What Work Is was my introduction to Philip Levine, back in 1991 when it was new and I was working at the late and lamented Oxford Books of Atlanta, Georgia. Oxford was the largest independent bookstore in the Southeast, and something of a pioneer of the superstore model, bookstores that kept 100,000 or more titles on hand. It was also about 50 yards from my first apartment in Atlanta, and as soon as I moved in I knew that I could either work there or be resigned to spending most of my paycheck there. (Or possibly both.) So I was a graphic designer by day and a sales clerk by night, because Oxford stayed up until quite late. There was also a distinct wave of customers who came in after 10pm and made the night hours interesting.
My work was different from a lot of the work that Levine writes about in this volume. He was a good forty years older than me, and his milieu is mid-century Detroit, a world of assembly lines, tight budgets, bad housing, cold winds, and maybe camaraderie if you are lucky. Those jobs are valorized now but Levine lived some of that life himself — he was working in auto factories when he was just 14 — and people all around him worked those jobs much longer. Levine writes about how the work sites were loud, dirty and dangers; how the work would physically break you if you did it long enough, even if you avoided accidents on the job. He writes about how mind-numbingly boring it was doing the same limited set of physical motions hour after hour, shift after shift, year after year. The bosses would try to take what little autonomy you had. They would try to speed up the work. They tried to make sure you knew your place, and that place was under their thumb.
Yet Levine does not write litanies of misery, and neither does he write Socialist Realist paeans to Stakhanovite labor achievements. Instead he captures the inescapable human moments, the times that show that even on the assembly line these are people not machines. He writes about the communities outside of the workplaces, and little moments in life that mean the world. Here’s a bit from “Soloing,” in which his mother has dreamt of John Coltrane playing, and Levine has driven hours through the night to see her:









