Monthly Archives: April 2015

79 Theses on Technology:
Our Detachment From Technology

insect blue_FLAT

When reading Alan Jacobs’s 79 theses, three jumped out at me:

55. This epidemic of forgetting where algorithms come from is the newest version of “I for one welcome our new insect overlords.”

56. It seems not enough for some people to attribute consciousness to algorithms; they must also grant them dominion.

58. Any sufficiently advanced logic is indistinguishable from stupidity.—Alex Tabarrok

These theses suggest a single issue: We have become increasingly detached from our software, both in how it works and how it is built.

The algorithms involved in much of our software are each designed to do something. When an algorithm was a single snippet of code or a tiny computer program, it could be read, understood, debugged, and even improved. Similarly, computing once involved regular interactions at the level of the command line. There was little distance between the code and the user.

Since the early era of command lines and prompts, software has become increasingly complex. It has also become increasingly shielded from the user. These are not necessarily bad changes. More sophisticated technology is more powerful and has greater functionality; giving it a simpler face prevents it from being overwhelming to use. We don’t need to enter huge numbers of commands or parameters to get something to work. We can just swipe our fingers and our intentions are intuited.

Thanks to these changes, however, each of us has become more distant from the inner workings of our machines. I’ve written elsewhere about how we must strive to become closer to our machines and bridge the gap between expert and user. This is difficult in our era of iPads and graphical interfaces, and often it doesn’t even seem that important. However, since these technologies affect so many parts of our lives, I think we need the possibility of closeness: We need gateways to understanding our machines better. In the absence of this proactive decision, our responses to our machines will tend to be driven by fear, veneration, and disdain.

As we have become detached from how algorithms and software operate, this detachment has caused a gross misunderstanding of how technology works. We find it to be far more inscrutable than it really is, forgetting all technology was designed by fallible people. We respond to this inscrutable power by imputing a beauty and sophistication that is not there. (For more on this, see Ian Bogost and his observation that many people use the word “algorithm” in an almost religious manner.)

Veneration of the algorithm as something inordinately impressive is detrimental to our ability to engage with technology. Software is often incredibly kludgy and chaotic, far from worthy of worship. This response is not so far from fearing technology just because we can’t understand it. Both fear and veneration are closely related, as both make algorithms out to be more than they are. (This is the subject of Jacobs’s Theses 55 and 56, though stated in a bit more extreme forms than I might be willing to do.)

But what about disdain? How does this work? When a device suggests the wrong word or phrase in a text or sends delivery trucks on seemingly counterintuitive routes, we disdain the device and its algorithms. Together, their outputs seem so self-evidently wrong that we are often filled with a sense of superiority, mocking these algorithms’ shortcomings, or feeling that they are superfluous.

Sometimes, our expertise does fall short and complex logic can seem like stupidity. But David Auerbach, writing in Nautilus, offered this wonderful story that shows that something else might be going on:

Deep Blue programmer Feng-Hsiung Hsu writes in his book Behind Deep Blue that during the match, outside analysts were divided over a mysterious move made by the program, thinking it either weak or obliquely strategic. Eventually, the programmers discovered that the move was simply the result of a bug that had caused the computer not to choose what it had actually calculated to be the best move—something that could have appeared as random play.

In this case, ignorance prevented observers from understanding what was going on.

Is complex logic indistinguishable from stupidity? I don’t think so. Our response to a process we don’t understand may be closer to the nervous laughter of ignorance than a feeling of superiority. We call these algorithms stupid not because we recognize some authentic algorithmic inadequacy in them. We call them stupid because to admit a certain humility in the face of their increasing complexity would be a display of weakness.

When I took an artificial intelligence course in college and learned the algorithms for programs such as playing board games or constructing plans, I didn’t feel superior—I felt a kind of sadness. I had seen behind the screen and found these processes sophisticated, but fairly mundane. Most complex technology is this way. But when each of us encounters a surprising and apparently stupid output, if we don’t understand its origins, it is a lot easier to mock the system than to feel humbled, or even disappointed, at discovering its true structure.

These responses to technology are not the everyday user’s fault. Many of the creators of these technologies want the user to attribute a certain power to these algorithms and so have protected them behind layers of complexity. Ultimately, I think the most appropriate response is intellectual humility in the face of technology from which we have become increasingly detached. Only then can we engage with algorithms and try to see, even if only a moment, what they are actually doing.

