The world needed another "Why I Quit My Job" piece by a millennial, so without further ado ...

All right then -- employers talk in lofty cliches about the meaning of life, but employers who are lawyers don't.

I'm sure those quotes are verbatim despite the 35-year time gap. You're probably right.

 

I believe my answer was, verbatim: "I don't know."

Again: I don't expect the memoirist to recall with precise accuracy the quotes, though it's unfortunate that we have become so accepting of inaccuracy in the service of narrative.

I would, however, like her to not write like a hack.

 

Cheryl Strayed and Elizabeth Gilbert are hacks?

Cuz that's who she's emulating.

 

How do we know he's a villain? The writer didn't specifically say he was rubbing his hands and chortling with evil glee.

 

I can tell you're in a particular mood today. I don't know what you're getting at, but at least we're closer to the truth (you think she sucks as a writer) than where this started (she violated the tenets of journalism with the quotes).

Work it out, baby, work out that angst.

 

He was stroking a cat.

 

He was, but she graciously forgave him, because he knew not what he did.

 

This is actually where we started.

 

The OP was entirely devoted to the quotes not being believable.

Anyway, I'm sure this will come up in "I WAS RIGHT!!!!!" form on various threads over the next year and a half, so I'll catch up to it then.

 

I don't know what's harder -- agreeing with Dick or disagreeing with Dick.

 

Correct. Which makes her a hack.

It wouldn't surprise me at all to find out that the boss was a "composite character."

 

Maybe this non-millennial who quit her lawyer job wrote it better:

Parents Without Borders

In my early 30s I was working as a labor lawyer in downtown Toronto. Every time I had some time off I’d make a trip somewhere, but they were always short dashes. The summer before I was due to become a partner at the firm I took a five-month unpaid leave of absence and headed to China and Tibet. Two months in I sent the partners my “Dear John” letter: I wasn’t coming back.