As my devoted readers will know, not long ago I expressed interest in something I’ll now describe as the literature of corporate life; I was thinking about salesmanship as discussed in recent fiction. It occurs to me that I could re-read Babbitt, a book I remember enjoying very much when I read it as a student (and I had to read it twice, and liked it both times); I’m sure that Sinclair Lewis has more than one title which would contribute to my thoughts on this subject.
But last week I took a more recent title from the library, a book that I remember ordering for the bookstore, and could have read at the time, but didn’t. It’s entitled Company, by a young man named Max Barry. A paperback of this novel was at the public library in the New Fiction section, and my eye fell on it. I thought, “Well, I could read that,” but I wasn’t really interested, so I moved on… and then I remembered, “Wait: wasn’t I just talking about sales in fiction? I bet this book has something in it for me.” So I trotted back and snatched the bright yellow book from the shelf. Well, ok: the spine is bright yellow. The cover is a sort of bland photo of a young business type, his face obscured by a bright yellow band reading, simply: COMPANY.
One is reminded of the generic BEER that everyone drinks in the movie Repo Man. Which is, now that I think about it, about repo men – the opposite of salesmen. Perhaps I should watch that little gem again, too…
Miss Edith spends a lot of time these days thinking about sales and the different kinds of sales that people do. I don’t want to go into too much detail here because, frankly, it’s a rather boring subject and I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable in the process of boring everyone else. But let’s just say that sales, in the normal corporate sales sense, seems to require a particular kind of personality. It’s different from retail sales. They’re both deadening sorts of work, but there’s something about retail, I believe, that can, depending on what one’s retailing, that can keep the soul alive. Corporate sales, though… I just don’t know how that kind of work can do anything but eat away at one’s soul.
Max Barry apparently worked at Hewlett Packard for a long time, so presumably he had a long chance to observe corporate sales types in action. I don’t know Barry’s background but I’m going to go out on a limb and say that he was probably in marketing for at least some of his time at H-P. He tackles the psyche of the salesman/saleswoman early in his novel. From page 11 of Company:
On level 14, Elizabeth is falling in love. This is what makes her such a good sales rep, and an emotional basket case: she falls in love with her customers. It is hard to convey just how wretchedly, boot-lickingly draining it is to be a salesperson. Sales is a business of relationships, and you must cultivate customers with tenderness and love, like cabbages in winter, even if the customer is an egomaniacal asshole you want to hit with a shovel. There is something wrong with the kind of person who becomes a sales rep, or if not, there is something wrong after six months.
Earlier in the book, when we meet Elizabeth, she is nutshelled: “Elizabeth is smart, ruthless, and emotionally damaged; that is, she is a sales representative. If Elizabeth’s brain was a person, it would have scars, tattoos, and be missing one eye. If you saw it coming, you could cross the street.”
Max Barry’s book tackles almost every type of person you can imagine coming across in the corporate world with this kind of precision. While the book does get a bit draggy toward the end, the little pieces of sharp skewering are so good it’s worth it. Miss Edith recommends this book, highly, to that select group of people who understand that cubicles and business cards can lead only to hell…
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Monday, August 06, 2007
Florence King
It was almost twenty years ago that I was introduced to the joys of Florence King, but at the time I didn’t think about it too much.
In 1988, an old beau of Miss Edith’s went to work in Manhattan as an editorial assistant. He climbed the ranks there fairly quickly, and in the process I, at first still in high school and then in college, learned rather more than I wanted to about the publishing industry. I learned, primarily, that I didn’t want to go to New York City to work in publishing. But I also got tipped off to a number of truly wonderful writers. My friend would send me copies of books with notes clipped to them, saying things like, “I think you need to read this.” Sometimes he missed his target a bit, and I’d be left scratching my head asking myself, “Um, why?” But other times, I was astounded by how good the books were, and wondered why these writers weren’t being toasted across the country. Because, inevitably, the books my friend sent me were written by people who were truly underappreciated, at least in my part of the world.
Among the first books he sent me was a collection of essays by a woman named Florence King. Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye was the book. I still have my copy of it. When I received it, it left me cold; I was not yet able to appreciate the form (a collection of essays) and I was not yet able to appreciate the author’s brand of sharpness. But my friend knew me better than I knew myself; within a couple of years, my eye fell on the book again and I picked it up and I was a total convert. Florence King became one of my heroes.
