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11The_ShallowsWhat_the_Internet_Is_Doing_to_Our_Brains.pdf

ALSO�BY�NICHOLAS�CARR

The�Big�Switch:�Rewiring�the�World,�from�Edison�to�Google

Does�IT�Ma�er?

THE�SHALLOWS

What�the�Internet�Is�Doing�to�Our�Brains

NICHOLAS�CARR

W.�W.�NORTON�&�COMPANY

New�York�*�London

Copyright�©�2010�by�Nicholas�Carr

All�rights�reserved

“The�wri�ng�ball�is�a�thing�like�me…”�from�Gramophone,�Film,�Typewriter�by� Friedrich�A.�Ki�ler,�translated�by�Geo�rey�Winthrop-Young�and�Michael�Wutz.� Copyright�©�1996�by�the�Board�of�Trustees�of�the�Leland�Stanford�Jr.�University�for� transla�on;�©�1986�by�Brinkmann�and�Bose.�All�rights�reserved.�Used�with�the� permission�of�Stanford�University�Press,�www.sup.org.

“The�House�Was�Quiet�and�the�World�Was�Calm,”�copyright�1947�by�Wallace� Stevens,�from�The�Collected�Poems�of�Wallace�Stevens�by�Wallace�Stevens.�Used�by� permission�of�Alfred�A.�Knopf,�a�division�of�Random�House,�Inc.

For�informa�on�about�permission�to�reproduce�selec�ons�from�this�book,�write�to� Permissions,�W.�W.�Norton�&�Company,�Inc.,�500�Fi�h�Avenue,�New�York,�NY�10110

Library�of�Congress�Cataloging-in-Publica�on�Data

Carr,�Nicholas�G.,�1959–�The�shallows:�what�the�Internet�is�doing�to�our� brains/Nicholas�Carr.—1st�ed.�p.�cm.�Includes�bibliographical�references.�ISBN:�978- 0-393-07936-4�1.�Neuropsychology.�2.�Internet—Physiological�e�ect.�3.�Internet— Psychological�aspects.�I.�Title.�QP360.C3667�2010�612.80285—dc22

2010007639

W.�W.�Norton�&�Company,�Inc.�500�Fi�h�Avenue,�New�York,�N.Y.� 10110www.wwnorton.com

W.�W.�Norton�&�Company�Ltd.�Castle�House,�75/76�Wells�Street,�London�W1T�3QT

to�my�mother

and�in�memory�of�my�father

Contents

Prologue

THE�WATCHDOG�AND�THE�THIEF

One

HAL�AND�ME

Two

THE�VITAL�PATHS

a�digression

on�what�the�brain�thinks�about�when�it�thinks�about�itself

Three

TOOLS�OF�THE�MIND

Four

THE�DEEPENING�PAGE

a�digression

on�lee�de�forest�and�his�amazing�audion

Five

A�MEDIUM�OF�THE�MOST�GENERAL�NATURE

Six

THE�VERY�IMAGE�OF�A�BOOK

Seven

THE�JUGGLER’S�BRAIN

a�digression

on�the�buoyancy�of�IQ�scores

Eight

THE�CHURCH�OF�GOOGLE

Nine

SEARCH,�MEMORY

a�digression

on�the�wri�ng�of�this�book

Ten

A�THING�LIKE�ME

Epilogue

HUMAN�ELEMENTS

Notes

Further�Reading

Acknowledgments

And�in�the�midst�of�this�wide�quietness

A�rosy�sanctuary�will�I�dress

With�the�wreath’d�trellis�of�a�working�brain…

—JOHN�KEATS,�“Ode�to�Psyche”

THE�SHALLOWS

Prologue

THE�WATCHDOG�AND�THE�THIEF

In�1964,�just�as�the�Beatles�were�launching�their�invasion�of�America’s�airwaves,� Marshall�McLuhan�published�Understanding�Media:�The�Extensions�of�Man�and� transformed�himself�from�an�obscure�academic�into�a�star.�Oracular,�gnomic,�and� mind-bending,�the�book�was�a�perfect�product�of�the�six�es,�that�now-distant� decade�of�acid�trips�and�moon�shots,�inner�and�outer�voyaging.�Understanding� Media�was�at�heart�a�prophecy,�and�what�it�prophesied�was�the�dissolu�on�of�the� linear�mind.�McLuhan�declared�that�the�“electric�media”�of�the�twen�eth�century— telephone,�radio,�movies,�television—were�breaking�the�tyranny�of�text�over�our� thoughts�and�senses.�Our�isolated,�fragmented�selves,�locked�for�centuries�in�the� private�reading�of�printed�pages,�were�becoming�whole�again,�merging�into�the� global�equivalent�of�a�tribal�village.�We�were�approaching�“the�technological� simula�on�of�consciousness,�when�the�crea�ve�process�of�knowing�will�be� collec�vely�and�corporately�extended�to�the�whole�of�human�society.”1

Even�at�the�crest�of�its�fame,�Understanding�Media�was�a�book�more�talked�about� than�read.�Today�it�has�become�a�cultural�relic,�consigned�to�media�studies�courses� in�universi�es.�But�McLuhan,�as�much�a�showman�as�a�scholar,�was�a�master�at� turning�phrases,�and�one�of�them,�sprung�from�the�pages�of�the�book,�lives�on�as�a� popular�saying:�“The�medium�is�the�message.”�What’s�been�forgo�en�in�our� repe��on�of�this�enigma�c�aphorism�is�that�McLuhan�was�not�just�acknowledging,� and�celebra�ng,�the�transforma�ve�power�of�new�communica�on�technologies.�He� was�also�sounding�a�warning�about�the�threat�the�power�poses—and�the�risk�of� being�oblivious�to�that�threat.�“The�electric�technology�is�within�the�gates,”�he� wrote,�“and�we�are�numb,�deaf,�blind�and�mute�about�its�encounter�with�the� Gutenberg�technology,�on�and�through�which�the�American�way�of�life�was� formed.”2

McLuhan�understood�that�whenever�a�new�medium�comes�along,�people�naturally� get�caught�up�in�the�informa�on—the�“content”—it�carries.�They�care�about�the� news�in�the�newspaper,�the�music�on�the�radio,�the�shows�on�the�TV,�the�words� spoken�by�the�person�on�the�far�end�of�the�phone�line.�The�technology�of�the� medium,�however�astonishing�it�may�be,�disappears�behind�whatever��ows�through� it—facts,�entertainment,�instruc�on,�conversa�on.�When�people�start�deba�ng�(as� they�always�do)�whether�the�medium’s�e�ects�are�good�or�bad,�it’s�the�content�they� wrestle�over.�Enthusiasts�celebrate�it;�skep�cs�decry�it.�The�terms�of�the�argument�

have�been�pre�y�much�the�same�for�every�new�informa�onal�medium,�going�back� at�least�to�the�books�that�came�o��Gutenberg’s�press.�Enthusiasts,�with�good� reason,�praise�the�torrent�of�new�content�that�the�technology�uncorks,�seeing�it�as� signaling�a�“democra�za�on”�of�culture.�Skep�cs,�with�equally�good�reason,� condemn�the�crassness�of�the�content,�viewing�it�as�signaling�a�“dumbing�down”�of� culture.�One�side’s�abundant�Eden�is�the�other’s�vast�wasteland.

The�Internet�is�the�latest�medium�to�spur�this�debate.�The�clash�between�Net� enthusiasts�and�Net�skep�cs,�carried�out�over�the�last�two�decades�through�dozens� of�books�and�ar�cles�and�thousands�of�blog�posts,�video�clips,�and�podcasts,�has� become�as�polarized�as�ever,�with�the�former�heralding�a�new�golden�age�of�access� and�par�cipa�on�and�the�la�er�bemoaning�a�new�dark�age�of�mediocrity�and� narcissism.�The�debate�has�been�important—content�does�ma�er—but�because�it� hinges�on�personal�ideology�and�taste,�it�has�gone�down�a�cul-de-sac.�The�views� have�become�extreme,�the�a�acks�personal.�“Luddite!”�sneers�the�enthusiast.� “Philis�ne!”�sco�s�the�skep�c.�“Cassandra!”�“Pollyanna!”

What�both�enthusiast�and�skep�c�miss�is�what�McLuhan�saw:�that�in�the�long�run�a� medium’s�content�ma�ers�less�than�the�medium�itself�in�in�uencing�how�we�think� and�act.�As�our�window�onto�the�world,�and�onto�ourselves,�a�popular�medium� molds�what�we�see�and�how�we�see�it—and�eventually,�if�we�use�it�enough,�it� changes�who�we�are,�as�individuals�and�as�a�society.�“The�e�ects�of�technology�do� not�occur�at�the�level�of�opinions�or�concepts,”�wrote�McLuhan.�Rather,�they�alter� “pa�erns�of�percep�on�steadily�and�without�any�resistance.”3�The�showman� exaggerates�to�make�his�point,�but�the�point�stands.�Media�work�their�magic,�or� their�mischief,�on�the�nervous�system�itself.

Our�focus�on�a�medium’s�content�can�blind�us�to�these�deep�e�ects.�We’re�too�busy� being�dazzled�or�disturbed�by�the�programming�to�no�ce�what’s�going�on�inside�our� heads.�In�the�end,�we�come�to�pretend�that�the�technology�itself�doesn’t�ma�er.�It’s� how�we�use�it�that�ma�ers,�we�tell�ourselves.�The�implica�on,�comfor�ng�in�its� hubris,�is�that�we’re�in�control.�The�technology�is�just�a�tool,�inert�un�l�we�pick�it�up� and�inert�again�once�we�set�it�aside.

