The long read
Why
time management is ruining our lives
All
of our efforts to be more productive backfire – and only make us
feel even busier and more stressed
by Oliver Burkeman
The eternal human
struggle to live meaningfully in the face of inevitable death entered
its newest phase one Monday in the summer of 2007, when employees of
Google gathered to hear a talk by a writer and self-avowed geek named
Merlin Mann. Their biggest professional problem was email, the
digital blight that was colonising more and more of their hours,
squeezing out time for more important work, or for having a life. And
Mann, a rising star of the “personal productivity” movement,
seemed like he might have found the answer.
He called his system
“Inbox Zero”, and the basic idea was simple enough. Most of us
get into bad habits with email: we check our messages every few
minutes, read them and feel vaguely stressed about them, but take
little or no action, so they pile up into an even more
stress-inducing heap. Instead, Mann advised his audience that day at
Google’s Silicon Valley campus, every time you visit your inbox,
you should systematically “process to zero”. Clarify the action
each message requires – a reply, an entry on your to-do list, or
just filing it away. Perform that action. Repeat until no emails
remain. Then close your inbox, and get on with living.
“It was really
just a way of saying, ‘I suck at email, and here’s stuff that
makes me suck less at it – you may find it useful,’” Mann
recalled later. But he had stumbled on a rich seam of societal
anxiety. Hundreds of thousands of people watched his talk online, and
Inbox Zero spawned countless blog posts, along with books and apps.
It was the Atkins diet for nerds: if you weren’t doing it yourself,
you almost certainly knew someone who was. Mann’s followers
triumphantly posted screenshots of their empty inboxes; the New
Yorker, discerning his increasingly cult-like following, described
his system as “halfway between Scientology and Zen”. (The New
York Post called it bullshit.)
If all this fervour
seems extreme – Inbox Zero was just a set of technical instructions
for handling email, after all – this was because email had become
far more than a technical problem. It functioned as a kind of
infinite to-do list, to which anyone on the planet could add anything
at will. For the “knowledge workers” of the digital economy, it
was both metaphor and delivery mechanism for the feeling that the
pressure of trying to complete an ever-increasing number of tasks, in
a finite quantity of time, was becoming impossible to bear.
Most of us have
experienced this creeping sense of being overwhelmed: the feeling not
merely that our lives are full of activity – that can be
exhilarating – but that time is slipping out of our control. And
today, the personal productivity movement that Mann helped launch –
which promises to ease the pain with time-management advice tailored
to the era of smartphones and the internet – is flourishing as
never before. There are now thousands of apps in the “productivity”
category of the Apple app store, including software to simulate the
ambient noise of working in a coffee shop (this has been shown, in
psychology experiments, to help people focus on work), and a text
editor that deletes the words you have written if you don’t keep
typing fast enough.
The quest for
increased personal productivity – for making the best possible use
of your limited time – is a dominant motif of our age. Two books on
the topic by the New York Times journalist Charles Duhigg have spent
more than 60 weeks on the US bestseller lists between them, and the
improbable titular promise of another book, The Four Hour Work Week,
has seduced a reported 1.35m readers worldwide. There are blogs
offering tips on productive dating, and on the potential result of
productive dating, productive parenting; signs have been spotted in
American hotels wishing visitors a “productive stay”. The
archetypal Silicon Valley startup, in the last few years, has been
one that promises to free up time and mental capacity by eliminating
some irritating “friction” of daily life – shopping or laundry,
or even eating, in the case of the sludgy, beige meal replacement
Soylent – almost always for the purpose of doing more work.
And yet the truth is
that more often than not, techniques designed to enhance one’s
personal productivity seem to exacerbate the very anxieties they were
meant to allay. The better you get at managing time, the less of it
you feel that you have. Even when people did successfully implement
Inbox Zero, it didn’t reliably bring calm. Some interpreted it to
mean that every email deserved a reply, which only shackled them more
firmly to their inboxes. (“That drives me crazy,” Mann says.)
Others grew jumpy at the thought of any messages cluttering an inbox
that was supposed to stay pristine, and so ended up checking more
frequently. My own dismaying experience with Inbox Zero was that
becoming hyper-efficient at processing email meant I ended up getting
more email: after all, it’s often the case that replying to a
message generates a reply to that reply, and so on. (By contrast,
negligent emailers often discover that forgetting to reply brings
certain advantages: people find alternative solutions to the problems
they were nagging you to solve, or the looming crisis they were
emailing about never occurs.)
