Wednesday, July 21, 2010


Franturi din zile lungi, lungi de munca.

“Do you realize 90% of our job is sending e-mails?”
“Oh, our entire job is sending e-mails back and forth. It’s called “coordinating”. We coordinate what other people say. It’s a strange job. You never get any recognition. I mean I could die in this cubicle and nobody would even find my body for 2 or 3 days until they would think, Hey R* must have this information, let’s go get it.”

"My father doesn’t understand what I do. He was a steelmaker all his life, and not a foreman either. Straight up labourer, moving rocks from point A to point B, a perfectly quantifiable and manly achievement. He scoffs when he hears “policy making” which must sound as unrealistic and useless as flying around the world in a balloon. He doesn’t understand what my brother, an IT manager, does either – but because he hears the word computers, he finds an easier explanation: “Your brother fixes computers, what do you do?”

"My father doesn’t understand what I do either. But in his book, working for the government of the country that allowed him to immigrate and live decently in a comfortable (thought not lovable) job, this awesomely powerful fortress where intelligent privileged natives go about their important work, where one has access to the higher echelons of experience, is the very pinnacle of achievement."

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