Some years after that, an anthology, The Florence King Reader, was published, and I received a copy of that with a fulsome inscription from my friend the editor, who by this point knew that I’d fallen completely in love with King’s writing. I was thrilled – at last I had a huge chunk of King to devour. Many of her books were out of print by this time, in the mid 1990s, and though I spent my life in used bookstores I really never saw her stuff around. The Reader was really a Godsend. Over the years I have recommended it to friends and customers countless times, and tried to get people to understand that not reading Florence King is, as far as I am concerned, a tragedy. Anyone who appreciates a strong, well-considered opinion should read Florence King – but also, anyone with a taste for intelligent humor, good storytelling, or just an appreciation for good old American contrariness, must read her.
I believe Florence King writes an occasional column for a publication called The National Review; last year, again in a used bookstore, I stumbled on an anthology of her essays for this conservative publication. The anthology is called Stet, Damnit!: The Misanthrope’s Corner. I’ve just gone and grabbed my copy from my bedside (where it resides, permanently) and it came out in 2003, rather a long time ago. I was sad when I found this book because I had to admit I’d been out of the loop to not know about it when it first came out, but I was also pleased as punch that fate had brought it to me. I cut through it in probably two days, not the way this book should be handled – it should be dipped into periodically, which is why I now keep it at the bedside table; one or two pieces before bedtime is just right – and found it a little frustrating (as time goes on. Miss King does recycle her better material a little too often, as I’m sure I would too if I were in her position) but overall I have never regretted the money I spent on this book. I regret that I didn’t know about it in 2003 so that King could’ve gotten some royalty money out of me. In fact, if Miss King would like to contact me and strike a deal, I’d be happy to send her a check to make up the difference.
The past couple of weeks have led two earlier Florence King books to fall into my hands, and one of them, Wasp, Where is Thy Sting? has kept me entertained for several nights now. I found it in a used bookstore in Vermont – Brattleboro Books, which is on Elliot Street – and began reading it as soon as I’d paid for it. A comic analysis of WASP culture circa 1977 – pre-Preppy Handbook, pre-George W. Bush – it contains many elements of truth, all incredibly well-phrased and often funny as hell. Some of her essays are a bit dated now, particularly those about church denominations and WASP culture, but what’s on the page is still very funny; you just have to set your internal clock back when you’re reading it. This book was excerpted for the Reader and I’d always been a little frustrated that I didn’t have access to the work in full. Now I do and Miss Edith is a happy camper.
I also found, in the public library (where I had never thought to look for this book) a copy of Miss King’s early send-up of 1970s feminist culture, a light novel entitled When Sisterhood Was in Flower. It appears in the Reader, but slightly altered; I liked the idea of reading the original edition. This was highly enjoyable, as well; a perfect book for me to read on these hot summer nights when Notarius is sitting around reading about the history of church architecture or something else appropriately lofty. (It is Miss Edith’s job to provide a counterpoint to Notarius’ high-mindedness.)
I suspect that some of Miss Edith’s readers want me to explain something about Florence King – who is she, why is she funny, and so on. The problem is, I don’t want to pigeonhole Miss King that way, and I think Miss King would appreciate my reticence. When my friend originally sent me Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye, he didn’t really tell me anything about it. I had to find my way into that book, and benefited tremendously from that little interior journey. I feel that way now. I want to introduce people to Florence King, but I want them to realize on their own what it is about her that’s so sharp and true and wonderful. It’s now a little late for me to be recommending summer reading but I can honestly say that on a crisp autumn day, I think the concise, clear writing of Florence King would be a delight. To sit down with a cup of coffee, look out a kitchen window at that kind of bright blue cloudless sky that we get on fall days in New England, and turn eyes downward to read Florence King: Miss Edith can think of a few things that might be more fun, maybe, but few that would be more worthwhile.
In 1988, an old beau of Miss Edith’s went to work in Manhattan as an editorial assistant. He climbed the ranks there fairly quickly, and in the process I, at first still in high school and then in college, learned rather more than I wanted to about the publishing industry. I learned, primarily, that I didn’t want to go to New York City to work in publishing. But I also got tipped off to a number of truly wonderful writers. My friend would send me copies of books with notes clipped to them, saying things like, “I think you need to read this.” Sometimes he missed his target a bit, and I’d be left scratching my head asking myself, “Um, why?” But other times, I was astounded by how good the books were, and wondered why these writers weren’t being toasted across the country. Because, inevitably, the books my friend sent me were written by people who were truly underappreciated, at least in my part of the world.
