by Mark Twain
THE OFFICE BORE--[Written about 1869]
He arrives just as regularly as the clock strikes nine in the morning.And so he even beats the editor sometimes, and the porter must leave hiswork and climb two or three pairs of stairs to unlock the "Sanctum" doorand let him in. He lights one of the office pipes--not reflecting, perhaps,that the editor may be one of those "stuck-up" people who wouldas soon have a stranger defile his tooth-brush as his pipe-stem. Then hebegins to loll--for a person who can consent to loaf his useless lifeaway in ignominious indolence has not the energy to sit up straight.
He stretches full length on the sofa awhile; then draws up to halflength; then gets into a chair, hangs his head back and his arms abroad,and stretches his legs till the rims of his boot-heels rest upon thefloor; by and by sits up and leans forward, with one leg or both over thearm of the chair. But it is still observable that with all his changesof position, he never assumes the upright or a fraudful affectation ofdignity. From time to time he yawns, and stretches, and scratcheshimself with a tranquil, mangy enjoyment, and now and then he grunts akind of stuffy, overfed grunt, which is full of animal contentment. Atrare and long intervals, however, he sighs a sigh that is the eloquentexpression of a secret confession, to wit "I am useless and a nuisance,a cumberer of the earth." The bore and his comrades--for there areusually from two to four on hand, day and night--mix into theconversation when men come in to see the editors for a moment onbusiness; they hold noisy talks among themselves about politics inparticular, and all other subjects in general--even warming up, after afashion, sometimes, and seeming to take almost a real interest in whatthey are discussing. They ruthlessly call an editor from his work withsuch a remark as: "Did you see this, Smith, in the Gazette?" and proceedto read the paragraph while the sufferer reins in his impatient pen andlistens; they often loll and sprawl round the office hour after hour,swapping anecdotes and relating personal experiences to each other--hairbreadth escapes, social encounters with distinguished men, electionreminiscences, sketches of odd characters, etc. And through all thosehours they never seem to comprehend that they are robbing the editors oftheir time, and the public of journalistic excellence in next day'spaper. At other times they drowse, or dreamily pore over exchanges, ordroop limp and pensive over the chair-arms for an hour. Even this solemnsilence is small respite to the editor, for the next uncomfortable thingto having people look over his shoulders, perhaps, is to have them sit byin silence and listen to the scratching of his pen. If a body desires totalk private business with one of the editors, he must call him outside,for no hint milder than blasting-powder or nitroglycerin would be likelyto move the bores out of listening-distance. To have to sit and endurethe presence of a bore day after day; to feel your cheerful spirits beginto sink as his footstep sounds on the stair, and utterly vanish away ashis tiresome form enters the door; to suffer through his anecdotes anddie slowly to his reminiscences; to feel always the fetters of hisclogging presence; to long hopelessly for one single day's privacy; tonote with a shudder, by and by, that to contemplate his funeral in fancyhas ceased to soothe, to imagine him undergoing in strict and fearfuldetail the tortures of the ancient Inquisition has lost its power tosatisfy the heart, and that even to wish him millions and millions andmillions of miles in Tophet is able to bring only a fitful gleam of joy;to have to endure all this, day after day, and week after week, and monthafter month, is an affliction that transcends any other that men suffer.Physical pain is pastime to it, and hanging a pleasure excursion.