The allure of the
doctrine of time management is that, one day, everything might
finally be under control. Yet work in the modern economy is notable
for its limitlessness. And if the stream of incoming emails is
endless, Inbox Zero can never bring liberation: you’re still
Sisyphus, rolling his boulder up that hill for all eternity –
you’re just rolling it slightly faster.
Two years after his
Google talk, Mann released a rambling and slightly manic online video
in which he announced that he had signed a contract for an Inbox Zero
book. But his career as a productivity guru had begun to stir an
inner conflict. “I started making pretty good money from it” –
from speaking and consulting – “but I also started to feel
terrible,” he told me earlier this year. “This topic of
productivity induces the worst kind of procrastination, because it
feels like you’re doing work, but I was producing stuff that had
the express purpose of saying to people, ‘Look, come and see how to
do your work, rather than doing your work!’”
The book missed its
publication date. Fans started asking questions. Then, after two more
years, Mann published a self-lacerating essay in which he abruptly
announced that he was jettisoning the project. It was the 3,000-word
howl of a man who had suddenly grasped the irony of missing morning
after morning with his three-year-old daughter because he was “typing
bullshit that I hoped would please my book editor” about how to use
time well. He was guilty, he declared, of “abandoning [my]
priorities to write about priorities … I’ve unintentionally
ignored my own counsel to never let your hard work fuck up the good
things.” He hinted that he might write a different kind of book
instead – a book about stuff that really mattered – but it never
appeared. “I’m mostly out of the productivity racket these days,”
Mann told me. “If you’re just using efficiency to jam more and
more stuff into your day … well, how would you ever know that
that’s working?”
It’s
understandable that we respond to the ratcheting demands of modern
life by trying to make ourselves more efficient. But what if all this
efficiency just makes things worse?
Given that the
average lifespan consists of only about 4,000 weeks, a certain amount
of anxiety about using them well is presumably inevitable: we’ve
been granted the mental capacities to make infinitely ambitious
plans, yet almost no time at all to put them into practice. The
problem of how to manage time, accordingly, goes back at least to the
first century AD, when the Roman philosopher Seneca wrote On The
Shortness of Life. “This space that has been granted to us rushes
by so speedily, and so swiftly that all save a very few find life at
an end just when they are getting ready to live,” he said, chiding
his fellow citizens for wasting their days on pointless busyness, and
“baking their bodies in the sun”.
Clearly, then, the
challenge of how to live our lives well is not a new one. Still, it
is safe to say that the citizens of first-century Rome didn’t
experience the equivalent of today’s productivity panic. (Seneca’s
answer to the question of how to live had nothing to do with becoming
more productive: it was to give up the pursuit of wealth or high
office, and spend your days philosophising instead.) What is uniquely
modern about our fate is that we feel obliged to respond to the
pressure of time by making ourselves as efficient as possible –
even when doing so fails to bring the promised relief from stress.
It is either
impossible, or at least usually feels impossible, to cut down on work
in exchange for more time
The time-pressure
problem was always supposed to get better as society advanced, not
worse. In 1930, John Maynard Keynes famously predicted that within a
century, economic growth would mean that we would be working no more
than 15 hours per week – whereupon humanity would face its greatest
challenge: that of figuring out how to use all those empty hours.
Economists still argue about exactly why things turned out so
differently, but the simplest answer is “capitalism”. Keynes
seems to have assumed that we would naturally throttle down on work
once our essential needs, plus a few extra desires, were satisfied.
Instead, we just keep finding new things to need. Depending on your
rung of the economic ladder, it’s either impossible, or at least
usually feels impossible, to cut down on work in exchange for more
time.
Arguably the first
time management guru – the progenitor of the notion that personal
productivity might be the answer to the problem of time pressure –
was Frederick Winslow Taylor, an engineer hired in 1898 by the
Bethlehem Steel Works, in Pennsylvania, with a mandate to improve the
firm’s efficiency. “Staring out over an industrial yard that
covered several square miles of the Pennsylvania landscape, he
watched as labourers loaded 92lb [iron bars] on to rail cars,”
writes Matthew Stewart, in his book The Management Myth. “There
were 80,000 tons’ worth of iron bars, which were to be carted off
as fast as possible to meet new demand sparked by the
Spanish-American war. Taylor narrowed his eyes: there was waste here,
he was certain.”
