Male C. Pig a.k.a. Svinopolist (piggymouse) wrote,
Male C. Pig a.k.a. Svinopolist

[business,reading] Faulkner meets Sorokin or Managing a professional service firm

Как известно, распространённое в русском ЖЖ тяжёлое поражение головного мозга заставляет думать о всякой ерунде в неподходящих для этого обстоятельствах. Недавно меня ударило в момент чтения фолкнеровских "Collected Stories", а именно — части этого сборника под названием "Wilderness", где речь идёт о жизни местных йокнапатофских индейцев чикасо. Индейцы у Фолкнера, конечно же, колоритнейшие, но речь сейчас не об этом, а о тяжёлом поражении моего головного мозга. Так вот, пока я читал приведённые ниже диалоги, у меня в головном мозгу складывалось следующее распределение ролей:

  • Негры — рядовой и сержантский состав крупной консалтинговой или технологической компании.
  • Индейцы — менеджеры повышенного звена™ той же компании (уровня партнёра или руководителя департамента).
  • Белые — клиенты фирмы.

В двух приведённых диалогах индейцы обсуждают текущее состояние дел в фирме и пытаются сформулировать стратегию её развития.

Менеджер повышенного звена™ is a registered trademark owned by vladk.

"I have said all the time that this is not the good way. In the old days there were no quarters, no Negroes. A man's time was his own then. He had time. Now he must spend most of it finding work for them who prefer sweating to do."

"They are like horses and dogs."

"They are like nothing in this sensible world. Nothing contents them save sweat. They are worse than the white men."

"It is not as though the Man himself had to find work for them to do."

"You said it. I do not like slavery. It is not the good way. In the old days, there was the good way. But not now."

"You do not remember the old way either."

"I have listened to them who do. And I have tried this way. Man was not made to sweat."

"That's so. See what it has done to their flesh."

"Yes. Black. It has a bitter taste, too."

"You have eaten of it?"

"Once. I was young then, and more hardy in the appetite than now. Now it is different with me."

"Yes. They are too valuable to eat now."

"There is a bitter taste to the flesh which I do not like."

"They are too valuable to eat, anyway, when the white men will give horses for them."

"We cannot eat them," one said.

"Why not?"

"There are too many of them."

"That's true," a third said. "Once we started, we should have to eat them all. And that much flesh diet is not good for man."

"Perhaps they will be like deer flesh. That cannot hurt you."

"We might kill a few of them and not eat them," Issetibbeha said.

They looked at him for a while. "What for?" one said.

"That is true," a second said. "We cannot do that. They are too valuable; remember all the bother they have caused us, finding things for them to do. We must do as the white men do."

"How is that?" Issetibbeha said.

"Raise more Negroes by clearing more land to make corn to feed them, then sell them. We will clear the land and plant it with food and raise Negroes and sell them to the white men for money."

"But what will we do with this money?" a third said.

They thought for a while.

"We will see," the first said. They squatted, profound, grave.

"It means work," the third said.

"Let the Negroes do it," the first said.

"Yao. Let them. To sweat is bad. It is damp. It opens the pores."

"And then the night air enters."

"Yao. Let the Negroes do it. They appear to like sweating."


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