Samuel Arbesman is a Senior Adjunct Fellow at the Silicon Flatirons Center for Law, Technology, and Entrepreneurship at the University of Colorado and a Visiting Scholar in Philosophy at the University of Kansas. Follow him on Twitter at @arbesman.

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79 Theses on Technology:
The Spectrum of Attention

“We should evaluate our investments of attention,” Jacobs urges in Thesis #7, “at least as carefully and critically as our investments of money.” But we will be in a better position to undertake such an evaluation when we understand exactly what we are talking about when we talk about attention, which is a word that—despite its importance—is never defined by Jacobs in the 79 Theses.

It’s easy to assume that “attention” is experienced in the same way by everyone. But as Matthew Crawford’s recent work has argued, attention has been imagined, and thus experienced, differently over time. Attention names various states or activities that we might do well to distinguish.

We can define attention first as “intently focusing on one object or task.” Reading a long, demanding text is a one example of this kind of attention. This sort of attention is the subject of Nicholas Carr’s Atlantic article, “Is Google Making Us Stupid?”: “Immersing myself in a book or a lengthy article used to be easy,” Carr notes, but now “my concentration often starts to drift after two or three pages. I get fidgety, lose the thread, begin looking for something else to do. I feel as if I’m always dragging my wayward brain back to the text.”

I suspect many of us share Carr’s experience. Not unlike the Apostle Paul, we lament, “What I want to pay attention to, I cannot. What I do not want to pay attention to, to that I do.” This failure to direct our attention presents itself as a failure of the will, and it assumes at some level that I am, as an autonomous subject, responsible for this failure (for more on this point, I suggest Chad Wellmon’s exchange with Jacobs).

But sometimes we talk about attention in a slightly different way; we speak of it as openness to the world, without any particular focal point. Sometimes the language of presence is used to articulate this kind of attention: Are we living in the moment? It is also the sort of attention that is advocated by proponents of “mindfulness,” to which Jacobs devoted two theses:

11. “Mindfulness” seems to many a valid response to the perils of incessant connectivity because it confines its recommendation to the cultivation of a mental stance without objects.

13. The only mindfulness worth cultivating will be teleological through and through.

On the surface, the two ways of talking about attention that I’ve outlined attention contradict each other. Directed attention is inconceivable without an object (mental or material) to sustain it, but no object would appear apart from an already existing form of attention.

Much depends on what exactly is meant by “mindfulness,” but I think we might be able to preserve a valuable distinction while still heeding Jacobs’s critique. If “mindfulness” functions, for instance, as a clearing of mental space in order to make directed attention possible, then the telos of mindfulness would be directed attention itself.

Attention as Dance

We can think of attention as a dance whereby we both lead and are led. This image suggests that receptivity and directedness do indeed work together. The proficient dancer knows when to lead and when to be led, and she also knows that such knowledge emerges out of the dance itself. This analogy reminds us, as well, that attention is the unity of body and mind making its way in a world that can be solicitous of its attention. The analogy also raises a critical question: How ought we conceive of attention given that we are  embodied creatures?

Maurice Merleau-Ponty can help us here. In Phenomenology of Perception, Merleau-Ponty discusses the shortcomings of both empiricist and intellectualist (rationalist) approaches to attention and makes the following observation: “Empiricism does not see that we need to know what we are looking for, otherwise we would not go looking for it; intellectualism does not see that we need to be ignorant of what we are looking for, or, again, we would not go looking for it.”

This simultaneous knowing and not-knowing seems to me another way of talking about attention as both openness to the world and as a directed work of the mind. It is a work of both receptivity, of perceiving the world as a gift, and care, of willfully and lovingly attending to particular aspects of the world. And, as Merleau-Ponty goes on to argue, attention is also a form of embodied perception that construes the world as much as it registers it. In this sense, our attention is never merely picking out items in the world (see Crawford on this idea); rather, attention is always interpreting the world in keeping with the desires and demands of an embodied being at a particular moment.

To a hiker on a long walk, for example, a stone is a thing to step around and is registered as such without conscious mental effort. It is attended to by the body in motion more than by the cogitating mind. To a geologist on a walk, on the other hand, a stone may become an object of urgent intellectual inquiry.

Both of these instances of perceiving-as result from subjective prior experience. The expert hiker moves along at a steady pace making countless adjustments and course corrections as a matter of bodily habit. The geologist, likewise, has trained his perception through hours of intellectual labor. In either situation, a novice might fail to hike as adroitly or notice the geologically interesting stone. Merleau-Ponty calls this repertoire of possible perceptions the “intentional arc,” which subtends “the life of consciousness—cognitive life, the life of desire or perceptual life.”