The Bethlehem
workers, Taylor calculated, were shifting about 12.5 tons of iron per
man per day – but predictably, when he offered a group of “large,
powerful Hungarians” some extra cash to work as fast as they could
for an hour, he found that they performed much better. Extrapolating
to a full work day, and guesstimating time for breaks, Taylor
concluded, with his trademark blend of self-confidence and woolly
maths, that every man ought to be shifting 50 tons per day – four
times their usual amount.
Workers were
naturally unhappy at this transparent attempt to pay them the same
money for more work, but Taylor was not especially concerned with
their happiness; their job was to implement, not understand, his new
philosophy of “scientific management”. “One of the very first
requirements for a man who is fit to handle pig iron,” wrote
Taylor, is “that he shall be so stupid and phlegmatic that he more
nearly resembles in his mental makeup the ox than any other type …
he is so stupid that the word ‘percentage’ has no meaning for
him.”
The idea of
efficiency that Taylor sought to impose on Bethlehem Steel was
borrowed from the mechanical engineers of the industrial revolution.
It was a way of thinking about improving the functioning of machines,
now transferred to humans. And it caught on: Taylor enjoyed a
high-profile career as a lecturer on the topic, and by 1915,
according to the historian Jennifer Alexander, “the word
‘efficiency’ was plastered everywhere – in headlines,
advertisements, editorials, business manuals, and church bulletins.”
In the first decades of the 20th century, in a Britain panicked by
the rise of German power, the National Efficiency movement united
politicians on left and right. (“At the present time,” the
Spectator noted in 1902, “there is a universal outcry for
efficiency in all the departments of society, in all aspects of
life.”)
It is not hard to
grasp the appeal: efficiency was the promise of doing what you
already did, only better, more cheaply, and in less time. What could
be wrong with that? Unless you happened to be on the sharp end of
attempts to treat humans like machines – like the workers of
Bethlehem Steel – there wasn’t an obvious downside.
But as the century
progressed, something important changed: we all became Frederick
Winslow Taylors, presiding ruthlessly over our own lives. As the
doctrine of efficiency grew entrenched – as the ethos of the market
spread to more and more aspects of society, and life became more
individualistic – we internalised it. In Taylor’s day, efficiency
had been primarily a way to persuade (or bully) other people to do
more work in the same amount of time; now it is a regimen that we
impose on ourselves.
According to legend,
Taylorism first crossed the threshold into personal productivity when
Charles Schwab, the president of Bethlehem Steel, asked another
consultant, a businessman named Ivy Lee, to improve his executives’
efficiency as well. Lee advised those white-collar workers to make
nightly to-do lists, arranging tomorrow’s six most important tasks
by priority, then to start at the top of the list next morning,
working down. It’s a stretch to imagine that nobody had thought of
this before. But the story goes that when Lee told Schwab to test it
for three months, then pay him what he thought it was worth, the
steel magnate wrote him a cheque worth more than $400,000 in today’s
money – and the time management industry was up and running.
In an era of
insecure employment, we must constantly demonstrate our usefulness
through frenetic doing
Other gurus were to
follow, writing bestsellers that modified Lee’s basic technique to
incorporate the setting of long-term goals (the 1973 book How to Get
Control of Your Time and Your Life, by Alan Lakein, who boasted of
having advised both IBM and Gloria Steinem, and who inspired a young
Bill Clinton) and spiritual values (The Seven Habits of Highly
Effective People, published in 1989 by the Mormon efficiency expert
Stephen Covey).
Time management
promised a sense of control in a world in which individuals –
decreasingly supported by the social bonds of religion or community –
seemed to lack it. In an era of insecure employment, we must
constantly demonstrate our usefulness through frenetic doing, and
time management can give you a valuable edge. Indeed, if you are
among the growing ranks of the self-employed, as a freelancer or a
worker in the so-called gig economy, increased personal efficiency
may be essential to your survival. The only person who suffers
financially if you indulge in “loafing” – a workplace vice that
Taylor saw as theft – is you.
Above all, time
management promises that a meaningful life might still be possible in
this profit-driven environment, as Melissa Gregg explains in
Counterproductive, a forthcoming history of the field. With the right
techniques, the prophets of time management all implied, you could
fashion a fulfilling life while simultaneously attending to the
ever-increasing demands of your employer. This promise “comes back
and back, in force, whenever there’s an economic downturn”, Gregg
told me.
