Johan Vaaler

Staples always felt permanent to him, despite the fact that he had accumulated three staple-removers in his five years at the desk he occupied from eight a.m. to six p.m. each week day. Maybe it was the slap of the stapler. The noise was violence, the clacking of a future bound up with other futures not necessarily in the order he’d like them to be in. The order was required.

Beyond this, there was the sinister bending in of sharp ends. He’d bled at their prick more than once; enough that he wore gloves if he needed to do any considerable work with the jagged metal fasteners. It just seemed sensible.

Hence the appeal of the paper clip.