This example suggests two poles of attention, bodily and mental. But these are not mutually exclusive binaries. Rather, they constitute a spectrum of possibilities from the dominance of conscious mental activity on one end to the other end where non-conscious bodily activity is paramount. Consider the person lost deep in thought or a daydream. This person is deeply attentive, but not to his surroundings or to sensory information. Such a person would have to be called back to an awareness of their body and their surroundings.

By contrast, we may imagine the athlete, musician, or dancer who is, to borrow Mihály Csíkszentmihályi’s formulation, “in the flow.” Like the thinker or daydreamer, they, too, are in a state of deep attention, but in a different mode. Conscious thought would, in fact, disrupt their state of attention. We may complicate this picture even further by observing how the hiker “in the flow” might be lost in thought and remain an expert navigator of the terrain.

Attention Mediated Through Technology

But where does technology fit into our model? That is, after all, where we began and where Jacobs directs our attention. Perhaps there’s another spectrum intersecting with the one running from the bodily to the mental: one that runs from mediated to unmediated forms of attention.

Consider our hiker one more time. Imagine that she is now equipped with a walking stick. Aspects of her attending to the world through which she makes her way are now mediated by the walking stick. Of course, the walking stick is an adept tool for this particular context and extends the hiker’s perceptions in useful ways. (It would be very different, for instance, if the hiker were walking about with a garden hose.)

Imagine, however, giving the hiker a different tool: a smartphone. The smartphone mediates perception as well. In the act of taking a picture, for example, the landscape is seen through the lens. But a subtler act of mediation is at work even when the smartphone’s camera is not in use. Smartphone in hand, the hiker might now perceive the world as field of possible images. This may, for example, direct attention up from the path toward the horizon, causing even our experienced hiker to stumble.

We may be tempted to say that the hiker is no longer paying attention, that the device has distracted her. But this is, at best, only partly true. The hiker is still paying attention. But her attention is of a very different sort than the “in the flow” attention of a hiker on the move. Without the smartphone in hand, the hiker might not stumble—but she might not notice a particularly striking vista either.

So along one axis, we range from bodily to mental forms of attention. Along the other, we range from mediated to unmediated forms of attention. (Granted that our attention is never, strictly speaking, absolutely unmediated.) This yields a range of possibilities among the following categories: “bodily mediated,” “bodily unmediated,” “mental mediated,” and “mental unmediated.” (Consider the following as ideal types in each case: the musician, the dancer, the scientist, and the philosopher.)

sacasas graph

How does conceiving of attention in this way help us?

This schema yields a series of questions we may ask as we seek to evaluate our investments of attention. What kind of attention is required in this context? To what aspects of the world does a device invite me to pay attention? Does a device or tool encourage mental forms of attention when the context is better suited to bodily forms of attention? Is a device or tool encouraging me to direct my attention, when attentive openness would be more useful? What device or tool would best help me deploy the kind of attention required by the task before me?

The result of this exploration has been to break up the opposition of device to attention. An opposition, I should say, I don’t think Jacobs himself advocates. Instead, my hope is to expand our conceptual tool kit so that we might make better judgments regarding our devices and our attention to the world.

L.M. Sacasas is a doctoral candidate in the Texts and Technology program at the University of Central Florida. Follow him on Twitter @frailestthing.

Photo: Heinrich Vogeler, Sehnsucht (Träumerei), c.1900, via Wikimedia Commons, public domain

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79 Theses on Technology:
Things That Want—A Second Reply to Alan Jacobs

tender buttons_2_FLATI don’t know exactly what Alan Jacobs wants. But I know what my keyboard wants. That difference—a difference in my knowledge of the intentionality of things—is reason for me to conclude that Alan Jacobs and my keyboard are two different kinds of things. There is, we’d say, an ontological difference between Alan Jacobs and my keyboard. There is a functional difference as well. And so many more differences. I acknowledge this. The world is not flat.

But Jacobs differentiates himself from my keyboard based on “wanting” itself. Alan Jacobs wants. Keyboards—mine or others—don’t “want.” Such is for Jacobs the line between Alan Jacobs and keyboards. If we can regulate our language about things, he suggests, we can regulate things. I would rather just learn from our language, and from things, and go from there.

I think my differences with Jacobs take three directions: one rhetorical, another ontological, and a third ethical. I will discuss them each a bit here.

