Breaking Bread with the Dead: A Reader's Guide to a More Tranquil Mind - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

ALAN JACOBS is Distinguished Professor of Humanities in the Honors Program at Baylor University. He has published fifteen books and writes for publications such as The Atlantic, Harper's Magazine, The Christian Century, The New Yorker, and The Wall Street Journal.

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1.

Presentism and Temporal Bandwidth

Near the beginning of Martin Rowson's graphic adaptation of The Communist Manifesto, there's a picture of a big sign reading, as does the sign over the gates of Hell in Dante's Inferno, lasciate ogne speranza voi ch'intrate-"Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." Rowson has that sign fronting an edifice labeled "All History Hitherto." That neatly sums up a common current attitude: all history hitherto is at best a sewer of racism, sexism, homophobia, and general social injustice, at worst an abattoir which no reasonable person would even want to peek at.

It's not hard to spot the trend: a writer tells us to stop reading Robinson Crusoe because it's a document of racist, sexist colonialism; a librarian grieves at the space books by dead white men occupy on the shelves of her library; a professor of architecture rejoices at the "liberation" offered by the burning of Notre-Dame de Paris; a reader can't bear to be in the very presence of a classic novel featuring a vivid streak of anti-Semitism ("I don't want anyone like that in my house").

There is an increasing sense not just that the past is sadly in error, is superannuated and irrelevant and full of foul ideas that we're well rid of, but that it actually defiles us-its presence makes us unclean.

This business of defilement is both interesting in itself and important for the story I have to tell. I'm going to argue here that the sense of defilement is to a great degree evoked first by information overload-a sense that we are always receiving more sheer data than we know how to evaluate-and a more general feeling of social acceleration-the perception that the world is not only changing but changing faster and faster. What those closely related experiences tend to require from us is a rough-and-ready kind of informational triage.

Triage-it's a French word meaning to separate and sort-is what nurses and doctors on the battlefield do: during and after a battle, as wounded soldiers flow in, the limited resources of a medical unit are sorely tested. The medical staff must learn to make instantaneous judgments: this person needs treatment now, that one can wait a little while, a third one will have to wait longer, preferably somewhere other than the medical tent. To the wounded soldiers, this system will often seem peremptory and harsh, uncompassionate, and perhaps even cruel; but it's absolutely necessary for the nurses and doctors to be ruthlessly brisk. They cannot afford for one soldier to die while they're comforting one whose injuries don't threaten his life.

Navigating daily life in the internet age is a lot like doing battlefield triage. Given that what cultural critic Matthew Crawford calls the "attentional commons" is constantly noisy-there are days we can't even put gas in our cars without being assaulted by advertisements blared at ear-rattling volume-we also learn to be ruthless in deciding how to deploy our attention. We only have so much of it, and often the decision of whether or not to "pay" it must be made in an instant. To avoid madness we must learn to reject appeals to our time, and reject them without hesitation or pity.

But to this problem of informational overload we have to add another: what the sociologist Hartmut Rosa calls "social acceleration." It's a familiar experience. People were starting to feel that the social pedal was thrust to the metal even fifty years ago. Consider, as an example, "Slow Tuesday Night," a story by the American science fiction writer R. A. Lafferty. Lafferty imagines that some future researchers will discover the "Abebaios block," a feature of our brains that slows down our decision making. Once the block is removed our mentation accelerates, as do our social connections. So Lafferty begins his story by describing a panhandler who proposes marriage to "Ildefonsa Impala, the most beautiful woman in the city":

"Oh, I don't believe so, Basil," she said. "I marry you pretty often, but tonight I don't seem to have any plans at all. You may make me a gift on your first or second, however. I always like that."

But when they had parted she asked herself: "But whom will I marry tonight?"

The panhandler was Basil Bagelbaker, who would be the richest man in the world within an hour and a half.

(Lafferty always writes in this campy style. He's truly weird.) What's especially important about the world of "Slow Tuesday Night" is that its wild acceleration of experiences that for us unfold with tortoiselike slowness-marriages, divorces, the amassing and losing of fortunes-results in a strangely static world. Lafferty depicts just another Tuesday night, slower than some, maybe, but not essentially different than any other evening. Thus another exchange, at the story's end, between the two characters we met at the outset:

A sleepy panhandler met Ildefonsa Impala on the way. "Preserve us this morning, Ildy," he said, "and will you marry me the coming night?"

"Likely I will, Basil," she told him. "Did you marry Judy during the night past?"

"I'm not sure."

All this was imagined decades before the internet caused us to live something resembling it. And if the claim that Lafferty's world prefigures ours strikes you as an exaggeration, I would ask you, dear reader, to remember the next-to-last thing that social media taught you to be outraged about. I bet you can remember only the last one. Every night on the internet is "Slow Tuesday Night."

Hartmut Rosa points out-in rather less eccentric language than Lafferty's-that our everyday experience of this acceleration has a weirdly contradictory character. On the one hand, we feel that "everything is moving so fast"-as one philosopher puts it, "Speed is the god of our era"-but often we also simultaneously feel trapped in our social structure and life pattern, imprisoned, deprived of meaningful choice. Think of the college student who takes classes to prepare her for a job that might not exist in a decade-but who feels that she has to take some classes that will look good to prospective employers. To her, there doesn't seem any escape from the need for professional self-presentation; but there also don't seem to be any reliable means to know what form that self-presentation should take. You can't stop playing the game, but its rules keep changing without warning.

It's worth noting that Francis Fukuyama wrote his notorious book about "the end of history"-arguing that we had reached "the end point of mankind's ideological evolution and the universalization of Western liberal democracy as the final form of human government"-in 1992, just as the internet age was kicking into high gear: everything is moving so fast . . . but history has ended. In this way, Rosa contends, we find ourselves in a state of "frenetic standstill," constantly in motion but going nowhere. Much like Ildefonsa Impala and Basil Bagelbaker.

You can readily see, I suspect, how information overload and social acceleration work together to create a paralyzing feedback loop, pressing us to practice continually the triage I spoke of earlier, forcing our judgments about what to pay attention to, what to think about, to become ever more peremptory and irreversible. (That's one of the reasons why social media's attitude toward sinners-the unclean, the defiling-is simply to expel them from the community, so they don't need to be thought about any further.) And all this has the further effect of locking us into the present moment. There's no time to think about anything else than the Now, and the not-Now increasingly takes on the character of an unwelcome and, in its otherness,...