Tag Archives: 79 Theses on Technology

79 Theses on Technology:
The Hand That Holds the Smartphone

medical_anatomy_hands

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: 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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79 Theses on Technology: On Attention

“Everything,” claims Alan Jacobs in 79 Theses on Technology, “begins with attention.” Throughout his theses, Jacobs describes attention as a resource to be managed. We “pay,” “refuse,” and “invest” attention. Behind these distributive acts is a purposeful, willful agent. I can choose whether to “give” attention to writing this post or “withhold” it from my eleven-year-old son (who wants me to explain what the Turing test is). The idea that I can allocate attention as I could any other resource or good suggests that attention is fungible. I’ve got a limited store of attention, and I have to decide when and where to expend it. It’s as though I wake up every day with 100 units of attention. And it’s up to me manage them well.

If attention is a good that I can spend well or badly, then it is under my control. I could, on such an account, also lose my attention, in the same way that I lose my keys. And this distributive notion of attention seems to underpin many of our contemporary anxieties about our current moment of digital distraction. The constant notifications from Twitter, Facebook, and my iPhone are all greedy consumers of my attention. If I were just focused, I could assert my powers of distribution and maintain control of my limited units of attention. I would be able to decide exactly which among the myriad objects clamoring for my attention deserves it.

Underpinning Jacobs’ distributive model of attention is an assumption that some general mental faculty, a particular power of the mind, exists that can manage this precious resource. The power of attention—just like other traditional faculties such as reason, memory, imagination, or will—is a latent capacity that needs to be disciplined in order to become fully actual and susceptible to manipulation. It’s like a muscle that needs to be exercised. And if I engage in the right kinds of exercises—maybe if I read really long novels in one sitting or dismantle the WiFi on my laptop—then I can become the master of my own mind. I can be free and in control of who and what can enjoy the benefits of my limited attention. For Jacobs, then, attention is attention, regardless of the object I’m “investing” it in. And my task is to cultivate better habits of managing and controlling my attention.

Jacobs’ suggestion that attention is a mental power that we distribute here or there or anywhere makes sense in certain circumstances. When I engage in discrete tasks, I can think of attention as a limited good that requires tight control and manipulation. If I try to follow my Twitter feed, read a book, and write an article, then I won’t do any of those things well. If I refuse attention to Twitter and the book, however, I may well be able to finish a paragraph.

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.

If we conceive of attention as simply the activity of a willful agent managing her units of attention, we foreclose theThe Ecstasy of Saint Theresa possibility of being arrested or brought to attention by something fully outside ourselves. We foreclose, for example,
the possibility of an ecstatic attention and the possibility that we can be brought to attention by a particular thing beyond our will, a source beyond our own purposeful, willful action.

Consider, for example, Bernini’s sculptural ensemble in the Cornaro Chapel, Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome, “The Ecstasy of Teresa.” Bernini has given us an image of complete attention and devotion, but one in which the agency of the will has been relinquished. Or consider the more mundane example of the first bud on a dogwood, wholly unexpected after a cold, icy winter. It surprises me by alerting me to a world beyond my own well-managed economy of attention. And, perhaps more perversely, what about all those shiny red notifications on my iPhone that take hold of me? If I imagine myself as master of my digital domain, I’m going to hate myself.

I know Jacobs is acutely aware of the limitations of such a distributive model of attention. He asks, for example, in Thesis 9, whether different phenomena require different forms of attention. There are, he suggests, different ways to attend to particular objects at particular moments—without “giving” or “paying” attention. And it’s these other forms, in which an agent doesn’t simply manage her attention, that seem just as crucial to making sense of how we inhabit our world.

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79 Theses on Technology. For Disputation.

Alan Jacobs has written seventy-nine theses on technology for disputation. A disputation is an old technology, a formal technique of debate and argument that took shape in medieval universities in Paris, Bologna, and Oxford in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. In its most general form, a disputation consisted of a thesis, a counter-thesis, and a string of arguments, usually buttressed by citations of Aristotle, Augustine, or the Bible.

But disputations were not just formal arguments. They were public performances that trained university students in how to seek and argue for the truth. They made demands on students and masters alike. Truth was hard won; it was to be found in multiple, sometimes conflicting traditions; it required one to give and recognize arguments; and, perhaps above all, it demanded an epistemic humility, an acknowledgment that truth was something sought, not something produced.

