(Prelude: I’ve been listening to the audiobook of Poverty, by America recently, as well as having talks with friends about anarchism and living standards. The point I’m making here has almost certainly been made before, but I felt like doing some thinking and writing.)

Imagine a time long before today. This is a time before technology: when an Apple meant a fruit, or possibly original sin; when government was either non-existent or feudal/medieval, depending on whatever was convenient for the following narrative; and when grandpappy would hold little child on bouncing knee and tell him tale after tale of Simplified Economic Fables.

Imagine a carpenter, out in the wild green yonder. He has a long family tradition of carpentry: his father was a carpenter, and his father was a carpenter, and his father was a carpenter, and his father invented trees. His mother knew the ways of the forest – from her mother, she learned to listen to larches and speak with spruces. Every sapling has a story, or so she would say, and every elder would sing about the good old days when roots were roots and bark was bark, and that wizened old man from many generations ago would keep on claiming that he invented trees, and would not shut up about it.

He is a carpenter of some repute: they say he could stare at a pile of timber, and that it would shape itself into furniture to avoid his gimlet eye. They say he could knock in two nails with one hammer, or three if he should miss. Where tale turned into truth and truth tale it is never possible to say, but certainly he was the finest carpenter in all the land, and old farmers and deer would travel from many a mile just to gaze upon a beautiful bedframe or sturdy stool. His wood-turning skills were so great even, that he could turn a story from third-person to first-person right in the middle with no care at all for narrative structure.

One day, while out inspecting my burgeoning sandpaper crop I happen to gaze upon the local river – a terrifying turbulent river that all who hear tell of its ragged rocks or vicious vortices quake in terror before. Yea, it is said that to cross upon this river with canoe or catamaran alike is to risk one’s very soul within its gluttonous maw, and even the birds that fly over dare not glance below. I eye the deep waters with careful consideration, a blood-soaked body moving past me as if to illustrate a point, and decide that Today is the Day to Act. Capital letters in tow, I return with idea to my woodshed.

Over the next several weeks and months, any passing sparrow or spectre in the night would hear me there, sawing with saw or lathing with lathe. I beg forgiveness of old women whose orders of dining tables I fill three days late, and offer 10% off next purchase. Pines go missing in the night, and local search parties spend hours looking for shallow graves. Eventually, it is built – the grandest bridge that one ever would see. It is assembled deep at night with the help of passing animal life, and in the morning, it stands solid and proud over the now defeated stream. Word passes from man to man as quick as the raging rapids run, and the townsfolk gather to see the victory of carpenter over river.

There is a parade in my honour, and the tributaries of road and water both are clogged with confetti. Though the building of bridge has made me tired and poor, soon I grow rich – I set up a toll on either end to pay for the timber I have taken and the excess hours I spent in my study. Some travelers grumble, as travelers are wont to do, but no man or beast begrudges the tax, for I spend the rest of my days improving the lives of those who walk across this weary wooden way – replacing aging board, widening what needs widening, fending off bridge trolls who try to set up camp to accost passers-by with riddles three, and setting up small souvenir shops for tourists. And in my lifetime, I am made legend – I am greeted so often by newcomers who know of me only because they can now pass safely that my name becomes now and forever not Art Carpenter (for my name was Arthur this whole time), but instead, Art Bridgeman.

—

In 1840, the French economist Pierre-Joseph Proudhon declared that “Property is theft!”, meaning that those who own private property, unearned by their tools or hands, steal from those who work it (An actual economist would probably say I’ve completely misunderstood what Proudhon was saying, and I haven’t done pretty much any deep reading on this but I’m sort of trying to gesture at a nebulous concept here so just go with me on this one.). Proudhon is often considered the founder of anarchism, the idea that a society would be better without a state to control it. There are multiple strains of anarchism, but one is anarchist communism, where private property is abolished in favour of property owned by the community. Personal property, like the stuff you own in your house, still exists here – personal property is not the same as private property, which are more like factories or businesses.

In the 1960s and 70s, the term “rent-seeking” was popularised – effectively, it means that those who own land or natural resources can extract wealth above and beyond what is needed to keep it going. Rent, in economic terms, is payment to someone for that person not actually doing anything – this doesn’t just extend to housing but is an excellent example of it. Let’s say I buy a house, do nothing with it and get money from it by renting it out. From my point of view this is excellent – I’m getting money basically for free. Later down the road I could use that money to buy more houses, and get even more rent, and so on and so on. I can live out my life in luxury while doing exactly nothing. From a renter’s point of view though, this is basically unfair – they’re paying me money for the privilege of having a roof over their head. From a broader economic standpoint, it would be better if I gave all my houses to those that are renting from me. I would have to make money by actually going and working and contributing to the economy, and the renters can stop giving me money and instead use that to improve their lives in some other, more tangible way.