McLuhan�quoted�a�self-serving�pronouncement�by�David�Sarno�,�the�media�mogul� who�pioneered�radio�at�RCA�and�television�at�NBC.�In�a�speech�at�the�University�of� Notre�Dame�in�1955,�Sarno��dismissed�cri�cism�of�the�mass�media�on�which�he�had� built�his�empire�and�his�fortune.�He�turned�the�blame�for�any�ill�e�ects�away�from� the�technologies�and�onto�the�listeners�and�viewers:�“We�are�too�prone�to�make� technological�instruments�the�scapegoats�for�the�sins�of�those�who�wield�them.�The� products�of�modern�science�are�not�in�themselves�good�or�bad;�it�is�the�way�they�are� used�that�determines�their�value.”�McLuhan�sco�ed�at�the�idea,�chiding�Sarno��for�

speaking�with�“the�voice�of�the�current�somnambulism.”4�Every�new�medium,� McLuhan�understood,�changes�us.�“Our�conven�onal�response�to�all�media,�namely� that�it�is�how�they�are�used�that�counts,�is�the�numb�stance�of�the�technological� idiot,”�he�wrote.�The�content�of�a�medium�is�just�“the�juicy�piece�of�meat�carried�by� the�burglar�to�distract�the�watchdog�of�the�mind.”5

Not�even�McLuhan�could�have�foreseen�the�feast�that�the�Internet�has�laid�before� us:�one�course�a�er�another,�each�juicier�than�the�last,�with�hardly�a�moment�to� catch�our�breath�between�bites.�As�networked�computers�have�shrunk�to�the�size�of� iPhones�and�BlackBerrys,�the�feast�has�become�a�movable�one,�available�any�me,� anywhere.�It’s�in�our�home,�our�o�ce,�our�car,�our�classroom,�our�purse,�our�pocket.� Even�people�who�are�wary�of�the�Net’s�ever-expanding�in�uence�rarely�allow�their� concerns�to�get�in�the�way�of�their�use�and�enjoyment�of�the�technology.�The�movie� cri�c�David�Thomson�once�observed�that�“doubts�can�be�rendered�feeble�in�the�face� of�the�certainty�of�the�medium.”6�He�was�talking�about�the�cinema�and�how�it� projects�its�sensa�ons�and�sensibili�es�not�only�onto�the�movie�screen�but�onto�us,� the�engrossed�and�compliant�audience.�His�comment�applies�with�even�greater� force�to�the�Net.�The�computer�screen�bulldozes�our�doubts�with�its�boun�es�and� conveniences.�It�is�so�much�our�servant�that�it�would�seem�churlish�to�no�ce�that�it� is�also�our�master.

HAL�AND�ME

“Dave,�stop.�Stop,�will�you?�Stop,�Dave.�Will�you�stop?”�So�the�supercomputer�HAL� pleads�with�the�implacable�astronaut�Dave�Bowman�in�a�famous�and�weirdly� poignant�scene�toward�the�end�of�Stanley�Kubrick’s�2001:�A�Space�Odyssey.� Bowman,�having�nearly�been�sent�to�a�deep-space�death�by�the�malfunc�oning� machine,�is�calmly,�coldly�disconnec�ng�the�memory�circuits�that�control�its�ar��cial� brain.�“Dave,�my�mind�is�going,”�HAL�says,�forlornly.�“I�can�feel�it.�I�can�feel�it.”

I�can�feel�it�too.�Over�the�last�few�years�I’ve�had�an�uncomfortable�sense�that� someone,�or�something,�has�been��nkering�with�my�brain,�remapping�the�neural� circuitry,�reprogramming�the�memory.�My�mind�isn’t�going—so�far�as�I�can�tell—but� it’s�changing.�I’m�not�thinking�the�way�I�used�to�think.�I�feel�it�most�strongly�when� I’m�reading.�I�used�to��nd�it�easy�to�immerse�myself�in�a�book�or�a�lengthy�ar�cle.� My�mind�would�get�caught�up�in�the�twists�of�the�narra�ve�or�the�turns�of�the� argument,�and�I’d�spend�hours�strolling�through�long�stretches�of�prose.�That’s� rarely�the�case�anymore.�Now�my�concentra�on�starts�to�dri��a�er�a�page�or�two.�I� get��dgety,�lose�the�thread,�begin�looking�for�something�else�to�do.�I�feel�like�I’m� always�dragging�my�wayward�brain�back�to�the�text.�The�deep�reading�that�used�to� come�naturally�has�become�a�struggle.

I�think�I�know�what’s�going�on.�For�well�over�a�decade�now,�I’ve�been�spending�a�lot� of��me�online,�searching�and�sur�ng�and�some�mes�adding�to�the�great�databases� of�the�Internet.�The�Web’s�been�a�godsend�to�me�as�a�writer.�Research�that�once� required�days�in�the�stacks�or�periodical�rooms�of�libraries�can�now�be�done�in� minutes.�A�few�Google�searches,�some�quick�clicks�on�hyperlinks,�and�I’ve�got�the� telltale�fact�or�the�pithy�quote�I�was�a�er.�I�couldn’t�begin�to�tally�the�hours�or�the� gallons�of�gasoline�the�Net�has�saved�me.�I�do�most�of�my�banking�and�a�lot�of�my� shopping�online.�I�use�my�browser�to�pay�my�bills,�schedule�my�appointments,�book� �ights�and�hotel�rooms,�renew�my�driver’s�license,�send�invita�ons�and�gree�ng� cards.�Even�when�I’m�not�working,�I’m�as�likely�as�not�to�be�foraging�in�the�Web’s� data�thickets—reading�and�wri�ng�e-mails,�scanning�headlines�and�blog�posts,� following�Facebook�updates,�watching�video�streams,�downloading�music,�or�just� tripping�lightly�from�link�to�link�to�link.

The�Net�has�become�my�all-purpose�medium,�the�conduit�for�most�of�the� informa�on�that��ows�through�my�eyes�and�ears�and�into�my�mind.�The�advantages� of�having�immediate�access�to�such�an�incredibly�rich�and�easily�searched�store�of� data�are�many,�and�they’ve�been�widely�described�and�duly�applauded.�“Google,”� says�Heather�Pringle,�a�writer�with�Archaeology�magazine,�“is�an�astonishing�boon�to� humanity,�gathering�up�and�concentra�ng�informa�on�and�ideas�that�were�once� sca�ered�so�broadly�around�the�world�that�hardly�anyone�could�pro�t�from�them.”1� Observes�Wired’s�Clive�Thompson,�“The�perfect�recall�of�silicon�memory�can�be�an� enormous�boon�to�thinking.”2

The�boons�are�real.�But�they�come�at�a�price.�As�McLuhan�suggested,�media�aren’t� just�channels�of�informa�on.�They�supply�the�stu��of�thought,�but�they�also�shape� the�process�of�thought.�And�what�the�Net�seems�to�be�doing�is�chipping�away�my� capacity�for�concentra�on�and�contempla�on.�Whether�I’m�online�or�not,�my�mind� now�expects�to�take�in�informa�on�the�way�the�Net�distributes�it:�in�a�swi�ly�moving� stream�of�par�cles.�Once�I�was�a�scuba�diver�in�the�sea�of�words.�Now�I�zip�along�the� surface�like�a�guy�on�a�Jet�Ski.

Maybe�I’m�an�aberra�on,�an�outlier.�But�it�doesn’t�seem�that�way.�When�I�men�on� my�troubles�with�reading�to�friends,�many�say�they’re�su�ering�from�similar� a�ic�ons.�The�more�they�use�the�Web,�the�more�they�have�to��ght�to�stay�focused� on�long�pieces�of�wri�ng.�Some�worry�they’re�becoming�chronic�sca�erbrains.� Several�of�the�bloggers�I�follow�have�also�men�oned�the�phenomenon.�Sco��Karp,� who�used�to�work�for�a�magazine�and�now�writes�a�blog�about�online�media,� confesses�that�he�has�stopped�reading�books�altogether.�“I�was�a�lit�major�in�college,� and�used�to�be�[a]�voracious�book�reader,”�he�writes.�“What�happened?”�He� speculates�on�the�answer:�“What�if�I�do�all�my�reading�on�the�web�not�so�much� because�the�way�I�read�has�changed,�i.e.�I’m�just�seeking�convenience,�but�because�

the�way�I�THINK�has�changed?”3

Bruce�Friedman,�who�blogs�about�the�use�of�computers�in�medicine,�has�also� described�how�the�Internet�is�altering�his�mental�habits.�“I�now�have�almost�totally� lost�the�ability�to�read�and�absorb�a�longish�ar�cle�on�the�web�or�in�print,”�he�says.4� A�pathologist�on�the�faculty�of�the�University�of�Michigan�Medical�School,�Friedman� elaborated�on�his�comment�in�a�telephone�conversa�on�with�me.�His�thinking,�he� said,�has�taken�on�a�“staccato”�quality,�re�ec�ng�the�way�he�quickly�scans�short� passages�of�text�from�many�sources�online.�“I�can’t�read�War�and�Peace�anymore,”� he�admi�ed.�“I’ve�lost�the�ability�to�do�that.�Even�a�blog�post�of�more�than�three�or� four�paragraphs�is�too�much�to�absorb.�I�skim�it.”

Philip�Davis,�a�doctoral�student�in�communica�on�at�Cornell�who�contributes�to�the� Society�for�Scholarly�Publishing’s�blog,�recalls�a��me�back�in�the�1990s�when�he� showed�a�friend�how�to�use�a�Web�browser.�He�says�he�was�“astonished”�and�“even� irritated”�when�the�woman�paused�to�read�the�text�on�the�sites�she�stumbled�upon.� “You’re�not�supposed�to�read�web�pages,�just�click�on�the�hypertexted�words!”�he� scolded�her.�Now,�Davis�writes,�“I�read�a�lot—or�at�least�I�should�be�reading�a�lot— only�I�don’t.�I�skim.�I�scroll.�I�have�very�li�le�pa�ence�for�long,�drawn-out,�nuanced� arguments,�even�though�I�accuse�others�of�pain�ng�the�world�too�simply.”5

Karp,�Friedman,�and�Davis—all�well-educated�men�with�a�keenness�for�wri�ng— seem�fairly�sanguine�about�the�decay�of�their�facul�es�for�reading�and� concentra�ng.�All�things�considered,�they�say,�the�bene�ts�they�get�from�using�the� Net—quick�access�to�loads�of�informa�on,�potent�searching�and��ltering�tools,�an� easy�way�to�share�their�opinions�with�a�small�but�interested�audience—make�up�for� the�loss�of�their�ability�to�sit�s�ll�and�turn�the�pages�of�a�book�or�a�magazine.� Friedman�told�me,�in�an�e-mail,�that�he’s�“never�been�more�crea�ve”�than�he�has� been�recently,�and�he�a�ributes�that�“to�my�blog�and�the�ability�to�review/scan� ‘tons’�of�informa�on�on�the�web.”�Karp�has�come�to�believe�that�reading�lots�of� short,�linked�snippets�online�is�a�more�e�cient�way�to�expand�his�mind�than�reading� “250-page�books,”�though,�he�says,�“we�can’t�yet�recognize�the�superiority�of�this� networked�thinking�process�because�we’re�measuring�it�against�our�old�linear� thought�process.”6�Muses�Davis,�“The�Internet�may�have�made�me�a�less�pa�ent� reader,�but�I�think�that�in�many�ways,�it�has�made�me�smarter.�More�connec�ons�to� documents,�ar�facts,�and�people�means�more�external�in�uences�on�my�thinking� and�thus�on�my�wri�ng.”7�All�three�know�they’ve�sacri�ced�something�important,� but�they�wouldn’t�go�back�to�the�way�things�used�to�be.

