William Whyte passed away quietly the other day at the age of 81. After a burst of fame, followed by years of relative though productive anonymity, he slipped into oblivion like a shadow disappearing when the sun is obscured by a cloud. The obituaries were like himself: muted, modest.

Though Whyte was once a famous author, this low-key passing seemed appropriate. He was a genuinely interesting character, but even his name suggested the blank, the canvas on which others could paint what they wished. If there had been no William Whyte, somebody else could plausibly, though probably not so successfully, have filled in for him.

William Whyte was of course the author of The Organization Man. Though published in the 1950s, the book became one of the bibles, or anti-bibles, of the 1960s generation, with its warnings of the insidious conformity being imposed by corporations, academic institutes and scientific institutions.

By implication, the horrors of conformity in life, love and philosophy were also conjured up.

It has been suggested that without "organisation man" there might well have been no William Whyte, and certainly not the famous author he became. The suggestion is that he owed a lot to his creation.

This is true up to a point. But underlying it is the assumption that Whyte had nobody particular in mind when he was writing his blockbuster-to-be, that the "organisation man" was a concept, or amalgam, rather than an individual.

In actual fact, "Organisation Man" was a real person. I ought to know: I was that man.

Living in Des Moines, Iowa, I started in a small way, as Organisation Boy. At home as a seven-year-old I rejoiced in order, structure, arrangement, logic and a tidy toy-cupboard. I revered my parents until the day I realised there was no cure for their general untidiness.

When, despite my printed notes on the bathroom wall, they left their wet towels on the floor for three days in a row, I knew it was time to leave. They departed on the 6.32 train, and did not even appreciate it when I complimented them for being punctual for perhaps the first time in their lives.

Before long I had become Organisation Teenager. Like my school colleagues, I had study timetables on one wall of my room, but I also had leisure timetables on the other. I read widely from my school-approved list of authors, but drew the line at Mark Twain: as far as I was concerned, Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer were dangerous subversives undermining democracy, order and clear thinking.

I was Organisation Undergraduate when I first met William Whyte. He straightaway impressed me with his hygienic mind, his air of knowing exactly where he stood in the social order, and his spotless tweed jacket.

I imagine I impressed him equally with my study discipline, my modest and carefully-controlled ambition and my demure, intelligent (yet not too intelligent) young lady friend, whom I had already decided would be my wife.

Well, that's how it started. Before long I was working for General Motors, which was all I ever wanted to do since our revered cabinet secretary pointed out, quite correctly, that "What's good for General Motors is good for America." And when William Whyte began his research on The Organization Man, it was to me he turned for advice, example, quotes, guidance, and afternoon tea served by Henrietta (the demure maiden already mentioned, now my wife) at precisely 4.25 p.m. every Saturday.

When, for example, he inquired what exactly was the life ambition of my fellow organisation men, I told him honestly that it was "to achieve a good job with adequate pay and proper pension and a nice house in a pleasant community populated with people as nearly like themselves as possible."

I then allowed Henrietta to deliver her considered opinion on what the wife of the organisation man should be, and she correctly pointed out that "the good wife is the wife who adjusts graciously to the system, curbs open intellectualism or the desire to be alone."

All this found its way into William Whyte's remarkable book. People who have learned of my contribution (and the 2.57 per cent contribution by Henrietta) have sometimes asked me why I was never given any credit for my role in the success of The Organization Man: I point out that I never asked for any credit, nor was ever offered it, and that I have therefore nothing whatsoever to complain about.

As a response this does not seem to satisfy them, but in my scheme of reckoning, that is not my responsibility.