In Defense of Google: A Response to Nicholas Carr

In his article “Is Google Making Us Stupid?”, Nicholas Carr addresses the present-day pervasiveness of internet use, and the cerebral pitfalls that it may cause. He writes of the possibility of the internet, or even computer use, changing the physiology of our brains from the ability to “draw our own inferences and analogies, foster our own ideas.” Furthermore, he argues, while Google may heighten thought productivity by efficiently providing a multitude of resources, it also has a financial interest in keeping us clicking, and therefore, distracted from cognition. His article assumes that the mode of reading and writing shapes our thoughts and their quality, and that in particular, shorter attention spans negatively impact deep thinking. His somewhat linear reasoning, however, relies heavily on anecdotal evidence, a bias that ultimately hurts his argument.

Throughout his article, Carr argues for the causal relationship of internet use, and the inability to deeply absorb or reflect upon reading. Carr raised instances from his own experience and his friend’s similar experiences of having developed a shorter attention span from their extensive internet use. He states, “Once I was a scuba diver in the sea of words. Now I zip along the surface like a guy on a Jet Ski.”; Carr’s friend Bruce Friedman, who writes blogs, claims that he is now no longer capable of reading War and Peace. But is it not at least a possibility that the development of their shorter attention spans is rooted in something other than internet use? We must take into account that cause is not equal to correlation. The inability to read War and Peace may, in fact, be caused by the astonishingly fast pace at which we live our lives today. Whereas ten years ago we may have had the time to sit and read a hefty Tolstoy novel with measurable progress, today, we lament a slow-loading internet page because we feel as though we barely have time to sit and wait. What was considered efficient then is now considered slow, and it could just as likely be attributed to the societal need to increase productivity, which takes away from the time we used to have for reading. Carr does not discuss or disprove the possibility of a correlative relationship, and his argument is weakened because of it.

For the moment, I will assume that the mode of reading does affect one’s thoughts. What Carr implies here is that the two correlations are symmetric; in which case, each part must also be equal. To force equality between reading and writing would be difficult, including the physiological aspect of both. So, even if that is true for reading, it may not necessarily be true for writing. According neuropsychological findings, reading and writing abilities come from the same general part, though different areas of the brain: language comprehension is associated with Wernike’s area, while expression of language is linked to Broca’s area. In spite of that, while it can be reasonably argued that reading and writing are closely related it seems far-fetched that they are also similarly affected by external factors.

Another anecdotal example Carr raises as a case for mode of product shaping thought is that of Nietzsche’s stylistic change in writing after he began to write with a typewriter: Nietzsche's writing began to take an aphoristic style that was terser than it was in the past. It is questionable whether the mode of writing can shape thoughts at all. But it is certainly difficult argue that it cannot, since from my own experience, I do find that it can have an effect on the quality and style of writing.

When I write creatively, poetry and other sorts of artistic writing comes much more easily when writing with pen and paper. Conversely, I find that the style that emerges on a Word document reads with a comparatively straight-forward tone. How my thoughts are expressed, however, is not dependent upon what my thoughts are. Macrocosmically, it is certain that Nietzsche’s writing was no less influential or deep when he began to write in aphorisms with a typewriter, which was when some of his most well known works were written.

This still leaves the possibility of thoughts being affected by internet reading, which is by contrast, not far-fetched. Carr asserts that deep thinking can only come from deep reading, which he defines as the quiet reading of a book. Carr adds that deep thinking is also fostered “…by any other act of contemplation,” which, when applied to reading, is to critically think about the reading. By extension, then, it must be true that this “act of contemplation” can also be applied to what one reads on the internet. Carr has made a strong case for the difficulties of truly engaging with the material that is offered online by virtue of the medium, though he seems to forget throughout most of his article that reading is only as beneficial as the reader’s engagement and reflection with the material. Indeed, it can be taken as a truth that now more than ever much more effort is required to focus on a piece of writing. But what he is expressing – that reading books offers cognitively what reading pages on internet cannot – supposes that people (and young adults in particular) are so hooked on the internet that they no longer read. And that, as evidenced by the thriving book market and the popularity of the Harry Potter series, is quite untrue.