Among the first books he sent me was a collection of essays by a woman named Florence King. Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye was the book. I still have my copy of it. When I received it, it left me cold; I was not yet able to appreciate the form (a collection of essays) and I was not yet able to appreciate the author’s brand of sharpness. But my friend knew me better than I knew myself; within a couple of years, my eye fell on the book again and I picked it up and I was a total convert. Florence King became one of my heroes.
Some years after that, an anthology, The Florence King Reader, was published, and I received a copy of that with a fulsome inscription from my friend the editor, who by this point knew that I’d fallen completely in love with King’s writing. I was thrilled – at last I had a huge chunk of King to devour. Many of her books were out of print by this time, in the mid 1990s, and though I spent my life in used bookstores I really never saw her stuff around. The Reader was really a Godsend. Over the years I have recommended it to friends and customers countless times, and tried to get people to understand that not reading Florence King is, as far as I am concerned, a tragedy. Anyone who appreciates a strong, well-considered opinion should read Florence King – but also, anyone with a taste for intelligent humor, good storytelling, or just an appreciation for good old American contrariness, must read her.
I believe Florence King writes an occasional column for a publication called The National Review; last year, again in a used bookstore, I stumbled on an anthology of her essays for this conservative publication. The anthology is called Stet, Damnit!: The Misanthrope’s Corner. I’ve just gone and grabbed my copy from my bedside (where it resides, permanently) and it came out in 2003, rather a long time ago. I was sad when I found this book because I had to admit I’d been out of the loop to not know about it when it first came out, but I was also pleased as punch that fate had brought it to me. I cut through it in probably two days, not the way this book should be handled – it should be dipped into periodically, which is why I now keep it at the bedside table; one or two pieces before bedtime is just right – and found it a little frustrating (as time goes on. Miss King does recycle her better material a little too often, as I’m sure I would too if I were in her position) but overall I have never regretted the money I spent on this book. I regret that I didn’t know about it in 2003 so that King could’ve gotten some royalty money out of me. In fact, if Miss King would like to contact me and strike a deal, I’d be happy to send her a check to make up the difference.
The past couple of weeks have led two earlier Florence King books to fall into my hands, and one of them, Wasp, Where is Thy Sting? has kept me entertained for several nights now. I found it in a used bookstore in Vermont – Brattleboro Books, which is on Elliot Street – and began reading it as soon as I’d paid for it. A comic analysis of WASP culture circa 1977 – pre-Preppy Handbook, pre-George W. Bush – it contains many elements of truth, all incredibly well-phrased and often funny as hell. Some of her essays are a bit dated now, particularly those about church denominations and WASP culture, but what’s on the page is still very funny; you just have to set your internal clock back when you’re reading it. This book was excerpted for the Reader and I’d always been a little frustrated that I didn’t have access to the work in full. Now I do and Miss Edith is a happy camper.
I also found, in the public library (where I had never thought to look for this book) a copy of Miss King’s early send-up of 1970s feminist culture, a light novel entitled When Sisterhood Was in Flower. It appears in the Reader, but slightly altered; I liked the idea of reading the original edition. This was highly enjoyable, as well; a perfect book for me to read on these hot summer nights when Notarius is sitting around reading about the history of church architecture or something else appropriately lofty. (It is Miss Edith’s job to provide a counterpoint to Notarius’ high-mindedness.)
I suspect that some of Miss Edith’s readers want me to explain something about Florence King – who is she, why is she funny, and so on. The problem is, I don’t want to pigeonhole Miss King that way, and I think Miss King would appreciate my reticence. When my friend originally sent me Reflections in a Jaundiced Eye, he didn’t really tell me anything about it. I had to find my way into that book, and benefited tremendously from that little interior journey. I feel that way now. I want to introduce people to Florence King, but I want them to realize on their own what it is about her that’s so sharp and true and wonderful. It’s now a little late for me to be recommending summer reading but I can honestly say that on a crisp autumn day, I think the concise, clear writing of Florence King would be a delight. To sit down with a cup of coffee, look out a kitchen window at that kind of bright blue cloudless sky that we get on fall days in New England, and turn eyes downward to read Florence King: Miss Edith can think of a few things that might be more fun, maybe, but few that would be more worthwhile.
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