Gradually, then, the more enlightened directing minds have
called in experts who were trained, or had trained themselves, to make
parts of this Great Society intelligible to those who manage it. These
men are known by all kinds of names, as statisticians, accountants,
auditors, industrial counsellors, engineers of many species,
scientific managers, personnel administrators, research men,
"scientists," and sometimes just as plain private secretaries. They
have brought with them each a jargon of his own, as well as filing
cabinets, card catalogues, graphs, loose-leaf contraptions, and above
all the perfectly sound ideal of an executive who sits before a
flat-top desk, one sheet of typewritten paper before him, and decides
on matters of policy presented in a form ready for his rejection or
approval.
This whole development has been the work, not so much of a spontaneous
creative evolution, as of blind natural selection. The statesman, the
executive, the party leader, the head of a voluntary association,
found that if he had to discuss two dozen different subjects in the
course of the day, somebody would have to coach him. He began to
clamor for memoranda. He found he could not read his mail. He demanded
somebody who would blue-pencil the interesting sentences in the
important letters. He found he could not digest the great stacks of
type-written reports that grew mellow on his desk.
Pages:
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373
374
375
376
377
378
379
380