For�some�people,�the�very�idea�of�reading�a�book�has�come�to�seem�old-fashioned,� maybe�even�a�li�le�silly—like�sewing�your�own�shirts�or�butchering�your�own�meat.� “I�don’t�read�books,”�says�Joe�O’Shea,�a�former�president�of�the�student�body�at�

Florida�State�University�and�a�2008�recipient�of�a�Rhodes�Scholarship.�“I�go�to� Google,�and�I�can�absorb�relevant�informa�on�quickly.”�O’Shea,�a�philosophy�major,� doesn’t�see�any�reason�to�plow�through�chapters�of�text�when�it�takes�but�a�minute� or�two�to�cherry-pick�the�per�nent�passages�using�Google�Book�Search.�“Si�ng� down�and�going�through�a�book�from�cover�to�cover�doesn’t�make�sense,”�he�says.� “It’s�not�a�good�use�of�my��me,�as�I�can�get�all�the�informa�on�I�need�faster�through� the�Web.”�As�soon�as�you�learn�to�be�“a�skilled�hunter”�online,�he�argues,�books� become�super�uous.8

O’Shea�seems�more�the�rule�than�the�excep�on.�In�2008,�a�research�and�consul�ng� ou�it�called�nGenera�released�a�study�of�the�e�ects�of�Internet�use�on�the�young.� The�company�interviewed�some�six�thousand�members�of�what�it�calls�“Genera�on� Net”—kids�who�have�grown�up�using�the�Web.�“Digital�immersion,”�wrote�the�lead� researcher,�“has�even�a�ected�the�way�they�absorb�informa�on.�They�don’t� necessarily�read�a�page�from�le��to�right�and�from�top�to�bo�om.�They�might� instead�skip�around,�scanning�for�per�nent�informa�on�of�interest.”�9�In�a�talk�at�a� recent�Phi�Beta�Kappa�mee�ng,�Duke�University�professor�Katherine�Hayles� confessed,�“I�can’t�get�my�students�to�read�whole�books�anymore.”10�Hayles� teaches�English;�the�students�she’s�talking�about�are�students�of�literature.

People�use�the�Internet�in�all�sorts�of�ways.�Some�are�eager,�even�compulsive� adopters�of�the�latest�technologies.�They�keep�accounts�with�a�dozen�or�more�online� services�and�subscribe�to�scores�of�informa�on�feeds.�They�blog�and�they�tag,�they� text�and�they�twi�er.�Others�don’t�much�care�about�being�on�the�cu�ng�edge�but� nevertheless��nd�themselves�online�most�of�the��me,�tapping�away�at�their� desktop,�their�laptop,�or�their�mobile�phone.�The�Net�has�become�essen�al�to�their� work,�school,�or�social�lives,�and�o�en�to�all�three.�S�ll�others�log�on�only�a�few� �mes�a�day—to�check�their�e-mail,�follow�a�story�in�the�news,�research�a�topic�of� interest,�or�do�some�shopping.�And�there�are,�of�course,�many�people�who�don’t�use� the�Internet�at�all,�either�because�they�can’t�a�ord�to�or�because�they�don’t�want�to.� What’s�clear,�though,�is�that�for�society�as�a�whole�the�Net�has�become,�in�just�the� twenty�years�since�the�so�ware�programmer�Tim�Berners-Lee�wrote�the�code�for� the�World�Wide�Web,�the�communica�on�and�informa�on�medium�of�choice.�The� scope�of�its�use�is�unprecedented,�even�by�the�standards�of�the�mass�media�of�the� twen�eth�century.�The�scope�of�its�in�uence�is�equally�broad.�By�choice�or�necessity,� we’ve�embraced�the�Net’s�uniquely�rapid-�re�mode�of�collec�ng�and�dispensing� informa�on.

We�seem�to�have�arrived,�as�McLuhan�said�we�would,�at�an�important�juncture�in� our�intellectual�and�cultural�history,�a�moment�of�transi�on�between�two�very� di�erent�modes�of�thinking.�What�we’re�trading�away�in�return�for�the�riches�of�the� Net—and�only�a�curmudgeon�would�refuse�to�see�the�riches—is�what�Karp�calls�“our�

old�linear�thought�process.”�Calm,�focused,�undistracted,�the�linear�mind�is�being� pushed�aside�by�a�new�kind�of�mind�that�wants�and�needs�to�take�in�and�dole�out� informa�on�in�short,�disjointed,�o�en�overlapping�bursts—the�faster,�the�be�er.� John�Ba�elle,�a�one�me�magazine�editor�and�journalism�professor�who�now�runs�an� online�adver�sing�syndicate,�has�described�the�intellectual�frisson�he�experiences� when�ski�ering�across�Web�pages:�“When�I�am�performing�bricolage�in�real��me� over�the�course�of�hours,�I�am�‘feeling’�my�brain�light�up,�I�[am]�‘feeling’�like�I’m� ge�ng�smarter.”11�Most�of�us�have�experienced�similar�sensa�ons�while�online.� The�feelings�are�intoxica�ng—so�much�so�that�they�can�distract�us�from�the�Net’s� deeper�cogni�ve�consequences.

For�the�last��ve�centuries,�ever�since�Gutenberg’s�prin�ng�press�made�book�reading� a�popular�pursuit,�the�linear,�literary�mind�has�been�at�the�center�of�art,�science,�and� society.�As�supple�as�it�is�subtle,�it’s�been�the�imagina�ve�mind�of�the�Renaissance,� the�ra�onal�mind�of�the�Enlightenment,�the�inven�ve�mind�of�the�Industrial� Revolu�on,�even�the�subversive�mind�of�Modernism.�It�may�soon�be�yesterday’s� mind.

THE�HAL�9000�computer�was�born,�or�“made�opera�onal,”�as�HAL�himself�humbly� put�it,�on�January�12,�1992,�in�a�mythical�computer�plant�in�Urbana,�Illinois.�I�was� born�almost�exactly�thirty-three�years�earlier,�in�January�of�1959,�in�another� midwestern�city,�Cincinna�,�Ohio.�My�life,�like�the�lives�of�most�Baby�Boomers�and� Genera�on�Xers,�has�unfolded�like�a�two-act�play.�It�opened�with�Analogue�Youth� and�then,�a�er�a�quick�but�thorough�shu�ing�of�the�props,�it�entered�Digital� Adulthood.

When�I�summon�up�images�from�my�early�years,�they�seem�at�once�comfor�ng�and� alien,�like�s�lls�from�a�G-rated�David�Lynch��lm.�There’s�the�bulky�mustard-yellow� telephone�a�xed�to�the�wall�of�our�kitchen,�with�its�rotary�dial�and�long,�coiled�cord.� There’s�my�dad��ddling�with�the�rabbit�ears�on�top�of�the�TV,�vainly�trying�to�get�rid� of�the�snow�obscuring�the�Reds�game.�There’s�the�rolled-up,�dewdampened� morning�newspaper�lying�in�our�gravel�driveway.�There’s�the�hi-��console�in�the� living�room,�a�few�record�jackets�and�dust�sleeves�(some�from�my�older�siblings’� Beatles�albums)�sca�ered�on�the�carpet�around�it.�And�downstairs,�in�the�musty� basement�family�room,�there�are�the�books�on�the�bookshelves—lots�of�books— with�their�many-colored�spines,�each�bearing�a��tle�and�the�name�of�a�writer.

In�1977,�the�year�Star�Wars�came�out�and�the�Apple�Computer�company�was� incorporated,�I�headed�to�New�Hampshire�to�a�end�Dartmouth�College.�I�didn’t� know�it�when�I�applied,�but�Dartmouth�had�long�been�a�leader�in�academic� compu�ng,�playing�a�pivotal�role�in�making�the�power�of�data-processing�machines� easily�available�to�students�and�teachers.�The�college’s�president,�John�Kemeny,�was�

a�respected�computer�scien�st�who�in�1972�had�wri�en�an�in�uen�al�book�called� Man�and�the�Computer.�He�had�also,�a�decade�before�that,�been�one�the�inventors� of�BASIC,�the��rst�programming�language�to�use�common�words�and�everyday� syntax.�Near�the�center�of�the�school’s�grounds,�just�behind�the�neo-Georgian�Baker� Library�with�its�soaring�bell�tower,�squa�ed�the�single-story�Kiewit�Computa�on� Center,�a�drab,�vaguely�futuris�c�concrete�building�that�housed�the�school’s�pair�of� General�Electric�GE-635�mainframe�computers.�The�mainframes�ran�the� groundbreaking�Dartmouth�Time-Sharing�System,�an�early�type�of�network�that� allowed�dozens�of�people�to�use�the�computers�simultaneously.�Time-sharing�was� the��rst�manifesta�on�of�what�we�today�call�personal�compu�ng.�It�made�possible,� as�Kemeny�wrote�in�his�book,�“a�true�symbio�c�rela�onship�between�man�and� computer.”12

I�was�an�English�major�and�went�to�great�lengths�to�avoid�math�and�science�classes,� but�Kiewit�occupied�a�strategic�loca�on�on�campus,�midway�between�my�dorm�and� Fraternity�Row,�and�on�weekend�evenings�I’d�o�en�spend�an�hour�or�two�at�a� terminal�in�the�public�teletype�room�while�wai�ng�for�the�keg�par�es�to�get�rolling.� Usually,�I’d�fri�er�away�the��me�playing�one�of�the�goo�ly�primi�ve�mul�player� games�that�the�undergraduate�programmers—“sysprogs,”�they�called�themselves— had�hacked�together.�But�I�did�manage�to�teach�myself�how�to�use�the�system’s� cumbersome�word-processing�program�and�even�learned�a�few�BASIC�commands.