There comes a point, however, when correlation occurs with such frequency that it can be considered causal. It is also possible that the inability to read one piece of writing for a prolonged period of time has happened to enough people enough times to be considered an issue that threatens critical thinking in the masses. Carr has provided a good amount of anecdotal evidence, as well as psychological evidence from developmental psychologist, Maryanne Wolf. He certainly provided enough evidence to make his readers think about the (his) problem with Google, and find commonalities with in their own experiences as they read through his article. I will concede that I also related to his anecdotes as I was reading “Is Google Making Us Stupid?” though not all to an equal degree; I could relate to the specific account about Nietzsche far more than I could with Carr’s own, or with those of his friends’.
It is difficult, however, to avoid reflection upon what you read, since a reaction is in itself reflective. Thus, Google’s monetarily-driven goal to keep us clicking may also benefit internet users. The different perspectives that the internet is able to quite immediately provide is not something to be discounted. A broad perspective, after all, is as important to intellect as a deep one. The same should go with horizontal analysis versus vertical analysis.

Regardless of whether the quality of our thoughts will be compromised by the easy distractions that the internet provides, reading from the internet will become increasingly prevalent and convenient. It has, with unapologetic and impressive zest, declared itself essential to modern education, and if we want to keep up with modernity, we have to give in to its presence. Perhaps the internet will change the way we think, but certainly not in the sense that it thought, in the future, will lack depth. And perhaps it will be as revolutionary. Google as the new Gutenberg: Luddites, stand aside.

Condoning Abortion in Theravada Buddhism

The intolerance of abortion in the Theravada sect of Buddhism finds its basis in the fundamental First Precept of non-harm, and its details in the ancient Theravadin texts that discuss the human life at conception and abortion. The anti-abortion values in these ancient texts are strong in their religious logic: the basic precept is not only seen in monastic code, but also a prime lay virtue; the specificity of discourse on what is seen as the killing of an unborn human being provides a rigidity in its approach to abortion. Indeed, it seems impossible to truly condone abortion in Theravada Buddhism. This is in accordance with the compassion that Buddhism is often touted for.

Yet, the degree to which such Theravadin values can be obeyed, in accordance with compassion, is questionable. There are difficulties in attempting to reconcile ancient Theravada Buddhism with medical practices, bioethical matters, and social problems that have surfaced in modernity. Issues from specific situations – such as rape, the health of the child, the health of the mother, the mother’s ability to financially support a child – continue to fuel the abortion debate. One wonders whether it is compassionate to refrain from aborting in such circumstances.

In regarding views on abortion in the Theravadin tradition, it is important to consider their ethics in relation to life, rebirth and killing. Conversely, then, the ideas of karmic cause and effect, and compassion must also be examined in order to explore the circumstances under which it is possible to pursue an abortion from an ethical perspective consistent with Theravedin Buddhism.

The gravity with which Theravada Buddhists regard abortion stems from their view that birth and conception are technically construed as rebirth and re¬conception. In light of the belief in reincarnation, life is continuous, and sentience thus begins at conception. The Theravadin texts suggest that conception occurs only when conditions are such that (1) intercourse took place, (2) it occurred during the fertile time of a woman’s menstrual cycle, and (3) a gandhabba, or a recently deceased “intermediate” awaiting rebirth, is present and ready to inhabit, or ‘descend’ into the womb (Keown, Buddhism and Bioethics 69-71). As such, abortion even at the very early stages of pregnancy, is seen to be an act of killing a living and sentient being, and is thus a clear violation of the First Precept (non-injury).

Of note is the violent thought behind an abortion that heightens the gravity of the misdeed. As explained in Buddhist discourse, “the mental activity of intention is called karma” (Aronson 31). As such, action rooted in unwholesome intention is considered dark action, yielding dark karma, and consequently an unfavorable rebirth (Vélez de Cea). Evil intention is thus considered immoral, that which leads to an act of killing being most immoral. According to the monastic code then, the act of killing necessarily involves full awareness that the action is done towards a living being, and the intention of killing such that it results in the death of the victim (Gethin 170). Analogously, voluntary abortion occurs only with one’s knowledge or awareness of a pregnancy, the desire to end it, and the intention of abortion that results in death of the gestating fetus.