To start, I think that machines and other technologies are full of meaning and significance, and that they do in fact give meaning to our lives. Part of their meaningfulness is found in what I might call their “structure of intention,” or “intentionality.” This includes what design theorists call “affordances.” In the classic account of affordances, James Gibson described them as the latent “action possibilities” of things in relation to their environment. Design theorists tend to take a more straight-forward approach: plates on doors afford pushing; C-shaped bars affixed to doors afford pulling; and knobs afford either action. Likewise, buttons on car dashboards afford pushing, whereas dials afford turning.

But intentionality as I am calling it here goes beyond the artifacts themselves, to include the broader practices and discourses in which they are embedded. Indeed, the “intentionality” of a thing is likely to be stronger where those broader practices and discourses operate at the level of assumption rather than explicit indoctrination. So much of the meaningfulness of things is tacitly known and experienced, only becoming explicit when they are taken away.

So there are things, their affordances, and the practices and discourses in which they are embedded. And here I think it is rhetorically legitimate, ontologically plausible, and ethically justified to say that technologies can want.

Rhetorically, every culture animates its things through language. I do not think this is mere embellishment. It entails a recognition that non-human things are profoundly meaningful to us, and that they can be independent actors as they are “activated” or “deactivated” in our lives. (Think of the frustrations you feel when the plumbing goes awry. This frustration is about “meaning” in our lives as much as it is about using the bathroom.) To say technologies “want,” as Kevin Kelly does, is to acknowledge rhetorically how meaningful non-human things are to us; it is not to make a category mistake.

Ontologically, the issue hinges in part on whether we tie “wanting” to will, especially to the will of a single, intending human agent (hence, the issue of voluntarianism). If we tether wanting to will in a strong sense, we end up in messy philosophical terrain. What do we do with instinct, bodily desires, sensations, affections, and the numerous other forms of “wanting” that do not seem to be a product of our will? What do we do with animals, especially pets? What do we do with the colloquial expression, “The plant wants water”? Such questions are well beyond the scope of this response. I will just say that I am skeptical of attempts to tie wanting to will because willfulness is only one kind of wanting.

Jacobs and I agree, I think, that the most pressing issue in saying technologies want is ethical. Jacobs thinks that in speaking of technologies as having agency, I am essentially surrendering agency to technical things. I disagree.

I think it is perfectly legitimate and indeed ethically good and right to speak of technologies as “wanting.” “To want” is not simply to exercise a will but rather more broadly to embody a structure of intention within a given context or set of contexts. Will-bearing and non-will-bearing things, animate and inanimate things, can embody such a structure of intention.

It is good and right to call this “wanting” because “wanting” suggests that things, even machine things, have an active presence in our life—they are intentional. They cannot be reduced to mere tools or instruments, let alone “a piece of plastic that when depressed activates an electrical current.” Moreover, this active presence cannot be neatly traced back to their design and, ultimately, some intending human.

To say the trigger wants to be pulled is not to say only that the trigger “was made for” pulling. It is not even to say that the trigger “affords” pulling. It is to say that the trigger may be so culturally meaningful as to act upon us in powerful ways (as indeed we see with guns).

So far from leading, as Jacobs claims, to the “Borg Complex”—the belief that resistance to technology is futile—it is only by coming to grips with the profound and active power of things that we best recognize that resistance to technology is, as Jacobs correctly argues, a cultural project, not a merely personal one, let alone primarily a definitional one.

So rather than trying to clean up or correct our language with respect to things (technologies don’t want!), I think we ought to begin by paying closer attention to our language about things and ask what we may learn from it. Yes, we will learn of our idolatries, ideologies, idiocies, and lies. But we may also learn some uncomfortable truths. So I will say it again, of course technologies want!

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79 Theses on Technology:
The Hand That Holds the Smartphone


Alan Jacobs poses a few questions to his readers: “What must I pay attention to?” “What may I pay attention to?” and “What must I refuse attention to?” These questions direct readers to understand their own positions in the world in terms of attention. They encourage reflection. Instead of directing the reader’s focus outward to ponder general, more abstract relations between “technology” and “society,” they return us to our own bodies even and suggest that the hand that swipes the iPhone, your hand, deserves attention.