That�was�just�a�digital�dalliance.�For�every�hour�I�passed�in�Kiewit,�I�must�have�spent� two�dozen�next�door�in�Baker.�I�crammed�for�exams�in�the�library’s�cavernous� reading�room,�looked�up�facts�in�the�weighty�volumes�on�the�reference�shelves,�and� worked�part-�me�checking�books�in�and�out�at�the�circula�on�desk.�Most�of�my� library��me,�though,�went�to�wandering�the�long,�narrow�corridors�of�the�stacks.� Despite�being�surrounded�by�tens�of�thousands�of�books,�I�don’t�remember�feeling� the�anxiety�that’s�symptoma�c�of�what�we�today�call�“informa�on�overload.”�There� was�something�calming�in�the�re�cence�of�all�those�books,�their�willingness�to�wait� years,�decades�even,�for�the�right�reader�to�come�along�and�pull�them�from�their� appointed�slots.�Take�your��me,�the�books�whispered�to�me�in�their�dusty�voices.� We’re�not�going�anywhere.

It�was�in�1986,��ve�years�a�er�I�le��Dartmouth,�that�computers�entered�my�life�in� earnest.�To�my�wife’s�dismay,�I�spent�nearly�our�en�re�savings,�some�$2,000,�on�one� of�Apple’s�earliest�Macintoshes—a�Mac�Plus�decked�out�with�a�single�megabyte�of� RAM,�a�20-megabyte�hard�drive,�and�a��ny�black-and-white�screen.�I�s�ll�recall�the� excitement�I�felt�as�I�unpacked�the�li�le�beige�machine.�I�set�it�on�my�desk,�plugged� in�the�keyboard�and�mouse,�and��ipped�the�power�switch.�It�lit�up,�sounded�a� welcoming�chime,�and�smiled�at�me�as�it�went�through�the�mysterious�rou�nes�that� brought�it�to�life.�I�was�smi�en.

The�Plus�did�double�duty�as�both�a�home�and�a�business�computer.�Every�day,�I� lugged�it�into�the�o�ces�of�the�management�consul�ng��rm�where�I�worked�as�an� editor.�I�used�Microso��Word�to�revise�proposals,�reports,�and�presenta�ons,�and� some�mes�I’d�launch�Excel�to�key�in�revisions�to�a�consultant’s�spreadsheet.�Every� evening,�I�carted�it�back�home,�where�I�used�it�to�keep�track�of�the�family��nances,� write�le�ers,�play�games�(s�ll�goofy,�but�less�primi�ve),�and—most�diver�ng�of�all— cobble�together�simple�databases�using�the�ingenious�HyperCard�applica�on�that� back�then�came�with�every�Mac.�Created�by�Bill�Atkinson,�one�of�Apple’s�most� inven�ve�programmers,�HyperCard�incorporated�a�hypertext�system�that� an�cipated�the�look�and�feel�of�the�World�Wide�Web.�Where�on�the�Web�you�click� links�on�pages,�on�HyperCard�you�clicked�bu�ons�on�cards—but�the�idea,�and�its� seduc�veness,�was�the�same.

The�computer,�I�began�to�sense,�was�more�than�just�a�simple�tool�that�did�what�you� told�it�to�do.�It�was�a�machine�that,�in�subtle�but�unmistakable�ways,�exerted�an� in�uence�over�you.�The�more�I�used�it,�the�more�it�altered�the�way�I�worked.�At��rst� I�had�found�it�impossible�to�edit�anything�on-screen.�I’d�print�out�a�document,�mark� it�up�with�a�pencil,�and�type�the�revisions�back�into�the�digital�version.�Then�I’d�print� it�out�again�and�take�another�pass�with�the�pencil.�Some�mes�I’d�go�through�the� cycle�a�dozen��mes�a�day.�But�at�some�point—and�abruptly—my�edi�ng�rou�ne� changed.�I�found�I�could�no�longer�write�or�revise�anything�on�paper.�I�felt�lost� without�the�Delete�key,�the�scrollbar,�the�cut�and�paste�func�ons,�the�Undo� command.�I�had�to�do�all�my�edi�ng�on-screen.�In�using�the�word�processor,�I�had� become�something�of�a�word�processor�myself.

Bigger�changes�came�a�er�I�bought�a�modem,�some�me�around�1990.�Up�to�then,� the�Plus�had�been�a�self-contained�machine,�its�func�ons�limited�to�whatever� so�ware�I�installed�on�its�hard�drive.�When�hooked�up�to�other�computers�through� the�modem,�it�took�on�a�new�iden�ty�and�a�new�role.�It�was�no�longer�just�a�high- tech�Swiss�Army�knife.�It�was�a�communica�ons�medium,�a�device�for��nding,� organizing,�and�sharing�informa�on.�I�tried�all�the�online�services—CompuServe,� Prodigy,�even�Apple’s�short-lived�eWorld—but�the�one�I�stuck�with�was�America� Online.�My�original�AOL�subscrip�on�limited�me�to��ve�hours�online�a�week,�and�I� would�painstakingly�parcel�out�the�precious�minutes�to�exchange�e-mails�with�a� small�group�of�friends�who�also�had�AOL�accounts,�to�follow�the�conversa�ons�on�a� few�bulle�n�boards,�and�to�read�ar�cles�reprinted�from�newspapers�and�magazines.� I�actually�grew�fond�of�the�sound�of�my�modem�connec�ng�through�the�phone�lines� to�the�AOL�servers.�Listening�to�the�bleeps�and�clangs�was�like�overhearing�a�friendly� argument�between�a�couple�of�robots.

By�the�mid-nine�es,�I�had�become�trapped,�not�unhappily,�in�the�“upgrade�cycle.”�I�

re�red�the�aging�Plus�in�1994,�replacing�it�with�a�Macintosh�Performa�550�with�a� color�screen,�a�CD-ROM�drive,�a�500-megabyte�hard�drive,�and�what�seemed�at�the� �me�a�miraculously�fast�33-megahertz�processor.�The�new�computer�required� updated�versions�of�most�of�the�programs�I�used,�and�it�let�me�run�all�sorts�of�new� applica�ons�with�the�latest�mul�media�features.�By�the��me�I�had�installed�all�the� new�so�ware,�my�hard�drive�was�full.�I�had�to�go�out�and�buy�an�external�drive�as�a� supplement.�I�added�a�Zip�drive�too—and�then�a�CD�burner.�Within�a�couple�of� years,�I’d�bought�another�new�desktop,�with�a�much�larger�monitor�and�a�much� faster�chip,�as�well�as�a�portable�model�that�I�could�use�while�traveling.�My�employer� had,�in�the�mean�me,�banished�Macs�in�favor�of�Windows�PCs,�so�I�was�using�two� di�erent�systems,�one�at�work�and�one�at�home.

It�was�around�this�same��me�that�I�started�hearing�talk�of�something�called�the� Internet,�a�mysterious�“network�of�networks”�that�promised,�according�to�people�in� the�know,�to�“change�everything.”�A�1994�ar�cle�in�Wired�declared�my�beloved�AOL� “suddenly�obsolete.”�A�new�inven�on,�the�“graphical�browser,”�promised�a�far�more� exci�ng�digital�experience:�“By�following�the�links—click,�and�the�linked�document� appears—you�can�travel�through�the�online�world�along�paths�of�whim�and� intui�on.”13�I�was�intrigued,�and�then�I�was�hooked.�By�the�end�of�1995�I�had� installed�the�new�Netscape�browser�on�my�work�computer�and�was�using�it�to� explore�the�seemingly�in�nite�pages�of�the�World�Wide�Web.�Soon�I�had�an�ISP� account�at�home�as�well—and�a�much�faster�modem�to�go�with�it.�I�canceled�my� AOL�service.

You�know�the�rest�of�the�story�because�it’s�probably�your�story�too.�Ever-faster� chips.�Ever-quicker�modems.�DVDs�and�DVD�burners.�Gigabyte-sized�hard�drives.� Yahoo�and�Amazon�and�eBay.�MP3s.�Streaming�video.�Broadband.�Napster�and� Google.�BlackBerrys�and�iPods.�Wi-��networks.�YouTube�and�Wikipedia.�Blogging� and�microblogging.�Smartphones,�thumb�drives,�netbooks.�Who�could�resist?� Certainly�not�I.

When�the�Web�went�2.0�around�2005,�I�went�2.0�with�it.�I�became�a�social� networker�and�a�content�generator.�I�registered�a�domain,�roughtype.com,�and� launched�a�blog.�It�was�exhilara�ng,�at�least�for�the��rst�couple�of�years.�I�had�been� working�as�a�freelance�writer�since�the�start�of�the�decade,�wri�ng�mainly�about� technology,�and�I�knew�that�publishing�an�ar�cle�or�a�book�was�a�slow,�involved,�and� o�en�frustra�ng�business.�You�slaved�over�a�manuscript,�sent�it�o��to�a�publisher,� and,�assuming�it�wasn’t�sent�back�with�a�rejec�on�slip,�went�through�rounds�of� edi�ng,�fact�checking,�and�proofreading.�The��nished�product�wouldn’t�appear�un�l� weeks�or�months�later.�If�it�was�a�book,�you�might�have�to�wait�more�than�a�year�to� see�it�in�print.�Blogging�junked�the�tradi�onal�publishing�apparatus.�You’d�type� something�up,�code�a�few�links,�hit�the�Publish�bu�on,�and�your�work�would�be�out�

there,�immediately,�for�all�the�world�to�see.�You’d�also�get�something�you�rarely�got� with�more�formal�wri�ng:�direct�responses�from�readers,�in�the�form�of�comments� or,�if�the�readers�had�their�own�blogs,�links.�It�felt�new�and�libera�ng.

Reading�online�felt�new�and�libera�ng�too.�Hyperlinks�and�search�engines�delivered� an�endless�supply�of�words�to�my�screen,�alongside�pictures,�sounds,�and�videos.�As� publishers�tore�down�their�paywalls,�the��ood�of�free�content�turned�into�a��dal� wave.�Headlines�streamed�around�the�clock�through�my�Yahoo�home�page�and�my� RSS�feed�reader.�One�click�on�a�link�led�to�a�dozen�or�a�hundred�more.�New�e-mails� popped�into�my�in-box�every�minute�or�two.�I�registered�for�accounts�with�MySpace� and�Facebook,�Digg�and�Twi�er.�I�started�le�ng�my�newspaper�and�magazine� subscrip�ons�lapse.�Who�needed�them?�By�the��me�the�print�edi�ons�arrived,� dewdampened�or�otherwise,�I�felt�like�I’d�already�seen�all�the�stories.

