From Digby's blog, Hullabaloo, about the working poor and how some sneer at them and call them lazy:
This discussion always reminds me of Jack London's description of what
happens psychologically to people who work at low paying hard labor jobs
in his book Martin Eden.
Martin is an ex-sailor and budding writer who takes a job working in a
hotel laundry to make money so that he can ask his girl to marry him. He
thinks it's a good deal --- 12 hour days leaving plenty of time in the
evening for writing and reading. And one day off a week. It doesn't
work out that way. The work is brutal ... and tiring. And it does
something destructive to the spirit.
This picks up the story of his laundry work a week into it after he's
discovered that he's too tired to do anything but sleep and work:
All Martin's consciousness was concentrated in the work. Ceaselessly
active, head and hand, an intelligent machine, all that constituted him
a man was devoted to furnishing that intelligence. There was no room
in his brain for the universe and its mighty problems. All the broad
and spacious corridors of his mind were closed and hermetically sealed.
The echoing chamber of his soul was a narrow room, a conning tower,
whence were directed his arm and shoulder muscles, his ten nimble
fingers, and the swift-moving iron along its steaming path in broad,
sweeping strokes, just so many strokes and no more, just so far with
each stroke and not a fraction of an inch farther, rushing along
interminable sleeves, sides, backs, and tails, and tossing the finished
shirts, without rumpling, upon the receiving frame. And even as his
hurrying soul tossed, it was reaching for another shirt. This went on,
hour after hour, while outside all the world swooned under the overhead
California sun. But there was no swooning in that superheated room.
The cool guests on the verandas needed clean linen.
The sweat poured from Martin. He drank enormous quantities of water,
but so great was the heat of the day and of his exertions, that the
water sluiced through the interstices of his flesh and out at all his
pores. Always, at sea, except at rare intervals, the work he performed
had given him ample opportunity to commune with himself. The master of
the ship had been lord of Martin's time; but here the manager of the
hotel was lord of Martin's thoughts as well. He had no thoughts save
for the nerve- racking, body-destroying toil. Outside of that it was
impossible to think. He did not know that he loved Ruth. She did not
even exist, for his driven soul had no time to remember her. It was
only when he crawled to bed at night, or to breakfast in the morning,
that she asserted herself to him in fleeting memories.
Monday morning he was hard at work, sorting clothes, while Joe, a towel
bound tightly around his head, with groans and blasphemies, was running
the washer and mixing soft-soap.
"I simply can't help it," he explained. "I got to drink when Saturday night comes around."
Another week passed, a great battle that continued under the electric
lights each night and that culminated on Saturday afternoon at three
o'clock, when Joe tasted his moment of wilted triumph and then drifted
down to the village to forget. Martin's Sunday was the same as before.
He slept in the shade of the trees, toiled aimlessly through the
newspaper, and spent long hours lying on his back, doing nothing,
thinking nothing. He was too dazed to think, though he was aware that
he did not like himself. He was self-repelled, as though he had
undergone some degradation or was intrinsically foul. All that was
god-like in him was blotted out. The spur of ambition was blunted; he
had no vitality with which to feel the prod of it. He was dead. His
soul seemed dead. He was a beast, a work-beast. He saw no beauty in the
sunshine sifting down through the green leaves, nor did the azure vault
of the sky whisper as of old and hint of cosmic vastness and secrets
trembling to disclosure. Life was intolerably dull and stupid, and its
taste was bad in his mouth. A black screen was drawn across his mirror
of inner vision, and fancy lay in a darkened sick-room where entered no
ray of light. He envied Joe, down in the village, rampant, tearing the
slats off the bar, his brain gnawing with maggots, exulting in maudlin
ways over maudlin things, fantastically and gloriously drunk and
forgetful of Monday morning and the week of deadening toil to come.
A third week went by, and Martin loathed himself, and loathed life. He
was oppressed by a sense of failure. There was reason for the editors
refusing his stuff. He could see that clearly now, and laugh at himself
and the dreams he had dreamed. Ruth returned his "Sea Lyrics" by mail.
He read her letter apathetically. She did her best to say how much she
liked them and that they were beautiful. But she could not lie, and
she could not disguise the truth from herself. She knew they were
failures, and he read her disapproval in every perfunctory and
unenthusiastic line of her letter. And she was right. He was firmly
convinced of it as he read the poems over. Beauty and wonder had
departed from him, and as he read the poems he caught himself puzzling
as to what he had had in mind when he wrote them. His audacities of
phrase struck him as grotesque, his felicities of expression were
monstrosities, and everything was absurd, unreal, and impossible. He
would have burned the "Sea Lyrics" on the spot, had his will been strong
enough to set them aflame. There was the engine-room, but the exertion
of carrying them to the furnace was not worth while. All his exertion
was used in washing other persons' clothes. He did not have any left
for private affairs.
He resolved that when Sunday came he would pull himself together and
answer Ruth's letter. But Saturday afternoon, after work was finished
and he had taken a bath, the desire to forget overpowered him. "I guess
I'll go down and see how Joe's getting on," was the way he put it to
himself; and in the same moment he knew that he lied. But he did not
have the energy to consider the lie. If he had had the energy, he would
have refused to consider the lie, because he wanted to forget. He
started for the village slowly and casually, increasing his pace in
spite of himself as he neared the saloon.
"I thought you was on the water-wagon," was Joe's greeting.
Martin did not deign to offer excuses, but called for whiskey, filling his own glass brimming before he passed the bottle.
"Don't take all night about it," he said roughly.
The other was dawdling with the bottle, and Martin refused to wait for him, tossing the glass off in a gulp and refilling it.
"Now, I can wait for you," he said grimly; "but hurry up."
Joe hurried, and they drank together.
"The work did it, eh?" Joe queried.
Martin refused to discuss the matter.
A big screen TV and a computer are probably the only respite from the
mind numbing nature of the work low paid workers do --- it's all they've
got to keep them from going nuts. Sadly, some of them might be watching