A World Without Work

A Short Story - Sisyphus, his Boulder and the Robot

“Aye, and I saw Sisyphus in violent torment, seeking to raise a monstrous stone with both his hands. Verily he would brace himself with hands and feet, and thrust the stone toward the crest of a hill, but as often as he was about to heave it over the top, the weight would turn it back, and then down again to the plain would come rolling the ruthless stone. But he would strain again and thrust it back, and the sweat flowed down from his limbs, and dust rose up from his head.” (Homer, 1919)

For centuries, I watched Sisyphus near the top of the hill, glare at the boulder that lay at the bottom. He knew his boulder would never reach the top. It was futile. And he was condemned for infinity to the monotonous task. Yet, he glared. Yet, he stomped. Yet, he cursed the gods (Camus, 1942). One could only feel bad for the poor fellow. I had to do something. I peeled my eyes off the tragic scene and sauntered towards my teensie wooden workshop at the edge of the underworld. I pushed open the warped wooden door and slipped inside. I pulled on my scuffed leather apron and tightened the straps. With a grunt, I gathered an armful of iron scraps, gears, and half-finished mechanisms and laid them across my workbench. Soon, the first sparks began to fly.

Ker-plunk!

“Here we are!” I exclaim

Sisyphus stops in his tracks. A bit hard seeing as though the boulder is halfway up the hill. His face is screwed up, his cheek tight against the stone, his shoulder bracing the mass, his foot wedging into the dry earth.

“I’m a bit… busy here” he grunts.

“You won’t be for long! Quick, let the boulder go.”

One eyebrow melds into the other. Sisyphus’s eyes flicker toward me, then downward, toward the heap of metal at my feet: a jumble of iron limbs, a torso-shaped frame, and a smooth oval plate waiting to become a face. He shakes his head.

“I can’t,” he grunts, digging his heel deeper into the dirt as he braces again against the stone.

“You can! Just let it go and you’ll see my little—”

He let go. The heap of limbs twitches. The boulder reaches the bottom.

“Well, that was uneventful,” he says.

“Give me a second,” I reply.

I tinker and tinker.

“Ah, here it is!”

At once, the thing’s eyes flicker open and it rises smoothly to its feet. Without hesitation, it marches to the base of the hill, plants its metal palms against the stone, and begins to push. Up it goes. And when the boulder inevitably rolls back down, the robot does not he glre, does not stomp, does not curse the gods. It simply follows, positions, and pushes again. And again. And again.

Sisyphus watches, slack-jawed. Then, suddenly, he lets out a scream of joy! A gutteral, vivid cheer. Then, he collapses into the field beside us. He lies back, arms spread wide, drinking in the stillness. A long sigh escapes him.

“Thank you,” he says, “so very much.”

I beam. “Don’t mention it.”

Soon, days pass, years, maybe. Time is vague in the underworld. One afternoon, Sisyphus props himself up on his elbows. His eyes narrow as he watches the robot’s seamless ascent. His fingers twitch. His palm flexes. He rises from his position and his legs shake. He paces back and forth. Stops to stare. And paces once again.

“What is wrong, Sisyphus?” I ask.

“I cannot tell you. Not one bit. All I know is what is true for me right now.” He says.

“What is true, then?” I ask.

“This is the turth” he begins.

“I feel at once relieved and distressed. Relieved of the toil and pain. Relieved of the world-like-crushing-weight on my body. Relieved of monotony and finality. And yet, I feel jittery, shaken, wrecked. You see, the ground beneath me, before, felt well. . . like ground. Hard, steady, cold. It was surely, totally and entirely ground. Now, it feels like ground about–half as much (Weil, 1950). Before ‘each atom of that stone, each mineral flake of [this] night-filled mountain, in itself [formed] a world.’ (Camus, 1942). Now, I lay here on this not-so-ground-ground, and it feels as if the entire underworld has shrunk, collapsed into this singular spot. I rot in this spot. Its as though ground and air and rough rock tethered me here, to existence. I say this because now, it feels as though I exist only half -nay!-a third as much as before. Do I make sense at all?”

“Hmm” I reply, “This reminds me of a poem written by a man on earth, would you like to hear it?”

“Yes. Yes I would”

“It goes like this”

Then a ploughman said, Speak to us of Work.

And he answered, saying:

You work that you may keep pace with the earth and the soul of the earth.

For to be idle is to become a stranger unto the seasons, and to step out of life’s procession, that marches in majesty and proud submission towards the infinite.

When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music. Which of you would be a reed, dumb and silent, when all else sings together in unison?

. . .

You have been told also that life is darkness, and in your weariness you echo what was said by the weary.

And I say that life is indeed darkness save when there is urge,

And all urge is blind, save when there is knowledge,

And all knowledge is vain save when there is work,

And all work is empty, save when there is love;

And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God.”

(Jibran, 1923, 25-28)

Sisyphus stared at me for a long moment, then rose to his feet. Without a word, he walked toward the robot. He lifted a small stone from the ground and brought it down on the machine’s head with a crack. The robot froze. The robot crumpled. Sisyphus turned away. He walked back down the hill, toward the resting boulder. He placed his hand against its familiar surface and closed his eyes. Then, with a deep breath, he leaned his weight forward and began to push. Up the hill he went. Straining, sweating, alive. And when the stone slipped, as it always did, tumbling all the way back to the plain, Sisyphus paused at the top. He looked down after it.

He straightened his spine.

He set his jaw.

He furrowed his brow.

Then he began the descent once more.

I watched him as he did all that. I understood it. And yet, still - I walked toward the crumbled pieces. I picked up each and every one. And I carried it over towards my workshop.