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I could ask you to look beyond your desk if you are at work or peep down your balcony if you are at home and spot a Bartleby.

But I would prefer not to.

I could urge you to frame that calamitous Bartleby whose ‘selective’ inveterate muteness is either enhancing your tolerance reserves or sharpening your fighting skills.

But I would prefer not to.

I could exhort you to unsuccessfully debase this Bartleby’s assiduity in light of his proven peculiarity.

But I would prefer not to.

I could ask you the reason behind your acquiescence of this Bartleby’s presence in your life and compel you to accept this Bartleby’s apparent expertise in disarming your faculties.

But I would prefer not to.

I could challenge you to tear open your heart and then smirk at the sight of Bartleby’s shades in it.

But I would prefer not to.

I could ask you to stop reading this annoying review right now and instead read the amusing novella by Herman Melville chartering the life of a benevolent employer and his eccentric scrivener, Bartleby.

But I would prefer not to.

[Image courtesy commonlit.org]

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