prison this is. (Pause, then brusquely decisive) Get Mr. Simpson on the phone.
SECRETARY (surprised and reluctant): Simpson? The salesman for NATCA? The one who sells business machines?
POET (brusquely): Yes, him. There can’t be any other.
SECRETARY (dials a number on the telephone): Mr. Simpson, please? . . . Yes, I’ll wait.
POET: Tell him to come right over and to bring the Versifier brochures. No, wait, give me the phone. I want to talk to him.
SECRETARY (in a low, reticent voice): You want to buy that machine?
POET (in a low voice, calmer): Don’t put on that pout, miss, and don’t get the wrong idea. (Persuasively) You’re well aware that we can’t fall behind the t
imes. We have to keep up. I don’t like it, either, I assure you, but at a certain point one has to make up one’s mind. As for you, don’t worry, there’ll always be plenty of work. Remember, three years ago, when we bought the invoicing machine?
SECRETARY (into the phone): Yes, miss. Is Mr. Simpson available, please? (Pause) Yes, it’s urgent. Thank you.
POET (continuing in a low voice): Well, how do you feel about that now? Could you do without it? No, right? It’s a business tool just like any other, like the telephone, like the cyclostyle. The human factor is and always will be indispensable to our work, but we have competitors, and so we must entrust to machines the most thankless and tiresome tasks. The mechanical tasks, in fact—
SECRETARY (into the phone): Is that you, Mr. Simpson? Hold on, please. (To the POET) It’s Mr. Simpson on the phone.
POET (into the phone): Is that you, Simpson? Hello. Listen: you remember, right, that estimate you gave us . . . wait . . . sometime at the end of last year? . . . (Pause) Yes, exactly, the Versifier, the model for civilian use; you described it to me with such enthusiasm . . . would you see if we can still get our hands on it? (Pause) Ah, yes, I understand: but now maybe the time is ripe. (Pause) Great, yes, it’s rather urgent. Ten minutes? You’re very kind. I’ll wait for you here, in the office. See you soon. (He hangs up the phone; turns to the SECRETARY) He’s an extraordinary man, Simpson: a first-class sales rep with a rare efficiency. He’s always at his customers’ disposal, whatever time of day or night; I don’t know how he does it. It’s too bad he doesn’t have much experience in our field, otherwise . . .
SECRETARY (hesitant, becoming more and more emotional): Maestro . . . I . . . I’ve been working with you for fifteen years . . . forgive me, but if I were you, I would never do the same . . . I’m not saying this for my sake, you know. But a poet, an artist like you . . . how can you agree to bring a machine in here . . . it can be as modern as you like, but it’s still a machine . . . how can it have your taste, your sensibility? We were doing so well, you and I, you dictating, me typing and not only typing, anyone can type, but attending to your words as if they were mine, putting them in order, cleaning up the punctuation, tense agreement (confidentially), even tiny errors of syntax, you know? Everyone gets distracted . . .
POET: Ah, don’t think I don’t understand what you’re saying. For me, too, this is a painful choice, and I’m not at all sure about it. There is a joy to our work, a profound happiness, unlike all other kinds of happiness, the happiness of creating, of extracting something from nothing, of watching right before our eyes, slowly or suddenly, as if by magic, the birth of something new, something alive that wasn’t there before. . . . (Suddenly indifferent) Take this down, miss: “as if by magic, something new, something alive that wasn’t there before, dot, dot, dot”—it’s all stuff we might be able to use.
SECRETARY (very emotional): Already done, Maestro. I always do it, even when you don’t tell me to. (Crying) I know my job. Let’s see if that other, that thing, will know how to do it as well as I do!
The doorbell rings.
POET: Come in!
MR. SIMPSON (brisk and jovial; slight foreign accent): Here I am: in record time, right? Here is the estimate, and here is the brochure, and here are the operating and maintenance instructions. But that’s not all; in fact, the essential item is missing. (Theatrically) One moment! (He turns toward the door) Come in, Giovanni. Push it in here. Watch the step. (To the POET) Luckily we’re on the ground floor! (Sound of a wheeled cart approaching) Here it is, for you: my own personal model. At the moment, I don’t need it. We’re here to work, right?
GIOVANNI: Where’s an outlet?
POET: Here, behind the desk.
MR. SIMPSON (in a single breath): Two hundred and twenty volts, fifty cycles, right? Perfect. Here’s the cable. Be careful, Giovanni: yes, over there on the rug will be fine, but it can go anywhere you want to put it; it doesn’t vibrate, or overheat, and it makes no more noise than a washing machine. (Slaps the metal side of the machine) A big beautiful machine, and sturdy. Built without any economizing. (To GIOVANNI) Thanks, Giovanni, you can go now. Here are the keys, take the car and return to the office. I’ll be staying here all afternoon. If anyone wants me, say to call here. (To the POET) With your permission, of course.