The violation extends beyond the act and intention of killing, and further into karmic theory; the belief that abortion is also the prevention of the rebirth of a gandhabba is compounded with the idea that abortion is an act of killing a sentient being. This is detrimental to the abortionist’s karma, as well as to that of the gandhabba’s. According to the Theravadin Pali Canon, of the six realms of rebirth, the human incarnation is considered the best form of rebirth, as it is the only one in which nirvana can be attained. To abort an unborn human is thus to extinguish the rare opportunity for a positive rebirth (Harvey 314). Indeed, the effects of the act are karmically far-reaching, given the significance of the gandhabba’s mentality in rebirth (King). The trauma of abortion on the fetus may also cause feelings of fear and insecurity, consequently decreasing the likelihood of another good rebirth (Florida 145). The abortionist, having caused such negative feelings in the gandhabba, is therefore karmically affected as well.

Overwhelmingly, ancient Theravadin ideas of karma and rebirth forbid abortion. Yet, in more recent canonical interpretation, certain ideas consider the greater and lesser degrees of offense, and are worthy to examine in context of the situation. As the fetus develops, for instance, abortion is seen to be an increasingly serious offense:
It is relatively less serious to destroy a mosquito than a dog; less serious to destroy a dog than an elephant; it is more serious to take the life of a man than of an elephant, and most serious of all to take the life of a monk. It would thus be less serious to terminate the life of a month-old fetus than of a child about to be born (Ling 58).
This view was first expounded by a fifth century Theravadin commentator and scholar, Buddhaghosa, who commented that the karmic consideration of killing is in accordance with the effort expended in killing, which is taken to be proportional to the physical size of the victim (Hughes). Killing an elephant is a far more difficult task than killing a mosquito; it would require much greater intensity in violence and desire to kill. Applied to abortion, then, to abort a fetus in the first trimester is likely a less serious misdeed than an abortion in the second trimester, given the greater violence required for a late abortion (Harvey 318).
The ‘size’ argument, however, may be slightly problematic when considering abortion. The issue of ‘size’, as directly related to effort, can be interpreted as only applicable in the case of animals, in which case the size of the fetus does not apply. Since Buddhists hold that life and sentience begin at conception, it follows that it is just as bad to abort a fetus as it is to kill an adult human. The notion that moral blameworthiness is related to the size of the victim, in this case, is rendered moot (Keown, Buddhism and Bioethics 99).

Yet, if the size argument is understood in light of maternal and fetal suffering, this interpretation of the canon can be considered very reasonable. Robert Florida, a Professor of Religion at the Brandon University of Manitoba in Canada, states, “it is…intuitively obvious that the earlier an abortion the physical and mental harm done to the mother [is lesser]” (144). While it is clear that late-term abortions cause great distress for mothers, the argument for fetal suffering is one more difficult and tenuous. Recent medical studies, however, have shed light on the issue of fetal pain. One such study done by doctors at the University of California San Francisco yielded a conclusion that “the capacity for conscious perception of pain [probably]…occurs in the third trimester around 29 to 30 weeks’ gestational age” (Rosen). Suffering can then also be seen as increasing with the growth of the fetus (Harvey 316): Nicholas Fisk, a fetal medicine specialist, surmises that “there may not be a single moment when consciousness, or the potential to experience pain is turned on…it may come on gradually, like a dimmer switch” (Paul). Accordingly, early abortion mitigates the karmic offense.

The pluralism in Buddhist karmic theory and ethics must also be regarded (Hallisey). That is, Buddhist teachings do not hold only one moral theory. Rather, they uphold multiple moral theories, and as such, certain theories remain in conflict. This extends, problematically, to an alternate interpretation of the argument of abortion that hinges upon karma. The problem here lies in the seemingly individualistic notion of karma, that “each individual’s karma, in its creation and working out, remains almost entirely a single-channel, closed circuit course” (King). Since one is born with a predetermined karma, as well as state of rebirth, abortion may be construed as only the playing out of what is meant to occur in a woman’s life, or a rebirth not meant to happen, both as marks of dark karma (Kaufman). It follows that there are a few other situations in particular which can be similarly construed as a playing out of dark karma, which are important to consider: in the case of pregnancy as a result of prostitution or rape, and in the case where continued pregnancy is fatally threatening the health of the mother. In such specific situations, abortion seems by far the more compassionate choice. Indeed, this seems to be reflected in scriptural exegesis (Keown, Buddhism and Bioethics 193). Nyanasobhano, an American Theravadin monk, while a strong opponent of abortion from the Buddhist perspective, concedes that it is nonetheless acceptable on such grounds (Harvey 320).