Some�me�in�2007,�a�serpent�of�doubt�slithered�into�my�infoparadise.�I�began�to� no�ce�that�the�Net�was�exer�ng�a�much�stronger�and�broader�in�uence�over�me� than�my�old�stand-alone�PC�ever�had.�It�wasn’t�just�that�I�was�spending�so�much� �me�staring�into�a�computer�screen.�It�wasn’t�just�that�so�many�of�my�habits�and� rou�nes�were�changing�as�I�became�more�accustomed�to�and�dependent�on�the� sites�and�services�of�the�Net.�The�very�way�my�brain�worked�seemed�to�be�changing.� It�was�then�that�I�began�worrying�about�my�inability�to�pay�a�en�on�to�one�thing�for� more�than�a�couple�of�minutes.�At��rst�I’d��gured�that�the�problem�was�a�symptom� of�middle-age�mind�rot.�But�my�brain,�I�realized,�wasn’t�just�dri�ing.�It�was�hungry.�It� was�demanding�to�be�fed�the�way�the�Net�fed�it—and�the�more�it�was�fed,�the� hungrier�it�became.�Even�when�I�was�away�from�my�computer,�I�yearned�to�check�e- mail,�click�links,�do�some�Googling.�I�wanted�to�be�connected.�Just�as�Microso�� Word�had�turned�me�into�a��esh-and-blood�word�processor,�the�Internet,�I�sensed,� was�turning�me�into�something�like�a�high-speed�data-processing�machine,�a�human� HAL.

I�missed�my�old�brain.

THE�VITAL�PATHS

Friedrich�Nietzsche�was�desperate.�Sickly�as�a�child,�he�had�never�fully�recovered� from�injuries�he�su�ered�in�his�early�twen�es�when�he�fell�from�a�horse�while� serving�in�a�mounted�ar�llery�unit�in�the�Prussian�army.�In�1879,�his�health�problems� worsening,�he’d�been�forced�to�resign�his�post�as�a�professor�of�philology�at�the� University�of�Basel.�Just�thirty-four�years�old,�he�began�to�wander�through�Europe,� seeking�relief�from�his�many�ailments.�He�would�head�south�to�the�shores�of�the� Mediterranean�when�the�weather�turned�cool�in�the�fall,�then�north�again,�to�the� Swiss�Alps�or�his�mother’s�home�near�Leipzig,�in�the�spring.�Late�in�1881,�he�rented�a�

garret�apartment�in�the�Italian�port�city�of�Genoa.�His�vision�was�failing,�and�keeping� his�eyes�focused�on�a�page�had�become�exhaus�ng�and�painful,�o�en�bringing�on� crushing�headaches�and��ts�of�vomi�ng.�He’d�been�forced�to�curtail�his�wri�ng,�and� he�feared�he�would�soon�have�to�give�it�up.

At�wit’s�end,�he�ordered�a�typewriter—a�Danish-made�Malling-Hansen�Wri�ng�Ball —and�it�was�delivered�to�his�lodgings�during�the��rst�weeks�of�1882.�Invented�a�few� years�earlier�by�Hans�Rasmus�Johann�Malling-Hansen,�the�principal�of�the�Royal� Ins�tute�for�the�Deaf-Mute�in�Copenhagen,�the�wri�ng�ball�was�an�oddly�beau�ful� instrument.�It�resembled�an�ornate�golden�pincushion.�Fi�y-two�keys,�for�capital� and�lowercase�le�ers�as�well�as�numerals�and�punctua�on�marks,�protruded�from� the�top�of�the�ball�in�a�concentric�arrangement�scien��cally�designed�to�enable�the� most�e�cient�typing�possible.�Directly�below�the�keys�lay�a�curved�plate�that�held�a� sheet�of�typing�paper.�Using�an�ingenious�gearing�system,�the�plate�advanced�like� clockwork�with�each�stroke�of�a�key.�Given�enough�prac�ce,�a�person�could�type�as� many�as�eight�hundred�characters�a�minute�with�the�machine,�making�it�the�fastest� typewriter�that�had�ever�been�built.1

The�wri�ng�ball�rescued�Nietzsche,�at�least�for�a��me.�Once�he�had�learned�touch� typing,�he�was�able�to�write�with�his�eyes�closed,�using�only�the��ps�of�his��ngers.� Words�could�again�pass�from�his�mind�to�the�page.�He�was�so�taken�with�Malling- Hansen’s�crea�on�that�he�typed�up�a�li�le�ode�to�it:

The�wri�ng�ball�is�a�thing�like�me:�made�of�iron

Yet�easily�twisted�on�journeys.

Pa�ence�and�tact�are�required�in�abundance,

As�well�as��ne��ngers,�to�use�us.

In�March,�a�Berlin�newspaper�reported�that�Nietzsche�“feels�be�er�than�ever”�and,� thanks�to�his�typewriter,�“has�resumed�his�wri�ng�ac�vi�es.”

But�the�device�had�a�subtler�e�ect�on�his�work.�One�of�Nietzsche’s�closest�friends,� the�writer�and�composer�Heinrich�Köselitz,�no�ced�a�change�in�the�style�of�his� wri�ng.�Nietzsche’s�prose�had�become��ghter,�more�telegraphic.�There�was�a�new� forcefulness�to�it,�too,�as�though�the�machine’s�power—its�“iron”—was,�through� some�mysterious�metaphysical�mechanism,�being�transferred�into�the�words�it� pressed�into�the�page.�“Perhaps�you�will�through�this�instrument�even�take�to�a�new� idiom,”�Köselitz�wrote�in�a�le�er,�no�ng�that,�in�his�own�work,�“my�‘thoughts’�in� music�and�language�o�en�depend�on�the�quality�of�pen�and�paper.”

“You�are�right,”�Nietzsche�replied.�“Our�wri�ng�equipment�takes�part�in�the�forming� of�our�thoughts.”2

WHILE�NIETZSCHE�WAS�learning�to�type�on�his�wri�ng�ball�in�Genoa,��ve�hundred� miles�to�the�northeast�a�young�medical�student�named�Sigmund�Freud�was�working� as�a�neurophysiology�researcher�in�a�Vienna�laboratory.�His�specialty�was�dissec�ng� the�nervous�systems�of��sh�and�crustaceans.�Through�his�experiments,�he�came�to� surmise�that�the�brain,�like�other�bodily�organs,�is�made�up�of�many�separate�cells.� He�later�extended�his�theory�to�suggest�that�the�gaps�between�the�cells—the� “contact�barriers,”�as�he�termed�them—play�an�essen�al�role�in�governing�the� func�ons�of�the�mind,�shaping�our�memories�and�our�thoughts.�At�the��me,�Freud’s� conclusions�lay�outside�the�mainstream�of�scien��c�opinion.�Most�doctors�and� researchers�believed�that�the�brain�was�not�cellular�in�construc�on�but�rather� consisted�of�a�single,�con�nuous�fabric�of�nerve��bers.�And�even�among�those�who� shared�Freud’s�view�that�the�brain�was�made�of�cells,�few�paid�any�a�en�on�to�what� might�be�going�on�in�the�spaces�between�those�cells.3

Engaged�to�be�wed�and�in�need�of�a�more�substan�al�income,�Freud�soon� abandoned�his�career�as�a�researcher�and�went�into�private�prac�ce�as�a� psychoanalyst.�But�subsequent�studies�bore�out�his�youthful�specula�ons.�Armed� with�ever�more�powerful�microscopes,�scien�sts�con�rmed�the�existence�of�discrete� nerve�cells.�They�also�discovered�that�those�cells—our�neurons—are�both�like�and� unlike�the�other�cells�in�our�bodies.�Neurons�have�central�cores,�or�somas,�which� carry�out�the�func�ons�common�to�all�cells,�but�they�also�have�two�kinds�of�tentacle- like�appendages—axons�and�dendrites—that�transmit�and�receive�electric�pulses.� When�a�neuron�is�ac�ve,�a�pulse��ows�from�the�soma�to�the��p�of�the�axon,�where�it� triggers�the�release�of�chemicals�called�neurotransmi�ers.�The�neurotransmi�ers� �ow�across�Freud’s�contact�barrier—the�synapse,�we�now�call�it—and�a�ach� themselves�to�a�dendrite�of�a�neighboring�neuron,�triggering�(or�suppressing)�a�new� electric�pulse�in�that�cell.�It’s�through�the��ow�of�neurotransmi�ers�across�synapses� that�neurons�communicate�with�one�another,�direc�ng�the�transmission�of�electrical� signals�along�complex�cellular�pathways.�Thoughts,�memories,�emo�ons—all� emerge�from�the�electrochemical�interac�ons�of�neurons,�mediated�by�synapses.

During�the�twen�eth�century,�neuroscien�sts�and�psychologists�also�came�to�more� fully�appreciate�the�astounding�complexity�of�the�human�brain.�Inside�our�skulls,� they�discovered,�are�some�100�billion�neurons,�which�take�many�di�erent�shapes� and�range�in�length�from�a�few�tenths�of�a�millimeter�to�a�few�feet.4�A�single�neuron� typically�has�many�dendrites�(though�only�one�axon),�and�dendrites�and�axons�can� have�a�mul�tude�of�branches�and�synap�c�terminals.�The�average�neuron�makes� about�a�thousand�synap�c�connec�ons,�and�some�neurons�can�make�a�hundred�

�mes�that�number.�The�millions�of�billions�of�synapses�inside�our�skulls��e�our� neurons�together�into�a�dense�mesh�of�circuits�that,�in�ways�that�are�s�ll�far�from� understood,�give�rise�to�what�we�think,�how�we�feel,�and�who�we�are.

Even�as�our�knowledge�of�the�physical�workings�of�the�brain�advanced�during�the� last�century,�one�old�assump�on�remained��rmly�in�place:�most�biologists�and� neurologists�con�nued�to�believe,�as�they�had�for�hundreds�of�years,�that�the� structure�of�the�adult�brain�never�changed.�Our�neurons�would�connect�into�circuits� during�childhood,�when�our�brains�were�malleable,�and�as�we�reached�maturity�the� circuitry�would�become��xed.�The�brain,�in�the�prevailing�view,�was�something�like�a� concrete�structure.�A�er�being�poured�and�shaped�in�our�youth,�it�hardened�quickly� into�its��nal�form.�Once�we�hit�our�twen�es,�no�new�neurons�were�created,�no�new� circuits�forged.�We�would,�of�course,�con�nue�to�store�new�memories�throughout� our�lives�(and�lose�some�old�ones),�but�the�only�structural�change�the�brain�would�go� through�in�adulthood�was�a�slow�process�of�decay�as�the�body�aged�and�nerve�cells� died.