POET (a little embarrassed): Yes, of course. You . . . you were right to bring the device with you; I wouldn’t have dared to ask you to go to so much trouble. I might have come to you. But . . . I haven’t yet decided to actually make the purchase. You see, what I wanted above all was to get a solid idea of how the machine works, its performance, and also . . . to refresh my memory about the price—
MR. SIMPSON (interrupting): There’s no obligation, no obligation, good heavens! You are not under even the smallest obligation. This is a free demonstration, in the name of friendship. We’ve known each other for many years, haven’t we? And I haven’t forgotten the help you’ve given us, that slogan for our first electronic calculator, the Lightning,* remember?
POET (flattered): Sure I do!
Our brains are not always strong
But the electron is never wrong
MR. SIMPSON: That’s the one. How many years have gone by since then! You were right to charge us as much as you did: we earned ten times what it cost us. What’s fair is fair. Ideas must be paid for. (Pause: the drone of the VERSIFIER gets louder as the machine warms up) . . . There it goes, warming up. In a few minutes, when the warning light goes on, we can begin. In the meantime, if I may, I will tell you a bit about how it functions.
First of all, let’s be perfectly clear: this is not a poet. If you are looking for a real mechanical poet, you’ll have to wait another few months. The design is in its final stages at our headquarters in Fort Kiddiwanee, Oklahoma. It will be called the Troubadour:* a fantastic machine, a heavy-duty* mechanical poet capable of composing in all the European languages living or dead, capable of writing poetry without interruption for one thousand pages, at −100° to +200° centigrade in any climate, even underwater and in high vacuum. (In a low voice) It’s scheduled to take part in the Apollo project: it will be the first to sing of lunar solitude.
POET: No, I don’t think that’s for me. It sounds too complicated, and besides I rarely travel for work. I’m almost always here in my office.
MR. SIMPSON: Sure, sure. I was only telling you for curiosity’s sake. This one here, you see, is just a Versifier and, as such, has less freedom: it has less imagination, so to speak. But it’s all you need for routine jobs, and actually, with just a little effort from the operator, it’s capable of true wonders. Here’s the tape, see? Normally, the machine speaks its compositions while simultaneously transcribing them.
POET: Like a teleprinter?
MR. SIMPSON: Exactly. But, if needed, say, in the case of an emergency, the voice aspect can be eliminated; the composition then occurs very rapidly. Here’s the keyboard: it’s similar to the ones found on organs and Linotype machines. Up here (click) you put in the subject—from three to five words are enough. These black keys are the selectors: they determine the tone, the style, and the “literary genre,” as we used to say. These other keys define the metrical form. (To the SECRETARY) Come here, miss, it’s better if you have a look, too. I believe it will be you who operates the machine, right?
SECRETARY: I’ll never learn. It’s too complicated.
MR. SIMPSON: Sure, all the new machines give that impression. But it’s only an impression, you’ll see. In a month you’ll be using it just the way you drive a car, thinking of other things, maybe even singing.
SECRETARY: I never sing while I’m working. (The telephone rings) Hello? Yes. (Pause) Yes, he’s here: I’ll put him on right away. (To MR. SIMPSON) It’s for you, Mr. Simpson.
MR. SIMPSON: Thank you. (Into the telephone) Yes, this is he. (Pause) Ah, it’s you, professor. (Pause) What? It’s jamming? Overheating? Very unfortunate. It’s never happened before. Have you checked the control panel? (Pause) Certainly
, don’t touch a thing, you’re absolutely right: but it’s a terrible shame, just now all my workmen are out on jobs. Could you possibly wait until tomorrow? (Pause) Oh yes, of course. (Pause) Sure it’s under warranty, but even if it weren’t. . . . (Pause) Listen, I happen to be nearby at the moment. I’ll jump into a taxi and be there in a minute. (Hangs up the phone. To the POET, nervous and hurried) Excuse me, but I have to go.
POET: Nothing serious, I hope?
MR. SIMPSON: Oh, no, it’s nothing: a calculator, child’s play. But, as you know, the customer is always right. (Sighs) Even when he’s a darn fusspot who makes you run over ten times for no reason. Listen, let’s do this: I’ll leave the machine here, entirely at your disposal. You have a look at the instructions, and then give it a whirl, try it out.
POET: And if I break it?
MR. SIMPSON: Don’t worry about that. It’s very sturdy, foolproof,* says the original American brochure: “Even an imbecile” (embarrassed, realizing his gaffe), no offense intended, you understand. There is also a lockdown device in case of a wrong operation. But you’ll see, you’ll see how easy it is. I’ll be back in an hour or two; bye for now. (Exits)
Pause: distinct drone from the VERSIFIER.
POET (mutters while reading from the brochure): Voltage and frequency . . . yes, we’ve got that right. Inputting the subject . . . lockdown device . . . it’s all clear. Lubrication . . . changing the tape . . . extended periods of inactivity . . . all things we can look at later. Selectors—ah, yes, this is interesting, essential really. See, miss? There are forty of them. Here’s the key for abbreviations: EP, EL (elegy, I would guess, yes, indeed, elegy), SAT, MYT, JOC (what’s this JOC? Ah, yes, jocular), DID . . .