This is acknowledged in some Theravada Buddhist countries as well, where in spite of strict laws against abortion, it is allowed in cases where continued pregnancy poses a fatal threat to the mother (Ling 57). Most notably, in the comparatively liberal Thailand, compassion and abortion have managed to be roughly combined in the face of their strict Theravada Buddhism. Dark karmic cause and effect in Thailand are viewed upon with a compassionate attitude. For instance, while Thai Buddhists do not encourage prostitution, they understand it to be a manifestation of bad karma and a form of suffering, and thus tolerate prostitution (Vélez de Cea). Their attitudes and laws toward abortion seem to imply a similar tolerance towards the latter two situations. In spite of the general illegality of abortion, and the social taboo surrounding it, it is also considered legal and possible on grounds of pregnancy posing “a serious threat to [the mother’s] physical health, or in the case of rape – which also covers cases where the woman is under thirteen, or under eighteen in the sex trade, or over eighteen if she is in the sex trade against her will.” (Harvey 321). In this case, it is difficult to consider abortion as a violation of Buddhist ethics.

In both the size and karma arguments, there is an element of compassion in that there is an aim to be sympathetic toward suffering. Nonetheless, abortion is clearly an offence as far as the scripture itself is concerned, but again, the intent here is essential. Buddhist ethics regards mental action as more important than physical actions – “moral identity” is retained in the absence of form or body, and we are thus responsible for our actions (Barnhart). It must, then, be wholly compassionate in nature – whether in the act of abortion, or in tolerating it – for such actions to be considered acceptable. Although early Theravada interpretations of the canon refuses the possibility of compassionate killing (Gethin 182), this is not the case in later semi-canonical texts, where “what is intrinsically unwholesome…[but] motivated by wholesome roots … seems to be legitimized,” and utilitarian consequences are considered (Vélez de Cea). This is also acknowledged by the Dalai Lama, who proclaimed that while abortion is an undeniably negative action, true compassion should transcend the nature of actions (“Compassion and Bodhicitta”; Dreifus). Significantly, ancient Theravadin texts frame abortion as an act stemming from dishonest circumstances:
Theravadin texts do not envisage the possibility of abortion for medical reasons, seeing abortion as generally carried out by a married woman who was pregnant by a lover, or a jealous woman wishing to prevent her co-wife from presenting their husband with an heir (Harvey 320-321).
To retain such a conception of abortion today would be problematic, especially for cases in which the mother’s life is seriously threatened by continued pregnancy. Rita Gross, a feminist Buddhist scholar, states, “…Buddhism always suggests that we need to deal with things as they are…” (Gross 108). It is thus necessary for Buddhism to seriously consider the changing social landscape of Theravadin countries in its modern practice.

In light of compassion, abortion need not be construed as a grave moral misdeed in terms of socially engaged Buddhism. Considering current socio-political issues that have since arisen in Theravadin countries in relation to abortion, it is troublesome that many Theravadin monks do not concern themselves with modern issues. Yet it is exactly modern social issues that are important to acknowledge for the sake of enduring relevance of the Theravada sect. If it is to remain meaningful, the future of Buddhism is likely to follow religious life as it changes in light of current and social issues (Prebish). Indeed, it is perhaps karmically efficacious to be socially engaged. Winston King, Professor emeritus of Vanderbilt University, argues:
Society as a super-individual entity has a moral-immoral character that affects all of its members for better or worse. It too must be modified Buddhistically for individuals to achieve their full spiritual destiny.
His position reflects that of Zen monk Thich Nhat Hahn, who teaches socially engaged Buddhism, and encourages peace, love, and understanding without taking sides (Hunt-Perry 41). This is especially important in Theravada Buddhist countries, where by and large, abortion is still considered a negative act, in no small part due to the stringency of the religion. In spite of the religious, legal, and social anti-abortion sentiment of Thai women, in practice, they continued to procure abortions at a high rate, at twice that of American women in the ‘90s (Keown, “Introduction” 11). Many of these abortions are illegal, and done in dangerous conditions, and an alarming majority of women seeking abortion did so for either socio-economic reasons, or because of fetal abnormalities (Nongluk).

Indeed, the Buddhist principle of compassion seems to aptly and necessarily bridge the gap between old Theravadin beliefs and modern abortion issues. Compassion is typically taken to mean the categorical principle of non-harm. Yet when understood in terms of the four main virtuous attitudes – love, compassion, sympathetic joy, and equanimity – that are taught to be “karmically efficacious” throughout Buddhist discourse, the notion of compassion can be opened up to include the desire to lessen pain and suffering (Aronson 29). In that way, compassionate attitudes will allow for abortion in cases where the procedure is necessary to reduce suffering.

