Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Do SMSes, e-mail make the heart grow fonder?

Jun 11, 2013

By Jonathan Safran Foer

A COUPLE of weeks ago, I saw a stranger crying in public. I was in Brooklyn's Fort Greene neighbourhood, waiting to meet a friend for breakfast. I arrived at the restaurant a few minutes early and was sitting on the bench outside, scrolling through my contact list. A girl, maybe 15 years old, was sitting on the bench opposite me, crying into her phone. I heard her say, "I know, I know, I know" over and over.

What did she know? Had she done something wrong? Was she being comforted? And then she said, "Mama, I know," and the tears came harder.

What was her mother telling her? Never to stay out all night again? That everybody fails? Is it possible that no one was on the other end of the call, and that the girl was merely rehearsing a difficult conversation? "Mama, I know," she said, and hung up, placing her phone on her lap.


It is harder to intervene than not to, but it is vastly harder to choose to do either than to retreat into the scrolling names of a contact list, or whatever one's favourite iDistraction is. Technology celebrates connectedness, but encourages retreat. The phone did not make me avoid the human connection, but it did make ignoring her easier, and more likely, by comfortably encouraging me to forget my choice to do so. My daily use of technological communication has been shaping me into someone more likely to forget others. The flow of water carves rock, a little bit at a time. And our personhood is carved, too, by the flow of our habits.

Psychologists who study empathy and compassion are finding that unlike our almost instantaneous responses to physical pain, it takes time for the brain to comprehend the psychological and moral dimensions of a situation. The more distracted we become, and the more emphasis we place on speed at the expense of depth, the less likely and able we are to care. Everyone wants his parent's, or friend's, or partner's undivided attention - even if many of us, especially children, are getting used to far less. Philosopher Simone Weil wrote, "Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity." By this definition, our relationships to the world, and to one another, and to ourselves, are becoming increasingly miserly.


But then a funny thing happened: We began to prefer the diminished substitutes. It is easier to make a phone call than to see someone in person. Leaving a message on someone's machine is easier than having a phone conversation - you can say what you need to say without a response; hard news is easier to leave; it is easier to check in without becoming entangled. So we began calling when we knew no one would pick up.

Shooting off an e-mail is easier, still, because one can hide behind the absence of vocal inflection, and there is no chance of accidentally catching someone. And texting is even easier, as the expectation for articulateness is further reduced, and another shell is offered to hide in. Each step "forward" has made it easier, just a little, to avoid the emotional work of being present, to convey information rather than humanity.

The problem with accepting - with preferring - diminished substitutes is that over time, we become diminished substitutes. People who become used to saying little become used to feeling little.

With each generation, it becomes harder to imagine a future that resembles the present. My grandparents hoped I would have a better life than they did: free of war and hunger, comfortably situated in a place that felt like home. But what futures would I dismiss out of hand for my grandchildren? That their clothes will be fabricated every morning on 3-D printers? That they will communicate without speaking or moving?

Only those with no imagination, and no grounding in reality, would deny the possibility that they will live forever. It is possible that many reading these words will never die. Let us assume, though, that we all have a set number of days to indent the world with our beliefs, to find and create the beauty that only a finite existence allows for, to wrestle with the question of purpose and wrestle with our answers.

We often use technology to save time but, increasingly, it either takes the saved time along with it, or makes the saved time less present, intimate and rich. I worry that the closer the world gets to our fingertips, the further it gets from our hearts. It is not an either/or - being "anti-technology" is perhaps the only thing more foolish than being unquestioningly "pro-technology" - but a question of balance that our lives hang upon.




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