Especially at the
higher-paid end of the employment spectrum, time management whispers
of the possibility of something even more desirable: true peace of
mind. “It is possible for a person to have an overwhelming number
of things to do and still function productively with a clear head and
a positive sense of relaxed control,” the contemporary king of the
productivity gurus, David Allen, declared in his 2001 bestseller,
Getting Things Done. “You can experience what the martial artists
call a ‘mind like water’, and top athletes refer to as ‘the
zone’.”
As Gregg points out,
it is significant that “personal productivity” puts the burden of
reconciling these demands squarely on our shoulders as individuals.
Time management gurus rarely stop to ask whether the task of merely
staying afloat in the modern economy – holding down a job, paying
the mortgage, being a good-enough parent – really ought to require
rendering ourselves inhumanly efficient in the first place.
Besides, on closer
inspection, even the lesser promises of time management were not all
they appeared to be. An awkward truth about Taylor’s celebrated
efficiency drives is that they were not very successful: Bethlehem
Steel fired him in 1901, having paid him vast sums without any
clearly detectable impact on its own profits. (One persistent
consequence of his schemes was that they seemed promising at first,
but left workers too exhausted to function consistently over the long
term.)
Likewise, it remains
the frequent experience of those who try to follow the advice of
personal productivity gurus – I’m speaking from years of
experience here – that a “mind like water” is far from the
guaranteed result. As with Inbox Zero, so with work in general: the
more efficient you get at ploughing through your tasks, the faster
new tasks seem to arrive. (“Work expands to fill the time available
for its completion,” as the British historian C Northcote Parkinson
realised way back in 1955, when he coined what would come to be known
as Parkinson’s law.)
Then there’s the
matter of self-consciousness: virtually every time management
expert’s first piece of advice is to keep a detailed log of your
time use, but doing so just heightens your awareness of the minutes
ticking by, then lost for ever. As for focusing on your long-term
goals: the more you do that, the more of your daily life you spend
feeling vaguely despondent that you have not yet achieved them.
Should you manage to achieve one, the satisfaction is strikingly
brief – then it’s time to set a new long-term goal. The supposed
cure just makes the problem worse.
There is a
historical parallel for all this: it’s exactly what happened when
the spread of “labour-saving” devices transformed the lives of
housewives and domestic servants across Europe and north America from
the end of the 19th century. Technology now meant that washing
clothes no longer entailed a day bent over a mangle; a vacuum-cleaner
could render a carpet spotless in minutes.
The 2016 Time
Matters conference was sparsely attended because it was August, and
lots of people were on holiday
Yet as the historian
Ruth Cowan demonstrates in her 1983 book More Work for Mother, the
result, for much of the 20th century, was not an increase in leisure
time among those charged with doing the housework. Instead, as the
efficiency of housework increased, so did the standards of
cleanliness and domestic order that society came to expect. Now that
the living-room carpet could be kept perfectly clean, it had to be;
now that clothes never needed to be grubby, grubbiness was all the
more taboo. These days, you can answer work emails in bed at
midnight. So should that message you got at 5.30pm really wait till
morning for a reply?
One boiling weekend
last summer, the impassioned members of a campaign group named Take
Back Your Time gathered in a university lecture hall in Seattle, to
further their longstanding mission of “eliminating the epidemic of
overwork” – and, in so doing, to explore what it might mean to
live a life that is not so focused on personal productivity. The 2016
Time Matters conference was a sparsely attended affair, in part
because, as the organisers conceded, it was August, and lots of
people were on holiday, and America’s most enthusiastically
pro-relaxation organisation was hardly going to complain about that.
But it was also because, these days, being even modestly
anti-productivity – especially in the US – counts as a subversive
stance. It is not the kind of platform that lends itself to glitzy
mega-events with generous corporate sponsorship and effective
marketing campaigns.