In surveying abortion in Theravadin Buddhism, it is much more applicable and appropriate to take from the modern practice of the Theravada sect than from traditions and discourses of Buddhist antiquity. Whereas modern Theravada adopts its theoretical anti-abortionist stance from ancient Buddhism – that is, sinful or karmically negative on grounds of it being an action analogous to killing a living sentient being, and of it having the necessary condition of evil motivations – it has also since allowed for the practice of allowing abortion in certain situations, as evidenced in Thai abortion laws. Even if only in slight manner, Thailand is exemplary of the reconcilability of Theravada Buddhism and abortion, achieved through compassion. It is increasingly impossible to ignore the impact of prostitution, rape, and socio-economic disadvantages on pregnancy as significant issues for religion to address – social issues that have surfaced closer to our time than to Gautama Buddha’s. In a religion built upon an ultimate ideal that concerns the cessation of suffering, it is all the more crucial to embrace the compassionate attitudes towards abortion, just as other Buddhist sects have. It is only under the light of compassion, upon understanding the social issues behind abortion, that the act can be tolerated; if Theravadin leaders work towards a compassionate social engagement, it could quite possibly be condoned.



Bibliography
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The Value of Existence

I encountered existence in my mind on three separate nights.

It was an unsettling Saturday evening of my fifteenth year, when the possibility that human beings might not truly exist was brought to my attention. Damien sent me an e-mail of what he thought contained the amusing instant-messaging exchange he had with James earlier that day, copy-and-pasted below a sardonic “Read this. James is brilliant.”

I thought it rather strange that they had conversed at all, considering they were not even acquainted. I was also slightly offended by his insinuation that James was a bit of a dolt – Jimmy and I were friends since the sixth grade, and in many ways, I considered him something of a kindred soul. Damien’s comment made me feel as though the insult was directed partly at me as well. In any case, it can be difficult not to feel doltish around Damien. He was a combination of smart and snarky, and he knew it, too. In hopes of finding the conversation quite as amusing as he found it, I set aside my thoughts and skimmed on through the dialogue.

It read like a modern day, teenaged pseudo e-Socratic dialogue, only it was anonymous on Damien’s part. Midway through the typed conversation, after much of James’ futile interrogational attempts at figuring out just who it is behind the mysterious and unrevealing screen name, was where the metaphysical discussion began:
Jimmy says:
who the heck are you? do you even exist?
. says:
I don’t know. Perhaps I don’t. Perhaps I am a figment of your imagination. Are you delusional? Do you exist?
Jimmy says:
maybe YOUR delusional, your the idiot who won’t show who he is. and of course I exist. how ridiculous that’s the dumbest question i’ve ever heard.
. says:
You’re. And how do you know you exist?

At the end of the dialogue, Jimmy concedes that we might not exist. Though knowing James’ obstinate mind and general distaste for the theoretical, his strange conversation with Damien was quickly forgotten.

This was not the case for me. I had taken our existence for granted up until then; certainly, it was a thought to be marveled at. Yet, the implications of such a position eluded me, I did not want the consequences to be illuminated for fear that the world as I knew it would implode. I could not imagine the encumbering effect it would have on my mind. I grappled with the issue of our existence rather casually, for there seemed to be more pressing issues to be dealt with. We may not exist – so what happens now? I wondered.

Initially, I found solace in moments of real joy coinciding with intense focus, moments I could find only in the arts – in music, in writing, in dance. There was bliss to be found in the parallel fourths of Miles Davis’ Sketches of Spain, or the complex finger work that juxtaposes the rapid moving octaves in Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op.23; instances of delight brought on by ideas exactly translated in creative literary expression; and times when movement and music converge, and everything around fades away or blends in with the dance, the music, the universe. Moments that seemed real, moments that held you steadfast in the present with clarity, that leave you content with the idea of intermittent, ‘higher-faculty’ joy. Better a dissatisfied Socrates than a blissful pig, my high school English teacher liked to say.

It was rather like the calm before the storm.

