The Great Bureaucratic Seal

In the city of Uchtensk, Bureaucracy lived. It never walked—it went through the proper approval process. It never spoke—it issued directives. Even its mirror reflected a person only after they presented valid identification.

One day, a citizen attempted the impossible: to obtain a certificate stating that he existed.

“Please fill out an application to receive an application,” said the official without looking up.

“But I’m already here.”

“Physical presence is not a valid document.”

The citizen filled out the application. He was issued a queue ticket for waiting to receive a queue ticket. A week later, he received a notice informing him that he had successfully completed the queue and was now eligible to join the queue for consideration of whether he could be placed in the queue.

“So… will I get the certificate?”

“That depends on the Commission.”

The Commission met every Tuesday, except on Tuesdays. On its door hung a notice:

“Due to technical reasons, today’s meeting has been postponed to a date that will be announced after the date of that announcement has been officially approved.”

After three months of waiting, the citizen was finally summoned.

“There’s a problem,” the Chair said sternly. “According to our records, you do not exist.”

“But I’m standing right here!”

“Precisely. If you officially existed, you wouldn’t have to prove it.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Obtain a certificate confirming your existence.”

“That’s exactly why I came!”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. All that’s left is to prove that you have the right to apply for such a certificate.”

The circle closed with such perfect precision that it was immediately adopted as a national standard.

In the end, the citizen disappeared—not physically, but administratively. It turned out to be rather convenient: taxes continued to be assessed automatically, fines arrived right on schedule, but making an appointment became impossible because the system politely informed him:

“User not found. To restore your identity, please appear in person.”

And so, in Uchtensk, order achieved its final triumph. No one argued with Bureaucracy anymore—not because they agreed with it, but because objections were accepted only in writing, in triplicate, bearing a blue official seal that could be obtained only after receiving a certificate granting the right to use the seal.

All of this would be amusing if it reflected only the present day. In reality, its roots stretch deep into history. Consider one concrete example.

The bureaucratic machinery of the Heian period (794–1185) was extraordinarily cumbersome.

Officials preferred composing poetry in Classical Chinese, admiring their gardens, and paying social visits—anything but working.

Here is what the process of issuing an imperial decree looked like.

When the Council of State (Daijō-kan) proposed a measure, it first had to obtain the Emperor’s approval. The Emperor’s secretaries would then copy it into the form of an official state document. The draft itself had to be written in Chinese. After reading it, the Emperor confirmed that he had done so by writing the day of the month on which he had read it; the month and year had already been entered in advance by a secretary.

The draft was then sent to the Ministry of the Imperial Household. In response, the minister composed and submitted a formal note of gratitude to the Emperor. Only then did he carefully examine the document and write beneath his official title the Chinese character meaning “Submit.”

The next stop was the office of the Senior Assistant Minister who, after the customary delay, added the character “Received.” The Junior Assistant Minister then repeated the procedure, except that he wrote the character “Execute.”

The document was next forwarded to the Copyists’ Bureau, where a clean copy was produced. It was then returned to the Council of State, whose Chief Councillor replied with a formal notification.

After that, the document went back to the Emperor, who now wrote “Approved” on it before returning it once again to the Council of State. There it underwent yet another careful review, and if no stylistic errors were found, it was sent back to the Copyists’ Bureau, where multiple official copies were prepared.

Each copy had to be signed by the officials responsible for drafting the decree. Only then was the document sent to the imperial palace, where the ceremony of affixing the Great Seal took place.

Only at this point could the decree finally be regarded as officially issued.

It is also worth remembering that the overwhelming majority of these decrees concerned matters such as the proper color of officials’ caps and similar minutiae.

Thus, bureaucracy, like the Mafia, is immortal.