Jacobs formulates only two other theses as questions  (#9, #60), and both are posed from a seemingly universal standpoint without a social location or even an implied interlocutor. However, some of Jacobs’s concerns about the current unhappy union with our attention-demanding devices seem to emerge from a specific social location. While these concerns may ring true for a large segment of higher-income, well-educated adults, who do in fact own smartphones in greater numbers than the rest of the US population, they may fall short of describing the experiences of many other users.

For example, #70, “The always-connected forget the pleasures of disconnection, then become impervious to them.” Who are the “always-connected”? The McDonald’s worker whose algorithmically determined shifts are apt to change with less than half day’s notice? Or one of the 10% of Americans who rely on their smartphones to access the Internet to do their banking, look for a job, and let their child do homework?

People who rely on their smartphones for Internet access are more likely to be young, low-income, and non-white, the same population with some of the highest levels of unemployment. With the migration of most job-seeking to online databases and applications, all members of the “always-connected” might not experience the “pleasures of disconnection” in the same way as the middle class knowledge worker with high-speed Internet access at home and at work. In reality, the “always-connected” is a large and diverse group, and is quickly becoming even larger and even more diverse.

Your hand isn’t the only hand that comes in contact with your phone, of course, but only the last set of hands in a long chain of designers, manufacturing workers, and marketing gurus. Jacobs points this out in the case of algorithms (Thesis #54, “The contemporary version of the pathetic fallacy is to attribute agency not to nature but to algorithms—as though humans don’t write algorithms. But they do.”), but it bears extending this line of thinking to other theses about the ideologies that run through contemporary discourse on technology.

Consider Thesis #41, “The agency that in the 1970s philosophers and theorists ascribed to language is now being ascribed to technology” and #44, “We try to give power to our idols so as to be absolved of the responsibilities of human agency”—who are the agents in these theses? Who is doing the ascribing? Who seeks absolution?

Kevin Kelly, the author Jacobs points to as a prime example of techno-enthusiasm, was a founding editor of Wired and has spent a lot of time talking to technology executives over the past several decades. Kelly’s ideas have often been translated into marketing strategies that soon enter into the public consciousness—like the sumptuously edited commercial for the Apple Watch in which the watch operates completely of its own agency, no human required!—where they shape our desires and understandings of our relationships with our devices.

It’s through the image of a series of hands grasping, texting, and swiping away that my attention is drawn to the people at other end of the technologies that shape our lives. As Jacobs points out, technology doesn’t want anything, “we want, with technology as our instrument,” but the question of who we are is isn’t just idle sociological speculation. It’s vital to imagining alternative arrangements of both people and technology, as well as more humane practices that may benefit us all.

Julia Ticona is a doctoral candidate in the sociology department at the University of Virginia and a dissertation fellow at the Institute for Advanced Studies in Culture. Her work focuses on the cultures of technology and everyday life.

Photo: Anatomical study of hands, public domain.


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79 Theses on Technology:
Piper to Jacobs—No Comment

In his 79 Theses, Alan Jacobs hits upon one of the most important transformations affecting the technology of writing today. “Digital textuality,” writes Jacobs in Thesis 26, “offers us the chance to restore commentary to its pre-modern place as the central scholarly genre.” One could remove “scholarly” from this sentence and still capture the essential point: In the interconnected, intergalactic Internet, everything is commentary.

For Jacobs, commentary is about responsiveness and the way we encode ethics into our collective electronic outpourings. Nothing could feel further from the actual comments one encounters online today. As Jacobs points out, “Comment threads seethe with resentment,” not only with what has been written, but with their secondary status as emotions, or rather one emotion. In a world where we imagine writing to be about originality, the comment can only ever be angry. In response, we either turn them off (as is the case with this blog). Or we say “No comment.” Withholding commentary is a sign of resistance or power.

Of course, this was not always the case. Commentary was once imagined to be the highest form of writing, a way of communing with something greater than oneself. It was not something to be withheld or spewed, but involved a complex process of interpretation and expression. It took a great deal of learning.

Hunayn ibn Ishaq al-'Ibadi, 809?-873 (known as Joannitius). Isagoge Johannitii in Tegni Galeni.

The main difference between our moment and the lost world of pre-modern commentary that Jacobs invokes is of course a material one. In a context of hand-written documents, transcription was the primary activity that consumed most individuals’ time. Transcription preceded, but also informed commentary (as practiced by the medieval Arab translator Joannitius). Who would be flippant when it had just taken weeks to copy something out? The submission that Jacobs highlights as a prerequisite of good commentary—a privileging of someone else’s point of view over our own—was a product of corporeal labor. Our bodies shaped our minds’ eye.