During my sophomore year at college, when I no longer had the time or the ready opportunities for artistic outlet, the consequences of supposing our inexistence became clear to me. This occurred on the Thursday night of the day we began discussing the ‘higher-faculty joy’ theories of John Stuart Mill in Philosophy class, interestingly enough. It plagued me with doubt of my purpose in life – our purpose, or even the purpose of this supposed world. If we do not exist, and nothing is real, there is no apparent reason for trying to do anything in life. It negates any human construct or belief – the very things that are predicated upon our existence. There is not even a place for emotions, for happiness, enjoyment – for how could such things exist independently of humans? Unfortunately this time, it remained unresolved and loitering in the forefront of my consciousness.

Still, I could not remove myself from hoping that we exist, it being a much more satisfying conclusion. I spoke as if occurrences in life were real, as if I conceived of them as real. I could not quite bring myself to renounce worldly things to become a nirvana-seeking Buddhist, and I desperately wanted to live this life fully, regardless of our existence. I needed to believe that morals exist, that beauty exists, and that life somehow has a purpose. The problem was, I could not decide on which belief to hold. When desire to believe in something is pitted against an unknowable probability against the very thing, which should reason support?

After my sophomore year, I returned to Hong Kong for the summer for some escapist partying. It tends to be an unsuccessful effort; I usually would much rather enjoy the company of a few close friends at someone’s home with Shiraz in the foreground, and John Coltrane in the back. Nonetheless, I found myself sitting among a group of friends at a hookah bar one night, with my mind drifting toward existence. I allowed my mind to drift with the suspended clouds of peach-and-mint scented smoke, and watched it slowly dissipate. I sipped my mojito ruminatively, and only occasionally joined in on the laughter and conversation.

The stranger sitting next to me leaned over, and remarked, “You look bored.”

“Do I? No, I’m just really tired,” I lied. You look even more bored, I wanted to say. We continued chatting for a while, mostly uninspired small talk. Occasionally, he paused to smoke from the pipe. I must have mentioned that I was a Philosophy student, since he said, “Ah. I used to teach philosophy.” This piqued my interest.

“Oh cool! Which philosophers do you like the most?” I asked.

“Well, among other things, I enjoy reading Dostoevsky. What about you?” I still wonder why he chose to only mention Dostoevsky.

“I’m not sure…I’ve only taken two classes. I recently took a class on contemporary metaethics, which was just really confusing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, there are just so many conflicting theories that I find compelling or interesting. But I guess one doesn’t really have to choose. I guess why not just allow them to co-exist,” I said nebulously.

“Oh, I think you should always make a choice.”

“Really? How come?”

“Oh of course! Because if no one decides, the theories cease to matter. And if you don’t decide, you’d have no real foundation to live life on,” he said.

I nodded in agreement, convinced by his argument. It made a lot of sense in light of what I had been struggling with, though it was difficult to think of it in that light, after years of dealing with what I considered an uncertainty. In a sense, I was approaching the matter from a difficult angle. Certainly, I do not have the capacity to find out for humans, once and for all, whether or not we are real, but I wanted to decide on existence or non-existence before I formed a way in which it is possible for me to live accordingly.

I let my thoughts on existence steep in that need to believe for yet another year. And gradually, my thoughts began, once again, not to turn to the idea that it may not necessarily matter whether or not we exist. When environmentalism became a full-fledged trend in the world of social issues, and Barack Obama began to talk about change, my thoughts began to turn. It became clear to me that as long as we either really exist, or imagine that we do, our actions will have ramifications whether real or illusory. These consequences still hold meaning for us, regardless of how real humans are.

We should thus truly believe that we really are here, on this earth, living real lives, experiencing real things. Purpose, for instance, draws meaning from, and is inextricably linked with existence in our minds. We find it disturbing to know we may not exist, because it threatens our entire concept of purpose in life – even if it is only restricted to procreation. All values we uphold, all ethics and morality depend on our existence. It is the only way that laws, or social activism, or other human habits are able to find significance. And it is the only way that society can function with any normalcy.

Google is probably not making us stupid.

In his article “Is Google Making Us Stupid?”, Nicholas Carr addresses the present-day pervasiveness of internet use, and the cerebral pitfalls that it may cause. He writes of the possibility of the internet, or even computer use, changing the physiology of our brains from the ability to “draw our own inferences and analogies, foster our own ideas.” Furthermore, he argues, while Google may heighten thought productivity by efficiently providing a multitude of resources, it also has a financial interest in keeping us clicking, and therefore, distracted from cognition. His article assumes that the mode of reading and writing shapes our thoughts and their quality, and that in particular, shorter attention spans negatively impact deep thinking. His somewhat linear reasoning, however, relies heavily on anecdotal evidence, a bias that ultimately hurts his argument.