The conference-goers
discussed schemes for a four-day working week, for abolishing
daylight savings time, for holding elections at the weekend, and
generally for making America more like countries such as Italy and
Denmark. (To be a critic of America’s work culture is to constantly
gaze longingly across the Atlantic, at semi-mythical versions of
Scandinavia and southern Europe.) But the members of Take Back Your
Time were calling for something more radical than merely more time
off. They sought to question our whole instrumental attitude towards
time – the very idea that “getting more done” ought to be our
focus in the first place. “You keep hearing people arguing that
more time off might be good for the economy,” said John de Graaf,
the not-even-slightly-relaxed 70-year-old filmmaker who is the
organisation’s driving force. “But why should we have to justify
life in terms of the economy? It makes no sense!”
One of the sneakier
pitfalls of an efficiency-based attitude to time is that we start to
feel pressured to use our leisure time “productively”, too – an
attitude which implies that enjoying leisure for its own sake, which
you might have assumed was the whole point of leisure, is somehow not
quite enough. And so we find ourselves, for example, travelling to
unfamiliar places not for the sheer experience of travel, but in
order to add to our mental storehouse of experiences, or to our
Instagram feeds. We go walking or running to improve our health, not
for the pleasure of movement; we approach the tasks of parenthood
with a fixation on the successful future adults we hope to create.
In his 1962 book The
Decline of Pleasure, the critic Walter Kerr noticed this shift in our
experience of time: “We are all of us compelled to read for profit,
party for contracts, lunch for contacts … and stay home for the
weekend to rebuild the house.” Even rest and recreation, in a
culture preoccupied with efficiency, can only be understood as
valuable insofar as they are useful for some other purpose –
usually, recuperation, so as to enable more work. (Several conference
guests mentioned Arianna Huffington’s current crusade to encourage
people to get more sleep; for her, it seems, the main point of rest
is to excel at the office.)
If all this
increased efficiency brings none of the benefits it was supposed to
bring, what should we be doing instead? At Take Back Your Time, the
consensus was that personal lifestyle changes would never suffice:
reform would have to start with policies on vacation, maternity leave
and overtime. But in the meantime, we might try to get more
comfortable with not being as efficient as possible – with
declining certain opportunities, disappointing certain people, and
letting certain tasks go undone. Plenty of unpleasant chores are
essential to survival. But others are not – we have just been
conditioned to assume that they are. It isn’t compulsory to earn
more money, achieve more goals, realise our potential on every
dimension, or fit more in. In a quiet moment in Seattle, Robert
Levine, a social psychologist from California, quoted the
environmentalist Edward Abbey: “Growth for the sake of growth is
the ideology of the cancer cell.”
Yet if the ethos of
efficiency and productivity risks prioritising the health of the
economy over the happiness of humans, it is also true that the sense
of pressure it fosters is not much good for business, either. This,
it turns out, is a lesson business is not especially keen to learn.
“After years of
consulting with Microsoft, I was suddenly persona non grata,” Tom
DeMarco told me, with a note of amusement in his voice. DeMarco is a
minor legend in the world of software engineering. He began his
career at Bell Telephone Labs, birthplace of the laser and
transistor, and later became an expert in managing complex software
projects, a field notorious for spiralling costs, missed deadlines,
and clashing egos. But then, in the 1980s, he committed heresy: he
started arguing that ramping up the time pressure on your employees
was a terrible way to drive such projects forward. What was needed,
he had come to realise, was not an increased focus on using time
efficiently. It was the opposite: more slack.
Thinking about time
encourages clockwatching, which has been repeatedly shown to
undermine the quality of work
“The best
companies I visited, all through the years, were never very hurried,”
DeMarco said. “Maybe they used pressure from time to time, as a
sort of amusing side-effect. But it was never a constant. Because you
don’t get creativity for free. You need people to be able to sit
back, put their feet up, and think.” Manual work can be speeded up,
at least to a certain extent, by increasing the time pressure on
workers. But good ideas do not emerge more rapidly when people feel
under the gun – if anything, the good ideas dry up.
Part of the problem
is simply that thinking about time encourages clockwatching, which
has been repeatedly shown in studies to undermine the quality of
work. In one representative experiment from 2008, US researchers
asked people to complete the Iowa gambling task, a venerable
decision-making test that involves selecting playing cards in order
to win a modest amount of cash. All participants were given the same
time in which to complete the task – but some were told that time
would probably be sufficient, while others were warned it would be
tight. Contrary to an intuition cherished especially among
journalists – that the pressure of deadlines is what forces them to
produce high-quality work – the second group performed far less
well. The mere awareness of their limited time triggered anxious
emotions that got in the way of performance.