Not all is lost today. While comment threads seethe, there is also a vibrant movement afoot to remake the web as a massive space of commentary. The annotated web, as it’s called, has the aim of transforming our writing spaces from linked planes to layered marginalia. Whether you like it or not, that blog or corporate presence you worked so hard to create can be layered with the world’s thoughts. Instead of writing up here and commenting down there, it reverses the hierarchy and places annotating on top. Needless to say, it has a lot of people worried.

I personally prefer the vision of “annotation” to commentary. Commentary feels very emulative to me—it tries to double as writing in a secondary space. Annotation by contrast feels more architectural and versatile. It builds, but also branches. It is never finished, nor does it aim to be so. It intermingles with the original text more subtly than the here/there structure of commentary. But whether you call it annotation or commentary, the point is the same—to take seriously the writer’s responsiveness to another person.

Missing from these models is pedagogy. The annotated web gives us one example of how to remake the technology of writing to better accommodate responsiveness. It’s a profound first step, one that will by no means be universally embraced (which should give us some idea of how significant it is).

But we do not yet have a way of teaching this to new (or old) writers. Follow the curricular pathways from the lockered hallways of elementary school to the bleak cubicles of higher education and you will still see the blank piece of paper or its electronic double as the primary writing surface. The self-containment of expression is everywhere. It is no wonder that these writers fail to comment well.

It’s all well and good to say commentary is back. It’s another to truly re-imagine how a second grader or college student learns to write. What if we taught commentary instead of expression, not just for beginning writers, but right on through university and the PhD? What if we trained people to build and create in the annotated web instead of on pristine planes of remediated paper? Now that would be different.

Andrew Piper is Associate Professor and William Dawson Scholar in the Department of Languages, Literatures, and Cultures at McGill University.

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79 Theses on Technology:
Jacobs Responds to O’Gorman

tender buttons_FLAT


Ned O’Gorman, in his response to my 79 theses, writes:

Of course technologies want. The button wants to be pushed; the trigger wants to be pulled; the text wants to be read—each of these want as much as I want to go to bed, get a drink, or get up out of my chair and walk around, though they may want in a different way than I want. To reserve “wanting” for will-bearing creatures is to commit oneself to the philosophical voluntarianism that undergirds technological instrumentalism.

We’re in interesting and difficult territory here, because what O’Gorman thinks obviously true I think obviously false. In fact, it seems impossible to me that O’Gorman believes what he writes here.

Take for instance the case of the button that “wants to be pushed.” Clearly, O’Gorman does not believe that the button sits there anxiously, as a finger hovers over it, thinking “oh please push me please please please.” Clearly, he knows that the button is merely a piece of plastic that when depressed activates an electrical current that passes through wires on its way to detonating a weapon. Clearly, he knows that an identical button—buttons are, after all, to adopt a phrase from the poet Les Murray, the kind of thing that comes in kinds—might be used to start a toy car. So, what can he mean when he says that the button “wants”?

I am open to correction, but I think he must mean something like this: “That button is designed in such a way—via its physical conformation and its emplacement in contexts of use—that it seems to be asking or demanding to be used in a very specific way.” If that’s what he means, then I fully agree. But to call that “wanting” does gross violence to the term, and obscures the fact that other human beings designed and built that button and placed it in that particular context. It is the desires, the wants, of those “will-bearing” human beings, that have made the button so eminently pushable.

(I will probably want to say something later about the peculiar ontological status of books and texts, but for now just this: Even if I were to say that texts don’t want, I wouldn’t thereby be “divesting” them of “meaningfulness,” as O’Gorman claims. That’s a colossal non sequitur.)

I believe I understand why O’Gorman wants to make this argument: The phrases “philosophical voluntarism” and “technological instrumentalism” are the key ones. I assume that by invoking these phrases O’Gorman means to reject the idea that human beings stand in a position of absolute freedom, simply choosing whatever “instruments” seem useful to them for their given project. He wants to avoid the disasters we land ourselves in when we say that Facebook, or the internal combustion engine, or the personal computer, or nuclear power, is “just a tool” and that “what matters is how you use it.” And O’Gorman is right to want to critique this position as both naïve and destructive.

But he is wrong if he thinks that this position is entailed in any way by my theses; and even more wrong to think that this position can be effectively combated by saying that technologies “want.” Once you start to think of technologies as having desires of their own you are well on the way to the Borg Complex: We all instinctively understand that it is precisely because tools don’t want anything that they cannot be reasoned with or argued with. And we can become easily intimidated by the sheer scale of technological production in our era. Eventually, we can end up talking even about what algorithms do as though algorithms aren’t written by humans.