In 1993, writer Terry Pratchett came up with the idea of the “Vimes ‘Boots’ theory of socioeconomic unfairness” in his book Men at Arms. In his book, Pratchett’s character Sam Vimes talks about how the rich can stay rich by talking about buying boots – the rich can buy one set of expensive boots that will last a long while, while the poor, who can’t afford to save for good boots, have to keep buying cheap boots that quickly wear out, spending money over and over again until paradoxically, they have spent more money over time than the rich have, while still being worse off.

In 2024, Steamboat Willie finally entered the public domain after its release in 1928. United States copyright law has gone through multiple revisions – in 1790, the length of copyright was 14 years, with an option to renew it once for another 14. By 1998, however, this time limit had been extended numerous times, and now sits at either 95 years after publication (120 after creation if unpublished), or the life of the creator plus 70 years, whichever happens to end earlier. Copyright law is a complicated beast, but the goal of it is to give a creator rights to their work, allowing them to profit from their hard-earned intellectual endeavours. While broadly speaking, copyright is considered positive for society, since it provides the ability and incentive for creators to create, there have been multiple criticisms of it, including issues with the length of copyright, debates about what counts as an author or creator, and the ability of people to use copyright as censorship or gatekeep access to knowledge and information.

In the story above, Art Bridgeman, née Art Carpenter, used his hard work, knowledge, and resources to improve the lives of himself and those around him. He made money off his ideas, and travelers were safer than if they crossed the river by themselves. An argument could be made that if Art decided to give access to the bridge for free, that society as a whole would be better off. However, another argument could be made that if creators (using the term broadly) aren’t incentivised to do things like build bridges or write novels, then there would be no bridges to save people from drowning or novels to save people from boredom. In this story, as well, the river still exists, and one could always choose to cross it by boat rather than paying the toll – though it may be risky, the opportunity still exists. Art’s bridge is a net good for his society, and as said in the story, he is using the money earned from it to continue to improve it. It’s very easy to read the tale of Art Carpenter and imagine a “And they lived happily ever after” at the end of it. But in the real world, alas, stories don’t end – they simply continue…

—

It has been many a year since that first day, when it seemed like all the people from all the world came to gaze upon my simple bridge. Ages ago now, an old man came to my door, begging for a hot meal, a warm blanket, and a place to sit before he made his way out of my life as easily as he made his way into it. In exchange, he gave me stories, and one I will never forget said that a man dies twice: once when his body passes, and once when his name passes from living memory. His name was James, which I know because he carved it into the headboard of my guest bed. My body has since passed, but my spirit lives on as the Bridgeman name continues on. When I passed, I gave my knowledge and tools to my son and my daughter, who swore to make my name proud and leave my legacy as rich as their pockets now were. Soon they built their own bridges, learning from me and my works as I learnt from my father, and in time more and more travelers found their way to the other side of the river, and on to their merry missions.

But this is a tale of ages past, and now one of my descendants commands control of all the crossings over the waters. The boards are starting to crumble but there is no need for him to repair them, for there is always another bridge, and another way over the river. The money flows to him as the water flows under the bridge, but the money does not flow out – I built a kingdom of wood, and he has built one of gold. Trolls sometimes take refuge from the rain and footsteps, and he no longer cares to learn their riddles. At one point, a man in formal wear appeared with a clipboard to inspect the bridges, and proclaimed in a reedy voice that access to the river’s edge is no longer permitted, citing the horrors contained within its calamitous currents and murderous maelstroms. While I cannot argue with the man about the dangers of the river, no longer are there any destitute sailors trying to find their way to better climes, or fisherman seeking salmon for their family’s supper. The poor line the blocked-off banks adjoining the bridges, begging for a coin from passing travelers to let them seek employ or companionship on the other side. The travelers affect deafness or apologise that their coins are already intended for the toll booth, and they have no more to spare. I cannot always tell if they are truthful.

My descendant fends off the cries of condemnation as easily as the river washes downstream, declaring that if he has a life of luxury, it is only because he traces his trails all the way back to a common-born carpenter who sought only to enrich the lives of peoples everywhere. Often, in parties or palaces, he tells a tale of toil and trudgery, and announces with intoxicated pride that he hails from the honourable Art Bridgeman.

I neglect to know his name.

—

Relevant links:
Poverty, by America: A book by sociologist Matthew Desmond on how poverty persists in America, including the structural reasons behind its endemicity. (I bought the audiobook on Audible, owned by Amazon. I recognise the irony.)
Your Book Review: Progress and Poverty: A review of Henry George’s Progress and Poverty, which also discusses issues with rent and land.
Men At Arms: The book from which the Vimes theory originated. I can recommend this one generally if not yet specifically, since I’m still working my way through the Discworld series.
What is Property? An Inquiry into the Principle of Right and of Government: Proudhon’s book from which the “Property is theft!” quote originates (though he said it originally in French, obviously). I haven’t read this one, but it’s on my list. You can feel free to castigate me for not reading two of the things I’m linking here.

Thanks for reading.

Appropriately enough, I have placed this work under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike license. You may share and adapt this material in any way you want, providing you give appropriate credit and distribute any adaptations under the same license.