i.b. bartleby

Look, I’m going to level with you. I’m just the intern, and I definitely do not get paid enough for this. The truth is that we just don’t know much about i.b.

I’m not a creative writer, so I can’t make anything up and spin fantastic yarns about i.b. rescuing princes or princesses or flying to the moon or their domestic life fostering orphaned otters or something.

But what I can do is tell you what we don’t know about bartleby, and then the three things we do know.

We don’t know if i.b. is a man or a woman or something in between. I can’t even tell you for certain that they’re not a talking dog or cat or unicorn.

We don’t know how old i.b. is. Guessing old enough to sign a contract and live on their own, but beyond that we have no idea.

We have no idea what ethnicity i.b. is, or what their religion or politics are, if any.

As I said, there are only three things we actually DO know, and one comes from i.b.’s agent/manager. We’re told that bartleby lives in a treehouse in the forest and talks to the birds and squirrels. The only reason I kind of believe it is because of number two. And that’s this:

i.b. sends in their stories in brown paper packages, sometimes written on paper, sometimes written on bark or large leaves. They even mailed a potato once. I saw it. So yes, you can mail potatoes.

The third thing I can tell you is that you’ve never read books that are anything like i.b. bartleby’s books. They are not like books being written now, and unlike ones I have found in the past. Whoever or whatever i.b. bartleby may be and wherever they come from, they’re different.

The last thing I can tell you is I don’t get paid enough for this, and I am definitely not paid by the word. So that’s i.b. bartleby.

I’m going home now.