I trust O’Gorman would agree with me that neither pure voluntarism nor purely deterministic defeatism are adequate responses to the challenges posed by our current technocratic regime—or the opportunities offered by human creativity, the creativity that makes technology intrinsic to human personhood. It seems that he thinks the dangers of voluntarism are so great that they must be contested by attributing what can only be a purely fictional agency to tools, whereas I believe that the conceptual confusion this creates leads to a loss of a necessary focus on human responsibility, and an inability to confront the political dimensions of technological modernity.

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79 Theses on Technology: On Things

“The Sausage” (of

“The Sausage” (of Operation Ivy), 1952.

One of the more refreshing aspects of Alan Jacobs’s wonderful exercise, “79 Theses on Technology. For Disputation,” is its medieval cast. Disputations, as Chad Wellmon writes, were medieval “public performances that trained university students in how to seek and argue for the truth.” Theses were textual tidbits that mediated things (res) by means of words (verba). Theses spurred the search for truth as they pointed readers or hearers to a world of things (res), rather than, as we currently assume, codifying and hardening “claims.” “Commentary,” as Jacobs suggests, was one important medieval means of trying to get to the things behind or beyond words (Theses 26-36).

I find it perplexing, then, that Jacobs is so seemingly unsympathetic to the meaningfulness of things, the class to which technologies belong:

40. Kelly tells us “What Technology Wants,” but it doesn’t: We want, with technology as our instrument.
41. The agency that in the 1970s philosophers & theorists ascribed to language is now being ascribed to technology. These are evasions of the human.
42. Our current electronic technologies make competent servants, annoyingly capricious masters, and tragically incompetent gods.
43. Therefore when Kelly says, “I think technology is something that can give meaning to our lives,” he seeks to promote what technology does worst.
44. We try to give power to our idols so as to be absolved of the responsibilities of human agency. The more they have, the less we have.

46. The cyborg dream is the ultimate extension of this idolatry: to erase the boundaries between our selves and our tools.

Here is some of my own commentary on Jacobs’ theses.

There’s a documentary film from the 1950s called Operation Ivy. Made by the US Air Force, it concerns the first-ever detonation of a thermonuclear device, a historic (and horrible) technological achievement. One of the pivotal points of the film’s narrative comes just before the hydrogen device is detonated. The narrator asks the chief engineer in charge of the test, ‘But what happens if you have to stop the firing mechanism, or can you stop it?’’ The engineer responds, ‘‘We can stop it all right if we have to. We have a radio link direct to the firing panel in the shot cab. If we have to stop the shot we simply push this button.’’

‘‘Just a simple flip of the wrist, huh?’’ the narrator says.

‘‘That’s right,” says the engineer, “but a lot of work goes down the drain. You understand we don’t want to stop this thing unless it is absolutely essential.’’

Our technological artifacts aren’t wholly distinct from human agency; they are bound up with it.

“Human agency,” then, is not a solution to the moral and political problems of technology; it is the condition of their possibility, and too often a means of their rationalization. We don’t need to reclaim “human agency”; we need to reclaim the meaningfulness and power of things (res)—the complex ways in which human decisions and choices become embodied, even sedimented in things.

It is odd to read a literary critic, one with some medieval sensibilities no less, expressing concern about ascribing “agency” to technology, calling it “evasions of the human.” Texts are technologies, technologies are things. In The Book of Memory, a book that every media theorist should read, Mary Carruthers writes of the medieval text:

[In the middle ages] interpretation is not attributed to any intention of the man [the author]…but rather to something understood to reside in the text itself.… [T]he important “intention” is within the work itself, as its res, a cluster of meanings which are only partially revealed in its original statement…. What keeps such a view of interpretation from being mere readerly solipsism is precisely the notion of res—the text has a sense within it which is independent of the reader, and which must be amplified, dilated, and broken-out from its words….

Things, in this instance manuscripts, are indeed meaningful and powerful. Why would we want to divest things of their poetic quality, their meaningfulness, and indeed their power? Kevin Kelly may be off in his aims or misguided in his understanding, but he’s right to recognize in things, even and especially in technologies, sources of meaning and meaningfulness.

