THE INFINITE-MONKEY THEOREM: FIELD NOTES

SHOUTS MURMURS

- REUVEN PERLMAN

12/3/22, 7:30 A.M.

Day 1 of being embedded with the elusive writer monkeys. It ’s magnificent. Monkeys and typewriters as far as the eye can see. What strikes me immediately, though, is the absence of any and all writing. Before arriving, I’d steeled myself for a deafening cacophony of tapping keys, margin bells, and the mechanical slides of carriage-return levers. But so far the only thing I’ve seen typed is “Title TK TK TK,” written by Monkey No. 3566, who then took a break to lie on the rug and listen to a podcast. Will one of these monkeys independently re-create the works of William Shakespeare? Only time will tell. What is immediately clear is that this subspecies of simian has a fondness for vintage shawl-collar sweaters, obscure jazz on vinyl, and packed bookshelves with rolling library ladders.

12/4/22, 10:34 A.M.

My presence is now widely known, and any prior concerns about my being rejected by the group have been quashed. In fact, having learned that I’m not a literary agent or a publisher and that I have no connections in Hollywood, the monkeys have started to ignore me entirely.

12/5/22, 8:30 P.M.