Although�the�belief�in�the�adult�brain’s�immutability�was�deeply�and�widely�held,� there�were�a�few�here�cs.�A�handful�of�biologists�and�psychologists�saw�in�the� rapidly�growing�body�of�brain�research�indica�ons�that�even�the�adult�brain�was� malleable,�or�“plas�c.”�New�neural�circuits�could�form�throughout�our�lives,�they� suggested,�and�old�ones�might�grow�stronger�or�weaker�or�wither�away�en�rely.�The� Bri�sh�biologist�J.�Z.�Young,�in�a�series�of�lectures�broadcast�by�the�BBC�in�1950,� argued�that�the�structure�of�the�brain�might�in�fact�be�in�a�constant�state�of��ux,� adap�ng�to�whatever�task�it’s�called�on�to�perform.�“There�is�evidence�that�the�cells� of�our�brains�literally�develop�and�grow�bigger�with�use,�and�atrophy�or�waste�away� with�disuse,”�he�said.�“It�may�be�therefore�that�every�ac�on�leaves�some�permanent� print�upon�the�nervous��ssue.”5

Young�was�not�the��rst�to�propose�such�an�idea.�Seventy�years�earlier,�the�American� psychologist�William�James�had�expressed�a�similar�intui�on�about�the�brain’s� adaptability.�The�“nervous��ssue,”�he�wrote�in�his�landmark�Principles�of� Psychology,�“seems�endowed�with�a�very�extraordinary�degree�of�plas�city.”�As�with� any�other�physical�compound,�“either�outward�forces�or�inward�tensions�can,�from� one�hour�to�another,�turn�that�structure�into�something�di�erent�from�what�it�was.”� James�quoted,�approvingly,�an�analogy�that�the�French�scien�st�Léon�Dumont�had� drawn,�in�an�earlier�essay�about�the�biological�consequences�of�habit,�between�the� ac�ons�of�water�on�land�and�the�e�ects�of�experience�on�the�brain:�“Flowing�water� hollows�out�a�channel�for�itself�which�grows�broader�and�deeper;�and�when�it�later� �ows�again,�it�follows�the�path�traced�by�itself�before.�Just�so,�the�impressions�of� outer�objects�fashion�for�themselves�more�and�more�appropriate�paths�in�the� nervous�system,�and�these�vital�paths�recur�under�similar�external�s�mula�on,�even�

if�they�have�been�interrupted�for�some��me.”6�Freud,�too,�ended�up�taking�the� contrarian�posi�on.�In�“Project�for�a�Scien��c�Psychology,”�a�manuscript�he�wrote�in� 1895�but�never�published,�he�argued�that�the�brain,�and�in�par�cular�the�contact� barriers�between�neurons,�could�change�in�response�to�a�person’s�experiences.7

Such�specula�ons�were�dismissed,�o�en�contemptuously,�by�most�brain�scien�sts� and�physicians.�They�remained�convinced�that�the�brain’s�plas�city�ended�with� childhood,�that�the�“vital�paths,”�once�laid,�could�not�be�widened�or�narrowed,� much�less�rerouted.�They�stood�with�San�ago�Ramón�y�Cajal,�the�eminent�Spanish� physician,�neuroanatomist,�and�Nobel�laureate,�who�in�1913�declared,�with�a�tone� that�le��li�le�room�for�debate,�“In�the�adult�[brain]�centres,�the�nerve�paths�are� something��xed,�ended,�immutable.�Everything�may�die,�nothing�may�be� regenerated.”8�In�his�younger�days,�Ramón�y�Cajal�had�himself�expressed�doubts� about�the�orthodox�view—he�had�suggested,�in�1894,�that�the�“organ�of�thought�is,� within�certain�limits,�malleable,�and�perfec�ble�by�well-directed�mental�exercise”9— but�in�the�end�he�embraced�the�conven�onal�wisdom�and�became�one�of�its�most� eloquent�and�authorita�ve�defenders.

The�concep�on�of�the�adult�brain�as�an�unchanging�physical�apparatus�grew�out�of,� and�was�bu�ressed�by,�an�Industrial�Age�metaphor�that�represented�the�brain�as�a� mechanical�contrap�on.�Like�a�steam�engine�or�an�electric�dynamo,�the�nervous� system�was�made�up�of�many�parts,�and�each�had�a�speci�c�and�set�purpose�that� contributed�in�some�essen�al�way�to�the�successful�opera�on�of�the�whole.�The� parts�could�not�change,�in�shape�or�func�on,�because�that�would�lead,�immediately� and�inexorably,�to�the�breakdown�of�the�machine.�Di�erent�regions�of�the�brain,�and� even�individual�circuits,�played�precisely�de�ned�roles�in�processing�sensory�inputs,� direc�ng�the�movements�of�muscles,�and�forming�memories�and�thoughts;�and� those�roles,�established�in�childhood,�were�not�suscep�ble�to�altera�on.�When�it� came�to�the�brain,�the�child�was�indeed,�as�Wordsworth�had�wri�en,�the�father�to� the�man.

The�mechanical�concep�on�of�the�brain�both�re�ected�and�refuted�the�famous� theory�of�dualism�that�René�Descartes�had�laid�out�in�his�Medita�ons�of�1641.� Descartes�claimed�that�the�brain�and�the�mind�existed�in�two�separate�spheres:�one� material,�one�ethereal.�The�physical�brain,�like�the�rest�of�the�body,�was�a�purely� mechanical�instrument�that,�like�a�clock�or�a�pump,�acted�according�to�the� movements�of�its�component�parts.�But�the�workings�of�the�brain,�argued�Descartes,� did�not�explain�the�workings�of�the�conscious�mind.�As�the�essence�of�the�self,�the� mind�existed�outside�of�space,�beyond�the�laws�of�ma�er.�Mind�and�brain�could� in�uence�each�other�(through,�as�Descartes�saw�it,�some�mysterious�ac�on�of�the� pineal�gland),�but�they�remained�en�rely�separate�substances.�At�a��me�of�rapid� scien��c�advance�and�social�upheaval,�Descartes’�dualism�came�as�a�comfort.�

Reality�had�a�material�side,�which�was�the�realm�of�science,�but�it�also�had�a�spiritual� side,�which�was�the�realm�of�theology—and�never�the�twain�shall�meet.

As�reason�became�the�new�religion�of�the�Enlightenment,�the�no�on�of�an� immaterial�mind�lying�outside�the�reach�of�observa�on�and�experiment�seemed� increasingly�tenuous.�Scien�sts�rejected�the�“mind”�half�of�Cartesian�dualism�even� as�they�embraced�Descartes’�idea�of�the�brain�as�a�machine.�Thought,�memory,�and� emo�on,�rather�than�being�the�emana�ons�of�a�spirit�world,�came�to�be�seen�as�the� logical�and�predetermined�outputs�of�the�physical�opera�ons�of�the�brain.� Consciousness�was�simply�a�by-product�of�those�opera�ons.�“The�word�Mind�is� obsolete,”�one�prominent�neurophysiologist�ul�mately�declared.10�The�machine� metaphor�was�extended,�and�further�reinforced,�by�the�arrival�of�the�digital� computer—a�“thinking�machine”—in�the�middle�of�the�twen�eth�century.�That’s� when�scien�sts�and�philosophers�began�referring�to�our�brain�circuits,�and�even�our� behavior,�as�being�“hardwired,”�just�like�the�microscopic�circuits�etched�into�the� silicon�substrate�of�a�computer�chip.

As�the�idea�of�the�unchangeable�adult�brain�hardened�into�dogma,�it�turned�into�a� kind�of�“neurological�nihilism,”�according�to�the�research�psychiatrist�Norman� Doidge.�Because�it�created�“a�sense�that�treatment�for�many�brain�problems�was� ine�ec�ve�or�unwarranted,”�Doidge�explains,�it�le��those�with�mental�illnesses�or� brain�injuries�li�le�hope�of�treatment,�much�less�cure.�And�as�the�idea�“spread� through�our�culture,”�it�ended�up�“stun�ng�our�overall�view�of�human�nature.�Since� the�brain�could�not�change,�human�nature,�which�emerges�from�it,�seemed� necessarily��xed�and�unalterable�as�well.”11�There�was�no�regenera�on;�there�was� only�decay.�We,�too,�were�stuck�in�the�frozen�concrete�of�our�brain�cells—or�at�least� in�the�frozen�concrete�of�received�wisdom.

IT’S�1968.�I’M�nine�years�old,�a�run-of-the-mill�suburban�kid�playing�in�a�patch�of� woods�near�my�family’s�home.�Marshall�McLuhan�and�Norman�Mailer�are�on�prime- �me�TV,�deba�ng�the�intellectual�and�moral�implica�ons�of�what�Mailer�describes�as� “man’s�accelera�on�into�a�super-technological�world.”12�2001�is�having�its��rst� theatrical�run,�leaving�moviegoers�befuddled,�bemused,�or�just�plain�annoyed.�And� in�a�quiet�laboratory�at�the�University�of�Wisconsin�in�Madison,�Michael�Merzenich� is�cu�ng�a�hole�in�a�monkey’s�skull.

Twenty-six�years�old,�Merzenich�has�just�received�a�doctorate�in�physiology�from� Johns�Hopkins,�where�he�studied�under�Vernon�Mountcastle,�a�pioneering� neuroscien�st.�He�has�come�to�Wisconsin�to�do�postdoctoral�research�in�brain� mapping.�It’s�been�known�for�years�that�every�area�of�a�person’s�body�is� represented�by�a�corresponding�area�in�the�cerebral�cortex,�the�brain’s�wrinkled� outer�layer.�When�certain�nerve�cells�in�the�skin�are�s�mulated—by�being�touched�

or�pinched,�say—they�send�an�electric�pulse�through�the�spinal�cord�to�a�par�cular� cluster�of�neurons�in�the�cortex,�which�translates�the�touch�or�the�pinch�into�a� conscious�sensa�on.�In�the�1930s,�the�Canadian�neurosurgeon�Wilder�Pen�eld�had� used�electrical�probes�to�draw�the��rst�sensory�maps�of�people’s�brains.�But� Pen�eld’s�probes�were�crude�instruments,�and�his�maps,�while�groundbreaking�in� their��me,�lacked�precision.�Merzenich�is�using�a�new�kind�of�probe,�the�hair-thin� microelectrode,�to�create�much��ner�maps�that�will,�he�hopes,�provide�new�insight� into�the�brain’s�structure.