Throughout his article, Carr argues for the causal relationship of internet use, and the inability to deeply absorb or reflect upon reading. Carr raised instances from his own experience and his friend’s similar experiences of having developed a shorter attention span from their extensive internet use. He states, “Once I was a scuba diver in the sea of words. Now I zip along the surface like a guy on a Jet Ski.”; Carr’s friend Bruce Friedman, who writes blogs, claims that he is now no longer capable of reading War and Peace. But is it not at least a possibility that the development of their shorter attention spans is rooted in something other than internet use? We must take into account that cause is not equal to correlation. The inability to read War and Peace may, in fact, be caused by the astonishingly fast pace at which we live our lives today. Whereas ten years ago we may have had the time to sit and read a hefty Tolstoy novel with measurable progress, today, we lament a slow-loading internet page because we feel as though we barely have time to sit and wait. What was considered efficient then is now considered slow, and it could just as likely be attributed to the societal need to increase productivity, which takes away from the time we used to have for reading. Carr does not discuss or disprove the possibility of a correlative relationship, and his argument is weakened because of it.

Another example Carr raises as a case for mode of product shaping thought is that of Nietzsche’s stylistic change in writing after he began to write with a typewriter: Nietzsche’s writing began to take an aphoristic style that was terser than it was in the past. The problems that arise then are whether the mode of writing can shape thoughts at all, and how that relates to the correlation between reading and thoughts. To the first, I find it difficult argue that it cannot, since from my own experience, I do find that it can have an effect on the quality and style of writing.

When I write creatively, poetry and other sorts of ‘pretty’ writing comes much more easily to me when I’m writing with pen and paper. Conversely, I also find that the style that comes out on a Word document reads with a comparatively straight-forward tone. How my thoughts are expressed, however, is not dependent upon what my thoughts are. Macrocosmically, it is certain that Nietzsche’s writing was no less influential or deep when he began to write in aphorisms with a typewriter, which was when some of his most well known works were written.

Back to addressing the latter problem, I will assume that the mode of reading does affect one’s thoughts. What Carr implies here is that the two correlations are symmetric; in which case, each part must also be equal. To force equality between reading and writing would be difficult, including the physiological aspect of both. So, even if that is true for reading, it may not necessarily be true for writing. According neuropsychological findings, reading and writing abilities come from the same general part, though different areas of the brain: language comprehension is associated with Wernike’s area, while expression of language is linked to Broca’s area. In spite of that, while it can be reasonably argued that reading and writing are closely related it seems far-fetched that they are also similarly affected by external factors.

This still leaves the possibility of thoughts being affected by internet reading, which is by contrast, not far-fetched. Carr asserts that deep thinking can only come from deep reading, which he defines as the quiet reading of a book. Carr adds that deep thinking is also fostered “…by any other act of contemplation,” which, when applied to reading, is to critically think about the reading. By extension, then, it must be true that this “act of contemplation” can also be applied to what one reads on the internet. Carr has made a strong case for the difficulties of truly engaging with the material that is offered online by virtue of the medium, though he seems to forget throughout most of his article that reading is only as beneficial as the reader’s engagement and reflection with the material. Indeed, it can be taken as a truth that now more than ever much more effort is required to focus on a piece of writing. But what he is expressing – that reading books offers cognitively what reading pages on internet cannot – supposes that people (and young adults in particular) are so hooked on the internet that they no longer read. And that, as evidenced by the thriving book market and the popularity of the Harry Potter series, is quite untrue.

There comes a point, however, when correlation occurs with such frequency that it can be considered causal. It is also possible that the inability to read one piece of writing for a prolonged period of time has happened to enough people enough times to be considered an issue that threatens critical thinking in the masses. Carr has provided a good amount of anecdotal evidence, as well as psychological evidence from developmental psychologist, Maryanne Wolf. He certainly provided enough evidence to make his readers think about the (his) problem with Google, and find commonalities with in their own experiences as they read through his article. I will concede that I also related to his anecdotes as I was reading “Is Google Making Us Stupid?” though not all to an equal degree; I could relate to the specific account about Nietzsche far more than I could with Carr’s own, or with those of his friends’.

It is difficult, however, to avoid reflection upon what you read, since a reaction is in itself reflective. Thus, Google’s monetarily-driven goal to keep us clicking may also benefit internet users. The different perspectives that the internet is able to quite immediately provide is not something to be discounted. A broad perspective, after all, is as important to intellect as a deep one. The same should go with horizontal analysis versus vertical analysis.

