Now the burn seemed to smart behind his eyes.
Thirty years and more a master of his craft. The quickest, most accurate of proof-readers and corrections in the whole city, perhaps in the province. Working every night, and throughout the night. So that the legal records, deeds of sale, notifications of public finance, contracts, quotations on the bourse, would appear in the morning, flawless, exact to the decimal point. He had not rival in the arts of scruple. They gave him the smallest print to check, the longest columns of figures to justify, the interminable catalogues of lost and found objects to be auctioned for the post-office and public transport. His proof-readings of the bi-annual telephone directory, of electoral and census rolls, of municipal minutes, were legend. Printing works, the public record office, the courts of law vied for his labours.
But now the sensation of burning, just behind his eyes, felt sharper.
In my humble opinion, that is one hell of a way to start a book.
I first reviewed Proofs and Three Parables by George Steiner 10 or 15 years ago, but that review is lost in the mysterious mists of the internet. So, I recently ordered the book again to review it again. It moved me that much.
Looking at the second paragraph, 30 years and more. It’s humbling to suddenly realize that I passed that milestone without being aware of it.
The smallest print to check? Screw that. I use a computer, change fonts, zoom in, run a friggin spelling and grammar check, disagree with aforementioned spelling and grammar check, whatever.
Telephone directories and census rolls? Nope.
Minutes of meetings? I’ve done it. I spent years doing legal transcription for the court systems of Hong Kong and of Singapore. I would do it again if somebody asked, but I’m glad they don’t.
If my eyes started burning, I’d be screwed.
I lost the vision in my right eye to a detached retina, mid-edit, five or six years ago, so I closed it and finished proofreading a few articles for Cigar Snob Magazine with my left eye. Then got some surgery because, y’know, I’m not a complete idiot.
(Keep your wisecracks to yourself.)
Okay, back to our so-called book review. Which will mostly consist of quoting my favorite bits because, well, why not?
He hated litter. Waste paper struck him as the very waste of waste. At times, if the winds blew a piece towards his feet, he would pick it up, smooth it, read closely and make any correction needed. Then he would deposit it in the garbage receptacle, feeling obscurely rewarded and saddened. Any witness to this rite would have thought him deranged.
I’ve never done this, even though I do pick up litter. The professore is “a man whose obsessive scruple in respect of the minutae of print, whose bristling distaste in the face of the approximate and the loosely mistaken, were magisterial and pedantic to a degree.” He’s also the kind of man I’d debate the Oxford comma with, but I fear I would lose in the face of his stamina.
Since I mentioned Judaism, let me quote the professore.
Do you know what the Kabbala teaches? That the sum total of the evil and miseries of mankind arose when a lazy or incompetent scribe misheard, took down erroneously, a single letter, one single solitary letter, in Holy Writ. Every horror since has come on us through and because of that one erratum.
The professore is one of the more memorable protagonists I’ve encountered in a long time. His skill as a proofreader is unrivaled. No mistake escapes him, however tiny, in the most trivial printing jobs. His eyesight has been damaged by years of exacting work, exacerbated by self-neglect, and he may be going blind.
Alas, this is a subplot.
The novella deals mainly with the fall of Communism. It’s the most readable thing I’ve seen on the topic, brief yet illuminating, simple without being simplistic, not as boring as I’m making it sound. The author is also passionately concerned with the tradition, culture, and fate of Judaism.
In short, the professore cannot make the world around him perfect despite all his efforts, but he can at least make those documents perfect. Until his eyes start to fail him.
When his replacement replies that proofreading a hand-bill for an auction of used farm implements and manure sacks isn’t important enough to demand perfection, the professore disagrees.
It is just here that it matters more than ever before. To act otherwise is utter contempt. Contempt for those who cannot afford to look at a fine book, at quality paper or crafted type. Contempt for those who have a right under God, yes, under God, to have a flawless hand-bill, also for a sale of manure! It is just for those who live in rural holes, in slums, that we should do the best work. So that some spark of perfection will enter their wretched days. Can’t you understand, how much contempt there is in a false accent or a misplaced serif? As if you spat at another human being.
When you do business with Michael Edits, I hope you’re not hoping to hire the professore. If he existed I’d hire him without hesitation, but he’s more of an ideal than a reality, at least in my experience. But there is a certain mindset you want, and it includes demanding perfection of every document I proofread. Some of us are born with it and some are not.
Professional Proofreading Service
Contact michaeledits3@gmail.com