I think I struck a blow for civilization last week, or at least blocked one against it.

A guy writes to Vital Speeches hoping we'll help him hawk his book, Your Daily Shakespeare—an Arsenal of Verbal Weapons to Drive Your Friends into Action and your Enemies into Despair.

Among the book's attributes: "It is a collection of over 10,000 (ten thousand) daily situations connected to a befitting Shakespearean quotation. … It is a fertile and inexhaustible resource for any public speaker. … The tome has 1400 pages, double column, small font and it weighs 3.5 lbs."

My reply: "I must say that I do not think your book is of interest to me or my readers. Call us hayseeds, but we try to avoid being dismissed as windbags who lean on Shakespeare quotations like drunkards to lampposts. It's bad enough when people who actually read Shakespeare quote him frequently. Coming from those who would rely on a resource like the one you have created must be insufferable! … [W]hat good could you possibly hope to do with this resource? And what social harm are you willing to risk in return?"

Of course he wrote me back, quoting King Lear, King Henry IV, All's Well that Ends Well, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

The whole thing reminds me of speechwriting guru Jerry Tarver's noble rule against quoting Alexis de Tocqueville in business speeches: "No Quote de Tocque."

Speakers, quit quoting dead people and say something interesting yourself for once.

If you love Chicago or wish you did or think you could someday, you’ll love this.

Thanks to Michael Sebastian for the steer.

It's been almost a year since the economy began to crater and people's worlds started crumbling. During this year, you've thought a lot about karma and generosity and how we all ought to avoid shame and blame.

But every once in awhile … a long ago colleague gets in touch, for the first time in a long time.

Come to think of it, for the first time since the last time he was out of work.

He wants to "pick your brain" about the job market. You wonder what that could mean, since the sum of your understanding of the job market is: It sucks.

He's a taker. He was a taker when you worked together—quick to ask a favor, slow to do one, always worried he would be taken advantage of.

You find takers bother you more now than they did before, because there is less to go around, because these days even the givers are in need.

You decide you're not going to get back to this fucking guy. Because you know he's going to ask you to give him a recommendation. And when he does, you might have to tell him:

For any job you might apply for, I can think of a dozen unemployed people who are more talented, harder-working, more pleasant than you—and frankly better smelling, too.