It is, then, in this spirit that Jacobs offers, tongue firmly in cheek, his seventy-nine theses on technology and what it means to inhabit a world formed by it. They are pithy, witty, ponderous, and full ofDisputation-300x295 life. And over the following weeks, we at the Infernal Machine will take Jacobs’ theses at his provocative best and dispute them. We’ll take three or four at a time and offer our own counter-theses in a spirit of generosity.

So here they are:

    1. Everything begins with attention.
    2. It is vital to ask, “What must I pay attention to?”
    3. It is vital to ask, “What may I pay attention to?”
    4. It is vital to ask, “What must I refuse attention to?”
    5. To “pay” attention is not a metaphor: Attending to something is an economic exercise, an exchange with uncertain returns.
    6. Attention is not an infinitely renewable resource; but it is partially renewable, if well-invested and properly cared for.
    7. We should evaluate our investments of attention at least as carefully and critically as our investments of money.
    8. Sir Francis Bacon provides a narrow and stringent model for what counts as attentiveness: “Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be read, but not curiously, and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.”
    9. An essential question is, “What form of attention does this phenomenon require? That of reading or seeing? That of writing also? Or silence?”
    10. Attentiveness must never be confused with the desire to mark or announce attentiveness. (“Can I learn to suffer/Without saying something ironic or funny/On suffering?”—Prospero, in Auden’s The Sea and the Mirror)
    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.
    12. That is, mindfulness reduces mental health to a single, simple technique that delivers its user from the obligation to ask any awkward questions about what his or her mind is and is not attending to.
    13. The only mindfulness worth cultivating will be teleological through and through.
    14. Such mindfulness, and all other healthy forms of attention—healthy for oneself and for others—can only happen with the creation of and care for an attentional commons.
    15. This will not be easy to do in a culture for which surveillance has become the normative form of care.
    16. Simone Weil wrote that ‘Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity’; if so, then surveillance is the opposite of attention.
    17. The primary battles on social media today are fought by two mutually surveilling armies: code fetishists and antinomians.
    18. The intensity of those battles is increased by a failure by any of the parties to consider the importance of intimacy gradients.
    19. “And weeping arises from sorrow, but sorrow also arises from weeping.”—Bertolt Brecht, writing about Twitter
    20. We cannot understand the internet without perceiving its true status: The Internet is a failed state.
    21. We cannot respond properly to that failed-state condition without realizing and avoiding the perils of seeing like a state.
    22. If instead of thinking of the internet in statist terms we apply the logic of subsidiarity, we might be able to imagine the digital equivalent of a Mondragon cooperative.
    23. The internet groans in travail as it awaits its José María Arizmendiarrieta.

    24. Useful strategies of resistance require knowledge of technology’s origin stories.
    25. Building an alternative digital commons requires reimagining, which requires renarrating the past (and not just the digital past).
    26. Digital textuality offers us the chance to restore commentary to its pre-modern place as the central scholarly genre.
    27. Recent technologies enable a renewal of commentary, but struggle to overcome a post-Romantic belief that commentary is belated, derivative.
    28. Comment threads too often seethe with resentment at the status of comment itself. “I should be the initiator, not the responder!”
    29. Only a Bakhtinian understanding of the primacy of response in communication could genuinely renew online discourse.
    30. Nevertheless certain texts will generate communities of comment around them, communities populated by the humbly intelligent.
    31. Blessed are they who strive to practice commentary as a legitimate, serious genre of responsiveness to others’ thoughts.
    32. And blessed also are those who discover how to write so as to elicit genuine commentary.
    33. Genuine commentary is elicited by the scriptural but also by the humble—but never by the (insistently) canonical.
    34. “Since we have no experience of a venerable text that ensures its own perpetuity, we may reasonably say that the medium in which it survives is commentary.”—Frank Kermode
    35. We should seek technologies that support the maximally beautiful readerly sequence of submission, recovery, comment.
    36. If our textual technologies promote commentary but we resist it, we will achieve a Pyrrhic victory over our technologies.