Once�he�has�removed�a�piece�of�the�monkey’s�skull�and�exposed�a�small�por�on�of� its�brain,�he�threads�a�microelectrode�into�the�area�of�the�cortex�that�registers� sensa�ons�from�one�of�the�animal’s�hands.�He�begins�tapping�that�hand�in�di�erent� places�un�l�the�neuron�beside�the��p�of�the�electrode��res.�A�er�methodically� inser�ng�and�reinser�ng�the�electrode�thousands�of��mes�over�the�course�of�a�few� days,�he�ends�up�with�a�“micromap”�showing�in�minute�detail,�down�to�the� individual�nerve�cell,�how�the�monkey’s�brain�processes�what�its�hand�feels.�He� repeats�the�painstaking�exercise�with��ve�more�monkeys.

Merzenich�proceeds�to�the�second�stage�of�his�experiment.�Using�a�scalpel,�he� makes�incisions�in�the�hands�of�the�animals,�severing�the�sensory�nerve.�He�wants�to� �nd�out�how�the�brain�reacts�when�a�peripheral�nerve�system�is�damaged�and�then� allowed�to�heal.�What�he�discovers�astounds�him.�The�nerves�in�the�monkeys’�hands� grow�back�in�a�haphazard�fashion,�as�expected,�and�their�brains,�also�as�expected,� become�confused.�When,�for�example,�Merzenich�touches�the�lower�joint�of�a��nger� on�one�monkey’s�hand,�the�monkey’s�brain�tells�the�animal�that�the�sensa�on�is� coming�from�the��p�of�the��nger.�The�signals�have�been�crossed,�the�brain�map� scrambled.�But�when�Merzenich�conducts�the�same�sensory�tests�a�few�months� later,�he��nds�that�the�mental�confusion�has�been�cleared�up.�What�the�monkeys’� brains�tell�them�is�happening�to�their�hands�now�matches�what’s�really�happening.� The�brains,�Merzenich�realizes,�have�reorganized�themselves.�The�animals’�neural� pathways�have�woven�themselves�into�a�new�map�that�corresponds�to�the�new� arrangement�of�nerves�in�their�hands.

At��rst,�he�can’t�believe�what�he’s�seen.�Like�every�other�neuroscien�st,�he’s�been� taught�that�the�structure�of�the�adult�brain�is��xed.�Yet�in�his�lab�he�has�just�seen�the� brains�of�six�monkeys�undergo�rapid�and�extensive�restructuring�at�the�cellular�level.� “I�knew�it�was�astounding�reorganiza�on,�but�I�couldn’t�explain�it,”�Merzenich�will� later�recall.�“Looking�back�on�it,�I�realized�that�I�had�seen�evidence�of� neuroplas�city.�But�I�didn’t�know�it�at�the��me.�I�simply�didn’t�know�what�I�was� seeing.�And�besides,�in�mainstream�neuroscience,�nobody�would�believe�that� plas�city�was�occurring�on�this�scale.”13

Merzenich�publishes�the�results�of�his�experiment�in�an�academic�journal.14�Nobody� pays�much�heed.�But�he�knows�he’s�onto�something,�and�over�the�course�of�the�next� three�decades�he�conducts�many�more�tests�on�many�more�monkeys,�all�of�which� point�to�the�existence�of�broad�plas�city�in�the�brains�of�mature�primates.�In�a�1983� paper�documen�ng�one�of�the�experiments,�Merzenich�declares��atly,�“These� results�are�completely�contrary�to�a�view�of�sensory�systems�as�consis�ng�of�a�series� of�hardwired�machines.”15�At��rst�dismissed,�Merzenich’s�me�culous�work��nally� begins�to�receive�serious�no�ce�in�the�neurological�community.�It�ends�up�se�ng�o�� a�wholesale�reevalua�on�of�accepted�theories�about�how�our�brains�work.� Researchers�uncover�a�trail�of�experiments,�da�ng�back�to�the�days�of�William�James� and�Sigmund�Freud,�that�record�examples�of�plas�city.�Long�ignored,�the�old� research�is�now�taken�seriously.

As�brain�science�con�nues�to�advance,�the�evidence�for�plas�city�strengthens.�Using� sensi�ve�new�brain-scanning�equipment,�as�well�as�microelectrodes�and�other� probes,�neuroscien�sts�conduct�more�experiments,�not�only�on�lab�animals�but�on� people.�All�of�them�con�rm�Merzenich’s�discovery.�They�also�reveal�something� more:�The�brain’s�plas�city�is�not�limited�to�the�somatosensory�cortex,�the�area�that� governs�our�sense�of�touch.�It’s�universal.�Virtually�all�of�our�neural�circuits— whether�they’re�involved�in�feeling,�seeing,�hearing,�moving,�thinking,�learning,� perceiving,�or�remembering—are�subject�to�change.�The�received�wisdom�is�cast� aside.

THE�ADULT�BRAIN,�it�turns�out,�is�not�just�plas�c�but,�as�James�Olds,�a�professor�of� neuroscience�who�directs�the�Krasnow�Ins�tute�for�Advanced�Study�at�George� Mason�University,�puts�it,�“very�plas�c.”16�Or,�as�Merzenich�himself�says,�“massively� plas�c.”17�The�plas�city�diminishes�as�we�get�older—brains�do�get�stuck�in�their� ways—but�it�never�goes�away.�Our�neurons�are�always�breaking�old�connec�ons�and� forming�new�ones,�and�brand-new�nerve�cells�are�always�being�created.�“The�brain,”� observes�Olds,�“has�the�ability�to�reprogram�itself�on�the��y,�altering�the�way�it� func�ons.”

We�don’t�yet�know�all�the�details�of�how�the�brain�reprograms�itself,�but�it�has� become�clear�that,�as�Freud�proposed,�the�secret�lies�mainly�in�the�rich�chemical� broth�of�our�synapses.�What�goes�on�in�the�microscopic�spaces�between�our� neurons�is�exceedingly�complicated,�but�in�simple�terms�it�involves�various�chemical� reac�ons�that�register�and�record�experiences�in�neural�pathways.�Every��me�we� perform�a�task�or�experience�a�sensa�on,�whether�physical�or�mental,�a�set�of� neurons�in�our�brains�is�ac�vated.�If�they’re�in�proximity,�these�neurons�join� together�through�the�exchange�of�synap�c�neurotransmi�ers�like�the�amino�acid� glutamate.18�As�the�same�experience�is�repeated,�the�synap�c�links�between�the� neurons�grow�stronger�and�more�plen�ful�through�both�physiological�changes,�such�

as�the�release�of�higher�concentra�ons�of�neurotransmi�ers,�and�anatomical�ones,� such�as�the�genera�on�of�new�neurons�or�the�growth�of�new�synap�c�terminals�on� exis�ng�axons�and�dendrites.�Synap�c�links�can�also�weaken�in�response�to� experiences,�again�as�a�result�of�physiological�and�anatomical�altera�ons.�What�we� learn�as�we�live�is�embedded�in�the�ever-changing�cellular�connec�ons�inside�our� heads.�The�chains�of�linked�neurons�form�our�minds’�true�“vital�paths.”�Today,� scien�sts�sum�up�the�essen�al�dynamic�of�neuroplas�city�with�a�saying�known�as� Hebb’s�rule:�“Cells�that��re�together�wire�together.”

One�of�the�simplest�yet�most�powerful�demonstra�ons�of�how�synap�c�connec�ons� change�came�in�a�series�of�experiments�that�the�biologist�Eric�Kandel�performed�in� the�early�1970s�on�a�type�of�large�sea�slug�called�Aplysia.�(Sea�creatures�make� par�cularly�good�subjects�for�neurological�tests�because�they�tend�to�have�simple� nervous�systems�and�large�nerve�cells.)�Kandel,�who�would�earn�a�Nobel�Prize�for�his� work,�found�that�if�you�touch�a�slug’s�gill,�even�very�lightly,�the�gill�will�immediately� and�re�exively�recoil.�But�if�you�touch�the�gill�repeatedly,�without�causing�any�harm� to�the�animal,�the�recoiling�ins�nct�will�steadily�diminish.�The�slug�will�become� habituated�to�the�touch�and�learn�to�ignore�it.�By�monitoring�slugs’�nervous�systems,� Kandel�discovered�that�“this�learned�change�in�behavior�was�paralleled�by�a� progressive�weakening�of�the�synap�c�connec�ons”�between�the�sensory�neurons� that�“feel”�the�touch�and�the�motor�neurons�that�tell�the�gill�to�retract.�In�a�slug’s� ordinary�state,�about�ninety�percent�of�the�sensory�neurons�in�its�gill�have� connec�ons�to�motor�neurons.�But�a�er�its�gill�is�touched�just�forty��mes,�only�ten� percent�of�the�sensory�cells�maintain�links�to�the�motor�cells.�The�research�“showed� drama�cally,”�Kandel�wrote,�that�“synapses�can�undergo�large�and�enduring� changes�in�strength�a�er�only�a�rela�vely�small�amount�of�training.”19

The�plas�city�of�our�synapses�brings�into�harmony�two�philosophies�of�the�mind�that� have�for�centuries�stood�in�con�ict:�empiricism�and�ra�onalism.�In�the�view�of� empiricists,�like�John�Locke,�the�mind�we�are�born�with�is�a�blank�slate,�a�“tabula� rasa.”�What�we�know�comes�en�rely�through�our�experiences,�through�what�we� learn�as�we�live.�To�put�it�into�more�familiar�terms,�we�are�products�of�nurture,�not� nature.�In�the�view�of�ra�onalists,�like�Immanuel�Kant,�we�are�born�with�built-in� mental�“templates”�that�determine�how�we�perceive�and�make�sense�of�the�world.� All�our�experiences�are��ltered�through�these�inborn�templates.�Nature� predominates.

