Also, the kids are no good these days. I observe that we still manage to reproduce, ship products, and conduct politics. That whole line of argument is a complete load of crap. -T
On Sat, Apr 28, 2012 at 6:37 PM, Ashwin Nanjappa <ashwi...@gmail.com> wrote: > From: > https://www.nytimes.com/2012/04/22/opinion/sunday/the-flight-from-conversation.html > > The short: > > "WE live in a technological universe in which we are always > communicating. And yet we have sacrificed conversation for mere > connection. > [...] > In the silence of connection, people are comforted by being in touch > with a lot of people — carefully kept at bay. We can’t get enough of > one another if we can use technology to keep one another at distances > we can control: not too close, not too far, just right. > [...] > we use conversation with others to learn to converse with ourselves. > So our flight from conversation can mean diminished chances to learn > skills of self-reflection. > [...] > we need to remember — in between texts and e-mails and Facebook posts > — to listen to one another, even to the boring bits, because it is > often in unedited moments, moments in which we hesitate and stutter > and go silent, that we reveal ourselves to one another." > > A Thai TV commercial which I believe is surprisingly apt: > http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=17ZrK2NryuQ > > Finally, the full article: > > ================================== > The New York Times > > April 21, 2012 > The Flight From Conversation > By SHERRY TURKLE > > WE live in a technological universe in which we are always > communicating. And yet we have sacrificed conversation for mere > connection. > > At home, families sit together, texting and reading e-mail. At work > executives text during board meetings. We text (and shop and go on > Facebook) during classes and when we’re on dates. My students tell me > about an important new skill: it involves maintaining eye contact with > someone while you text someone else; it’s hard, but it can be done. > > Over the past 15 years, I’ve studied technologies of mobile connection > and talked to hundreds of people of all ages and circumstances about > their plugged-in lives. I’ve learned that the little devices most of > us carry around are so powerful that they change not only what we do, > but also who we are. > > We’ve become accustomed to a new way of being “alone together.” > Technology-enabled, we are able to be with one another, and also > elsewhere, connected to wherever we want to be. We want to customize > our lives. We want to move in and out of where we are because the > thing we value most is control over where we focus our attention. We > have gotten used to the idea of being in a tribe of one, loyal to our > own party. > > Our colleagues want to go to that board meeting but pay attention only > to what interests them. To some this seems like a good idea, but we > can end up hiding from one another, even as we are constantly > connected to one another. > > A businessman laments that he no longer has colleagues at work. He > doesn’t stop by to talk; he doesn’t call. He says that he doesn’t want > to interrupt them. He says they’re “too busy on their e-mail.” But > then he pauses and corrects himself. “I’m not telling the truth. I’m > the one who doesn’t want to be interrupted. I think I should. But I’d > rather just do things on my BlackBerry.” > > A 16-year-old boy who relies on texting for almost everything says > almost wistfully, “Someday, someday, but certainly not now, I’d like > to learn how to have a conversation.” > > In today’s workplace, young people who have grown up fearing > conversation show up on the job wearing earphones. Walking through a > college library or the campus of a high-tech start-up, one sees the > same thing: we are together, but each of us is in our own bubble, > furiously connected to keyboards and tiny touch screens. A senior > partner at a Boston law firm describes a scene in his office. Young > associates lay out their suite of technologies: laptops, iPods and > multiple phones. And then they put their earphones on. “Big ones. Like > pilots. They turn their desks into cockpits.” With the young lawyers > in their cockpits, the office is quiet, a quiet that does not ask to > be broken. > > In the silence of connection, people are comforted by being in touch > with a lot of people — carefully kept at bay. We can’t get enough of > one another if we can use technology to keep one another at distances > we can control: not too close, not too far, just right. I think of it > as a Goldilocks effect. > > Texting and e-mail and posting let us present the self we want to be. > This means we can edit. And if we wish to, we can delete. Or retouch: > the voice, the flesh, the face, the body. Not too much, not too little > — just right. > > Human relationships are rich; they’re messy and demanding. We have > learned the habit of cleaning them up with technology. And the move > from conversation to connection is part of this. But it’s a process in > which we shortchange ourselves. Worse, it seems that over time we stop > caring, we forget that there is a difference. > > We are tempted to think that our little “sips” of online connection > add up to a big gulp of real conversation. But they don’t. E-mail, > Twitter, Facebook, all of these have their places — in politics, > commerce, romance and friendship. But no matter how valuable, they do > not substitute for conversation. > > Connecting in sips may work for gathering discrete bits of information > or for saying, “I am thinking about you.” Or even for saying, “I love > you.” But connecting in sips doesn’t work as well when it comes to > understanding and knowing one another. In conversation we tend to one > another. (The word itself is kinetic; it’s derived from words that > mean to move, together.) We can attend to tone and nuance. In > conversation, we are called upon to see things from another’s point of > view. > > FACE-TO-FACE conversation unfolds slowly. It teaches patience. When we > communicate