    37. “Western literature may have more or less begun, in Aeschylus’s Oresteia, with a lengthy account of a signal crossing space, and of the beacon network through whose nodes the signal’s message (that of Troy’s downfall) is relayed—but now, two and a half millennia later, that network, that regime of signals, is so omnipresent and insistent, so undeniably inserted or installed at every stratum of existence, that the notion that we might need some person, some skilled craftsman, to compose any messages, let alone incisive or ‘epiphanic’ ones, seems hopelessly quaint.”—Tom McCarthy
    38. To work against the grain of a technology is painful to us and perhaps destructive to the technology, but occasionally necessary to our humanity.
    39. “Technology wants to be loved,” says Kevin Kelly, wrongly: But we want to invest our technologies with human traits to justify our love for them.
    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.
    45. “In a sense there is no God as yet achieved, but there is that force at work making God, struggling through us to become an actual organized existence, enjoying what to many of us is the greatest conceivable ecstasy, the ecstasy of a brain, an intelligence, actually conscious of the whole, and with executive force capable of guiding it to a perfectly benevolent and harmonious end.”—George Bernard Shaw in 1907, or Kevin Kelly last week
    46. The cyborg dream is the ultimate extension of this idolatry: to erase the boundaries between our selves and our tools.
    47. Cyborgs lack humor, because the fusion of person and tool disables self-irony. The requisite distance from environment is missing.
    48. To project our desires onto our technologies is to court permanent psychic infancy.
    49. Though this does not seem to be widely recognized, the “what technology wants” model is fundamentally at odds with the “hacker” model.
    50. The “hacker” model is better: Given imagination and determination, we can bend technologies to our will.
    51. Thus we should stop thinking about “what technology wants” and start thinking about how to cultivate imagination and determination.
    52. Speaking of “what technology wants” is an unerring symptom of akrasia.
    53. The physical world is not infinitely redescribable, but if you had to you could use a screwdriver to clean your ears.
    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.
    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.
    57. Perhaps Loki was right—and C. S. Lewis too: “I was not born to be free—I was born to adore and obey.”

    58. Any sufficiently advanced logic is indistinguishable from stupidity.—Alex Tabarrok
    59. Jaron Lanier: “The Turing test cuts both ways. You can’t tell if a machine has gotten smarter or if you’ve just lowered your own standards of intelligence to such a degree that the machine seems smart.”
    60. What does it say about our understanding of human intelligence that we think it is something that can be assessed by a one-off “test”—and one that is no test at all, but an impression of the moment?
    61. To attribute intelligence to something is to disclaim responsibility for its use.
    62. The chief purpose of technology under capitalism is to make commonplace actions one had long done painlessly seem intolerable.
    63. Embrace the now intolerable.
    64. Everyone should sometimes write by hand, to recall what it’s like to have second thoughts before the first ones are completely recorded.
    65. Everyone should sometimes write by hand, to revisit and refresh certain synaptic connections between mind and body.
    66. To shift from typing to (hand)writing to speaking is to be instructed in the relations among minds, bodies, and technologies.
    67. It’s fine to say “use the simplest technology that will do the job,” but in fact you’ll use the one you most enjoy using.
    68. A modern school of psychoanalysis should be created that focuses on interpreting personality on the basis of the tools that one finds enjoyable to use.
    69. Thinking of a technology as a means of pleasure may be ethically limited, but it’s much healthier than turning it into an idol.
    70. The always-connected forget the pleasures of disconnection, then become impervious to them.
    71. The Dunning-Kruger effect grows more pronounced when online and offline life are functionally unrelated.
    72. A more useful term than “Dunning-Kruger effect” is “digitally-amplified anosognosia.”
    73. More striking even than the anger of online commentary is its humorlessness. Too many people have offloaded their senses of humor to YouTube clips.
    74. A healthy comment thread is a (more often than not) funny comment thread.
    75. The protection of anonymity one reason why people write more extreme comments online than they would speak in person—but not the only one.
    76. The digital environment disembodies language in this sense: It prevents me from discerning the incongruity between my anger and my person.
    77. Consistent pseudonymity creates one degree of disembodiment; varying pseudonymity and anonymity create infinite disembodiment.
    78. On the internet nothing disappears; on the internet anything can disappear.
    79. “To apply a categorical imperative to knowing, so that, instead of asking, ‘What can I know?’ we ask, ‘What, at this moment, am I meant to know?’—to entertain the possibility that the only knowledge which can be true for us is the knowledge we can live up to—that seems to all of us crazy and almost immoral.”—Auden

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