Regardless of whether the quality of our thoughts will be compromised by the easy distractions that the internet provides, reading from the internet will become increasingly prevalent and convenient. It has unapologetically swaggered in and declared itself essential to modern education, and if we want to keep up with modernity, we have to give in to its presence. Perhaps the internet will change the way we think, but certainly not in the sense that it thought, in the future, will lack depth. And perhaps it will be as revolutionary. Google as the new Gutenberg: Luddites, stand aside.

A transformative reading experience.

It was in the eleventh grade that I first attempted to read Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. I had just read a couple of his plays the summer before; I did not like Lady Windermere's Fan quite as much as I did The Importance of Being Earnest, but was nonetheless enthralled by both. I was eager to feed my fascination of Wilde’s distinct literary expression, which I would liken to the vocal style of indie artist Kate Nash - lively, lyrical, and British - although that is probably a libel to Wilde (apologies to Kate Nash fans).

In any case, I was on a Cathay Pacific flight from Hong Kong to Thailand for a school trip, with approximately thirty other students from my high school, none of whom I knew very well. We were all packed in the economy class, which as their 2003 Skytrax “Airline of the Year” award suggests, would have been much less pleasant on another airline. It was configured such that in each row of seats, there are four seats between two aisles, and three seats on each side of the aircraft:

So, a good number of lucky folks secured aisle seats; still others of middling fortune got to sit by the window. I was not among either group, but was instead sandwiched between an aisle-seater and a window-seater. Feeling uncomfortably confined, compounded with the fact that I was slightly jealous that my friends were all on the India trip put me in a quiet mood. As the flight took off, I reached for my copy of Dorian Gray and began to read.

Haltingly, and with little success. The preface, a series of loosely related facts stated in quick succession, was at the time confounding and discouraging. Indeed, reading it felt like being lectured at by someone who truly believes in categorical imperatives. I convinced myself that I needed to rest my eyes from the tiny text of the pocket-sized book. The impressionistic brush-stroke pattern on the teal-colored seat in front of me seemed a lot more interesting than what Oscar Wilde had to say about aesthetics. I put the book away, and, lulled by the pretty colors, opted to take a nap.

One transformative trip and three years later, I was on yet another Cathay flight when I picked it up again. This time, I was on my way back to Los Angeles after winter break. It was my sophomore year, and reading Philosophical texts for my major-related classes certainly helped develop my palate for literature with the power to disillusion. I began reading it midway through the fourteen hour flight. By then, the Cathay seats had faded into a muted pine green under the harsh airplane night lights. I was in an aisle seat, and the only seat next to mine was empty. There was the convenient option of watching a movie on the 9” television right in front of me, but nothing that was playing interested me.

This time, I was quickly immersed in the novel. Lord Henry Wotton, the amoral epicurean, manipulates the impressionable and good Dorian Gray into an obsession with youth, beauty and hedonism by the end of the second chapter. He (Dorian) wishes aloud that Basil Hallward's portrait of him would age but that he will not; his wish comes true, but the moral goes beyond 'be careful what you wish for'. The story follows the spiral of Dorian's incremental perverseness, as reflected in his portrait. Though he remains beautiful, his mind is poisoned by his actions. All this culminates with a shred of conscience that peeks through Dorian's finally monstrous soul. Through this tale, Wilde expounds the theories behind the decadent and aesthetic movements with the goal that readers will understand "All art is quite useless," which is indeed what he wrote as his last sentence of the preface.

I should note that half of what made this reading experience transformative is knowing that Oscar Wilde was deemed controversial, cheeky, and camp in his time. To write something quite so imbued with homoerotic themes in the early 1890's, when one can be found guilty of homosexuality (which eventually did happen to Wilde) is no small feat.

That aside, what really struck me was the way Wilde explored the dualism of beauty and morality. It reminded me of the transitory nature of things, and that material should remain largely unimportant beyond the basic needs of survival. From Dorian Gray, I gleaned that beauty (whether in art, or nature, or otherwise) serves an aesthetic purpose of creating a more pleasant environment, and its worth should not be discounted. As "All art is quite useless," however, so we should be reminded from time to time, in our material culture, to take the highly-marketed-to obsession with wealth, youth, and the newest Christian Louboutin 7" stilts with a grain of salt.