Of course technologies want. The button wants to be pushed; the trigger wants to be pulled; the text wants to be read—each of these want as much as I want to go to bed, get a drink, or get up out of my chair and walk around, though they may want in a different way than I want. To reserve “wanting” for will-bearing creatures is to commit oneself to the philosophical voluntarianism that undergirds technological instrumentalism.

The cyborg dream may or may not be the extension of some idolatry, but there the remedy is not a firm boundary between “our selves and our tools.” “Then he said to me, ‘Son of man, eat this scroll I am giving you and fill your stomach with it.’ So I ate it, and it tasted as sweet as honey in my mouth” (Ezekiel 3:3). Our tools are our part of us, central to our subsistence and lives. They need to be digested, ruminated, regurgitated, and, yes, sometimes violently spit out.

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79 Theses on Technology: Jacobs Responds to Wellmon

 La transverbération de Sainte Thérèse, 1672, by Josefa de Óbidos, Eglise (Igreja Matriz) de Cascais Josefa de Óbidos [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Let me zero in on what I think is the key paragraph in my friend Chad Wellmon’s response to some of my theses:

But this image of a sovereign self governing an internal economy of attention is a poor description of other experiences of the world and ourselves. In addition, it levies an impossible burden of self mastery. A distributive model of attention cuts us off, as Matt Crawford puts it, from the world “beyond [our] head.” It suggests that anything other than my own mind that lays claim to my attention impinges upon my own powers to willfully distribute that attention. My son’s repeated questions about the Turing test are a distraction, but it might also be an unexpected opportunity to engage the world beyond my own head.

I want to begin by responding to that last sentence by saying: Yes, and it is an opportunity you can take only by ceding the sovereignty of self, by choosing (“willfully”) to allow someone else to occupy your attention, rather than insisting on setting your own course. This is something most of us find it hard to do, which is why Simone Weil says “Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.” And yet it is our choice whether or not to practice that generosity.

I would further argue that, in most cases, we manage to cede the “right” to our attention to others—when we manage to do that—only because we have disciplined and habituated ourselves to such generosity. Chad’s example of St. Teresa is instructive in this regard, because by her own account her ecstatic union with God followed upon her long practice of rigorous spiritual exercises, especially those prescribed by Francisco de Osuna in his Tercer abecedario espiritual (Third Spiritual Alphabet) and by Saint Peter of Alcantara in his Tractatus de oratione et meditatione (Treatise on Prayer and Meditation). Those ecstatic experiences were a free gift of God, Teresa thought, but through an extended discipline of paying attention to God she had laid the groundwork for receptivity to them.

(I’m also reminded here of the little experiment the violinist Joshua Bell tried in 2007, when he pretended to be a busker playing in a D.C. Metro station. Hardly anyone noticed, but those who did were able to do so because of long experience in listening to challenging music played beautifully.)

In my theses I am somewhat insistent on employing economic metaphors to describe the challenges and rewards of attentiveness, and in so doing I always had in mind the root of that word, oikonomos (οἰκονόμος), meaning the steward of a household. The steward does not own his household, any more than we own our lifeworld, but rather is accountable to it and answerable for the decisions he makes within it. The resources of the household are indeed limited, and the steward does indeed have to make decisions about how to distribute them, but such matters do not mark him as a “sovereign self” but rather the opposite: a person embedded in a social and familial context within which he has serious responsibilities. But he has to decide how and when (and whether) to meet those responsibilities. So, too, the person embedded in an “attention economy.”

In this light I want to question Weil’s notion of attention as a form of generosity. It can be that, of course. In their recent biography Becoming Steve Jobs, Brent Schlender and Rick Tetzeli tell a lovely story about a memorial service for Jobs during which Bill Gates ignored the high-powered crowd and spent the entire time in a corner talking with Jobs’s daughter about horses. That, surely, is attention as generosity. But in other circumstances attention may not be a free gift but a just rendering—as can happen when my son wants my attention while I am reading or watching sports on TV. This is often a theme in the religious life, as when the Psalmist says “Ascribe to the Lord the glory due his name,” or in a liturgical exchange: “Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.” “It is meet and right so to do.”

There is, then, such a thing as the attention that is proper and adequate to its object. Such attention can only be paid if attention is withheld from other potential objects of our notice or contemplation: The economy of our attentional lifeworld is a strict one. But I would not agree with Chad that this model “levies an impossible burden of self mastery”; rather, it imposes the difficult burden of wisely and discerningly distributing my attention in ways that are appropriate not to myself qua self but to the “household” in which I am embedded and to which I am responsible.

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