on our digital devices, we learn different habits. As we > ramp up the volume and velocity of online connections, we start to > expect faster answers. To get these, we ask one another simpler > questions; we dumb down our communications, even on the most important > matters. It is as though we have all put ourselves on cable news. > Shakespeare might have said, “We are consum’d with that which we were > nourish’d by.” > > And we use conversation with others to learn to converse with > ourselves. So our flight from conversation can mean diminished chances > to learn skills of self-reflection. These days, social media > continually asks us what’s “on our mind,” but we have little > motivation to say something truly self-reflective. Self-reflection in > conversation requires trust. It’s hard to do anything with 3,000 > Facebook friends except connect. > > As we get used to being shortchanged on conversation and to getting by > with less, we seem almost willing to dispense with people altogether. > Serious people muse about the future of computer programs as > psychiatrists. A high school sophomore confides to me that he wishes > he could talk to an artificial intelligence program instead of his dad > about dating; he says the A.I. would have so much more in its > database. Indeed, many people tell me they hope that as Siri, the > digital assistant on Apple’s iPhone, becomes more advanced, “she” will > be more and more like a best friend — one who will listen when others > won’t. > > During the years I have spent researching people and their > relationships with technology, I have often heard the sentiment “No > one is listening to me.” I believe this feeling helps explain why it > is so appealing to have a Facebook page or a Twitter feed — each > provides so many automatic listeners. And it helps explain why — > against all reason — so many of us are willing to talk to machines > that seem to care about us. Researchers around the world are busy > inventing sociable robots, designed to be companions to the elderly, > to children, to all of us. > > One of the most haunting experiences during my research came when I > brought one of these robots, designed in the shape of a baby seal, to > an elder-care facility, and an older woman began to talk to it about > the loss of her child. The robot seemed to be looking into her eyes. > It seemed to be following the conversation. The woman was comforted. > > And so many people found this amazing. Like the sophomore who wants > advice about dating from artificial intelligence and those who look > forward to computer psychiatry, this enthusiasm speaks to how much we > have confused conversation with connection and collectively seem to > have embraced a new kind of delusion that accepts the simulation of > compassion as sufficient unto the day. And why would we want to talk > about love and loss with a machine that has no experience of the arc > of human life? Have we so lost confidence that we will be there for > one another? > > WE expect more from technology and less from one another and seem > increasingly drawn to technologies that provide the illusion of > companionship without the demands of relationship. > Always-on/always-on-you devices provide three powerful fantasies: that > we will always be heard; that we can put our attention wherever we > want it to be; and that we never have to be alone. Indeed our new > devices have turned being alone into a problem that can be solved. > > When people are alone, even for a few moments, they fidget and reach > for a device. Here connection works like a symptom, not a cure, and > our constant, reflexive impulse to connect shapes a new way of being. > > Think of it as “I share, therefore I am.” We use technology to define > ourselves by sharing our thoughts and feelings as we’re having them. > We used to think, “I have a feeling; I want to make a call.” Now our > impulse is, “I want to have a feeling; I need to send a text.” > > So, in order to feel more, and to feel more like ourselves, we > connect. But in our rush to connect, we flee from solitude, our > ability to be separate and gather ourselves. Lacking the capacity for > solitude, we turn to other people but don’t experience them as they > are. It is as though we use them, need them as spare parts to support > our increasingly fragile selves. > > We think constant connection will make us feel less lonely. The > opposite is true. If we are unable to be alone, we are far more likely > to be lonely. If we don’t teach our children to be alone, they will > know only how to be lonely. > > I am a partisan for conversation. To make room for it, I see some > first, deliberate steps. At home, we can create sacred spaces: the > kitchen, the dining room. We can make our cars “device-free zones.” We > can demonstrate the value of conversation to our children. And we can > do the same thing at work. There we are so busy communicating that we > often don’t have time to talk to one another about what really > matters. Employees asked for casual Fridays; perhaps managers should > introduce conversational Thursdays. Most of all, we need to remember — > in between texts and e-mails and Facebook posts — to listen to one > another, even to the boring bits, because it is often in unedited > moments, moments in which we hesitate and stutter and go silent, that > we reveal ourselves to one another. > > I spend the summers at a cottage on Cape Cod, and for decades I walked > the same dunes that Thoreau once walked. Not too long ago, people > walked with their heads up, looking at the water, the sky, the sand > and at one another, talking. Now they often walk with their heads > down, typing. Even when they are with friends, partners, children, > everyone is on their own devices. > > So I say, look up, look at one another, and let’s start the conversation. > > Sherry Turkle is a psychologist and professor at M.I.T. and the > author, most recently, of “Alone Together: Why We Expect More From > Technology and Less From Each Other.” > > ================================== >
