Words

• Author: Kenneth P. Nolan
• Pages: 155-159

Words

155

While in college nearly 40 years ago, I worked for the guys (that’s

right, no women) who wrote the editorials at The New York Times. I

started as a copyboy. My job was to take copy from one editor to

another and then to the composing room, where union mugs would

retype it on medieval machines, turning the typewritten words into

lead from which numerous galleys were printed. I would then hurry

those galleys back to the editors, to Mr. Barzilay, who was in charge

of the page as it went to bed at night, and to the proofreaders, who

had neat, tiny desks on which sharpened pencils sat.

In an hour or two, I would return to the third floor and gather

those galleys from the proofreaders, who were older, mostly men in

white shirts and simple ties. Inevitably, the galleys were filled with

corrections of typos, style, tense, and punctuation. And in meticu-

lous handwriting, questions were posed about the meaning of words

or sentences; alternative phrases were suggested.

I worked at The Times not because I wanted to be a reporter or

anything like that, but because I needed money for jeans, rock con-

certs, and gas for my tan Volkswagen Bug. Back then, my genera-

tion knew it all. We would eradicate poverty, end racism, and spread

peace and love over the globe. So I viewed the proofreaders with a

certain disdain and pity, since I couldn’t imagine a more boring,

unproductive job.