But worse perils
await. DeMarco points out that any increase in efficiency, in an
organisation or an individual life, necessitates a trade-off: you get
rid of unused expanses of time, but you also get rid of the benefits
of that extra time. A visit to your family doctor provides an obvious
example. The more efficiently they manage their time, the fuller
their schedule will be – and the more likely it is that you will be
kept sitting in the waiting room when an earlier appointment
overruns. (That’s all a queue is, after all: the cost of someone
else’s efficiency, being shouldered by you.) In the accident and
emergency department, by contrast, remaining “inefficient” in
this sense is a matter of life and death. If there is an exclusive
focus on using the staff’s time as efficiently as possible, the
result will be a department too busy to accommodate unpredictable
arrivals, which are the whole reason it exists.
A similar problem
afflicts any corporate cost-cutting exercise that focuses on
maximising employees’ efficiency: the more of their hours that are
put to productive use, the less available they will be to respond, on
the spur of the moment, to critical new demands. For that kind of
responsiveness, idle time must be built into the system.
“An organisation
that can accelerate but not change direction is like a car that can
speed up but not steer,” DeMarco writes. “In the short run, it
makes lots of progress in whatever direction it happened to be going.
In the long run, it’s just another road wreck.” He often uses the
analogy of those sliding number puzzles, in which you move eight
tiles around a nine-tile grid, until all the digits are in order. To
use the available space more efficiently, you could always add a
ninth tile to the empty square. You just wouldn’t be able to solve
the puzzle any more. If that jammed and unsolvable puzzle feels like
an appropriate metaphor for your life, it’s hard to see how
improving your personal efficiency – trying to force yet more tiles
on to the grid – is going to be much help.
At the very bottom
of our anxious urge to manage time better – the urge driving
Frederick Winslow Taylor, Merlin Mann, me and perhaps you – it’s
not hard to discern a familiar motive: the fear of death. As the
philosopher Thomas Nagel has put it, on any meaningful timescale
other than human life itself – that of the planet, say, or the
cosmos – “we will all be dead any minute”. No wonder we are so
drawn to the problem of how to make better use of our days: if we
could solve it, we could avoid the feeling, in Seneca’s words, of
finding life at an end just when we were getting ready to live. To
die with the sense of nothing left undone: it’s nothing less than
the promise of immortality by other means.
But the modern zeal
for personal productivity, rooted in Taylor’s philosophy of
efficiency, takes things several significant steps further. If only
we could find the right techniques and apply enough self-discipline,
it suggests, we could know that we were fitting everything important
in, and could feel happy at last. It is up to us – indeed, it is
our obligation – to maximise our productivity. This is a convenient
ideology from the point of view of those who stand to profit from our
working harder, and our increased capacity for consumer spending. But
it also functions as a form of psychological avoidance. The more you
can convince yourself that you need never make difficult choices –
because there will be enough time for everything – the less you
will feel obliged to ask yourself whether the life you are choosing
is the right one.
Personal
productivity presents itself as an antidote to busyness when it might
better be understood as yet another form of busyness. And as such, it
serves the same psychological role that busyness has always served:
to keep us sufficiently distracted that we don’t have to ask
ourselves potentially terrifying questions about how we are spending
our days. “How we labour at our daily work more ardently and
thoughtlessly than is necessary to sustain our life because it is
even more necessary not to have leisure to stop and think,” wrote
Friedrich Nietzsche, in what reads like a foreshadowing of our
present circumstances. “Haste is universal because everyone is in
flight from himself.”
You can seek to
impose order on your inbox all you like – but eventually you’ll
need to confront the fact that the deluge of messages, and the urge
you feel to get them all dealt with, aren’t really about
technology. They’re manifestations of larger, more personal
dilemmas. Which paths will you pursue, and which will you abandon?
Which relationships will you prioritise, during your shockingly
limited lifespan, and who will you resign yourself to disappointing?
What matters?
For Merlin Mann,
consciously confronting these questions was a matter of realising
that people would always be making more claims on his time – worthy
claims, too, for the most part – than it would be possible for him
to meet. And that even the best, most efficient system for managing
the emails they sent him was never going to provide a solution to
that. “Eventually, I realised something,” he told me. “Email is
not a technical problem. It’s a people problem. And you can’t fix
people.”
• Main
illustration: Pete Gamlen
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