The�Aplysia�experiments�revealed,�as�Kandel�reports,�“that�both�views�had�merit—in� fact�they�complemented�each�other.”�Our�genes�“specify”�many�of�“the�connec�ons� among�neurons—that�is,�which�neurons�form�synap�c�connec�ons�with�which�other� neurons�and�when.”�Those�gene�cally�determined�connec�ons�form�Kant’s�innate� templates,�the�basic�architecture�of�the�brain.�But�our�experiences�regulate�the�

strength,�or�“long-term�e�ec�veness,”�of�the�connec�ons,�allowing,�as�Locke�had� argued,�the�ongoing�reshaping�of�the�mind�and�“the�expression�of�new�pa�erns�of� behavior.”20�The�opposing�philosophies�of�the�empiricist�and�the�ra�onalist��nd� their�common�ground�in�the�synapse.�The�New�York�University�neuroscien�st� Joseph�LeDoux�explains�in�his�book�Synap�c�Self�that�nature�and�nurture�“actually� speak�the�same�language.�They�both�ul�mately�achieve�their�mental�and�behavioral� e�ects�by�shaping�the�synap�c�organiza�on�of�the�brain.”21

The�brain�is�not�the�machine�we�once�thought�it�to�be.�Though�di�erent�regions�are� associated�with�di�erent�mental�func�ons,�the�cellular�components�do�not�form� permanent�structures�or�play�rigid�roles.�They’re��exible.�They�change�with� experience,�circumstance,�and�need.�Some�of�the�most�extensive�and�remarkable� changes�take�place�in�response�to�damage�to�the�nervous�system.�Experiments� show,�for�instance,�that�if�a�person�is�struck�blind,�the�part�of�the�brain�that�had� been�dedicated�to�processing�visual�s�muli—the�visual�cortex—doesn’t�just�go�dark.� It�is�quickly�taken�over�by�circuits�used�for�audio�processing.�And�if�the�person�learns� to�read�Braille,�the�visual�cortex�will�be�redeployed�for�processing�informa�on� delivered�through�the�sense�of�touch.22�“Neurons�seem�to�‘want’�to�receive�input,”� explains�Nancy�Kanwisher�of�MIT’s�McGovern�Ins�tute�for�Brain�Research:�“When� their�usual�input�disappears,�they�start�responding�to�the�next�best�thing.”23�Thanks� to�the�ready�adaptability�of�neurons,�the�senses�of�hearing�and�touch�can�grow� sharper�to�mi�gate�the�e�ects�of�the�loss�of�sight.�Similar�altera�ons�happen�in�the� brains�of�people�who�go�deaf:�their�other�senses�strengthen�to�help�make�up�for�the� loss�of�hearing.�The�area�in�the�brain�that�processes�peripheral�vision,�for�example,� grows�larger,�enabling�them�to�see�what�they�once�would�have�heard.

Tests�on�people�who�have�lost�arms�or�legs�in�accidents�also�reveal�how�extensively� the�brain�can�reorganize�itself.�The�areas�in�the�vic�ms’�brains�that�had�registered� sensa�ons�in�their�lost�limbs�are�quickly�taken�over�by�circuits�that�register� sensa�ons�from�other�parts�of�their�bodies.�In�studying�a�teenage�boy�who�had�lost� his�le��arm�in�a�car�crash,�the�neurologist�V.�S.�Ramachandran,�who�heads�the� Center�for�Brain�and�Cogni�on�at�the�University�of�California�at�San�Diego,� discovered�that�when�he�had�the�young�man�close�his�eyes�and�then�touched� di�erent�parts�of�his�face,�the�pa�ent�believed�that�it�was�his�missing�arm�that�was� being�touched.�At�one�point,�Ramachandran�brushed�a�spot�beneath�the�boy’s�nose� and�asked,�“Where�do�you�feel�that?”�The�boy�replied,�“On�my�le��pinky.�It��ngles.”� The�boy’s�brain�map�was�in�the�process�of�being�reorganized,�the�neurons� redeployed�for�new�uses.24�As�a�result�of�such�experiments,�it’s�now�believed�that� the�sensa�ons�of�a�“phantom�limb”�felt�by�amputees�are�largely�the�result�of� neuroplas�c�changes�in�the�brain.

Our�expanding�understanding�of�the�brain’s�adaptability�has�led�to�the�development�

of�new�therapies�for�condi�ons�that�used�to�be�considered�untreatable.25�Doidge,� in�his�2007�book�The�Brain�That�Changes�Itself,�tells�the�story�of�a�man�named� Michael�Bernstein�who�su�ered�a�severe�stroke�when�he�was���y-four,�damaging�an� area�in�the�right�half�of�his�brain�that�regulated�movement�in�the�le��side�of�his� body.�Through�a�tradi�onal�program�of�physical�therapy,�he�recovered�some�of�his� motor�skills,�but�his�le��hand�remained�crippled�and�he�had�to�use�a�cane�to�walk.� Un�l�recently,�that�would�have�been�the�end�of�the�story.�But�Bernstein�enrolled�in�a� program�of�experimental�therapy,�run�at�the�University�of�Alabama�by�a�pioneering� neuroplas�city�researcher�named�Edward�Taub.�For�as�many�as�eight�hours�a�day,� six�days�a�week,�Bernstein�used�his�le��hand�and�his�le��leg�to�perform�rou�ne�tasks� over�and�over�again.�One�day�he�might�wash�the�pane�of�a�window.�The�next�day�he� might�trace�the�le�ers�of�the�alphabet.�The�repeated�ac�ons�were�a�means�of� coaxing�his�neurons�and�synapses�to�form�new�circuits�that�would�take�over�the� func�ons�once�carried�out�by�the�circuits�in�the�damaged�area�in�his�brain.�In�a� ma�er�of�weeks,�he�regained�nearly�all�of�the�movement�in�his�hand�and�his�leg,� allowing�him�to�return�to�his�everyday�rou�nes�and�throw�away�his�cane.�Many�of� Taub’s�other�pa�ents�have�experienced�similarly�strong�recoveries.

Much�of�the�early�evidence�of�neuroplas�city�came�through�the�study�of�the�brain’s� reac�on�to�injuries,�whether�the�severing�of�the�nerves�in�the�hands�of�Merzenich’s� monkeys�or�the�loss�of�sight,�hearing,�or�a�limb�by�human�beings.�That�led�some� scien�sts�to�wonder�whether�the�malleability�of�the�adult�brain�might�be�limited�to� extreme�situa�ons.�Perhaps,�they�theorized,�plas�city�is�essen�ally�a�healing� mechanism,�triggered�by�trauma�to�the�brain�or�the�sensory�organs.�Further� experiments�have�shown�that�that’s�not�the�case.�Extensive,�perpetual�plas�city�has� been�documented�in�healthy,�normally�func�oning�nervous�systems,�leading� neuroscien�sts�to�conclude�that�our�brains�are�always�in��ux,�adap�ng�to�even�small� shi�s�in�our�circumstances�and�behavior.�“We�have�learned�that�neuroplas�city�is� not�only�possible�but�that�it�is�constantly�in�ac�on,”�writes�Mark�Halle�,�head�of�the� Medical�Neurology�Branch�of�the�Na�onal�Ins�tutes�of�Health.�“That�is�the�way�we� adapt�to�changing�condi�ons,�the�way�we�learn�new�facts,�and�the�way�we�develop� new�skills.”26

“Plas�city,”�says�Alvaro�Pascual-Leone,�a�top�neurology�researcher�at�Harvard� Medical�School,�is�“the�normal�ongoing�state�of�the�nervous�system�throughout�the� life�span.”�Our�brains�are�constantly�changing�in�response�to�our�experiences�and� our�behavior,�reworking�their�circuitry�with�“each�sensory�input,�motor�act,� associa�on,�reward�signal,�ac�on�plan,�or�[shi��of]�awareness.”�Neuroplas�city,� argues�Pascual-Leone,�is�one�of�the�most�important�products�of�evolu�on,�a�trait� that�enables�the�nervous�system�“to�escape�the�restric�ons�of�its�own�genome�and� thus�adapt�to�environmental�pressures,�physiologic�changes,�and�experiences.”27� The�genius�of�our�brain’s�construc�on�is�not�that�it�contains�a�lot�of�hardwiring�but�

that�it�doesn’t.�Natural�selec�on,�writes�the�philosopher�David�Buller�in�Adap�ng� Minds,�his�cri�que�of�evolu�onary�psychology,�“has�not�designed�a�brain�that� consists�of�numerous�prefabricated�adapta�ons”�but�rather�one�that�is�able�“to� adapt�to�local�environmental�demands�throughout�the�life�me�of�an�individual,�and� some�mes�within�a�period�of�days,�by�forming�specialized�structures�to�deal�with� those�demands.”28�Evolu�on�has�given�us�a�brain�that�can�literally�change�its�mind —over�and�over�again.

Our�ways�of�thinking,�perceiving,�and�ac�ng,�we�now�know,�are�not�en�rely� determined�by�our�genes.�Nor�are�they�en�rely�determined�by�our�childhood� experiences.�We�change�them�through�the�way�we�live—and,�as�Nietzsche�sensed,� through�the�tools�we�use.�Years�before�Edward�Taub�opened�his�rehabilita�on�clinic� in�Alabama,�he�conducted�a�famous�experiment�on�a�group�of�right-handed� violinists.�Using�a�machine�that�monitors�neural�ac�vity,�he�measured�the�areas�of� their�sensory�cortex�that�processed�signals�from�their�le��hands,�the�hands�they� used�to��nger�the�strings�of�their�instruments.�He�also�measured�the�same�cor�cal� areas�in�a�group�of�right-handed�volunteers�who�had�never�played�a�musical� instrument.�He�found�that�the�brain�areas�of�the�violinists�were�signi�cantly�larger� than�those�of�the�nonmusicians.�He�then�measured�the�size�of�the�cor�cal�areas�that� processed�sensa�ons�from�the�subjects’�right�hands.�Here,�he�found�no�di�erences� between�the�musicians�and�the�nonmusicians.�Playing�a�violin,�a�musical�tool,�had� resulted�in�substan�al�physical�changes�in�the�brain.�That�was�true�even�for�the� musicians�who�had��rst�taken�up�their�instruments�as�adults.

When�scien�sts�have�trained�primates�and�other�animals�to�use�simple�tools,� they’ve�discovered�just�how�profoundly�the�brain�can�be�in�uenced�by�technology.� Monkeys,�for�instance,�were�taught�how�to�use�rakes�and�pliers�to�take�hold�of� pieces�of�food�that�would�otherwise�have�been�out�of�reach.�When�researchers� monitored�the�animals’�neural�ac�vity�throughout�the�course�of�the�training,�they� found�signi�cant�growth�in�the�visual�and�motor�areas�involved�in�controlling�the� hands�that�held�the�tools.�But�they�discovered�something�even�more�striking�as�well:� the�rakes�and�pliers�actually�came�to�be�incorporated�into�the�brain�maps�of�the� animals’�hands.�The�tools,�so�far�as�the�animals’�brains�were�concerned,�had�become� part�of�their�bodies.�As�the�researchers�who�conducted�the�experiment�with�the� pliers�reported,�the�monkeys’�brains�began�to�act�“as�if�the�pliers�were�now�the� hand��ngers.”29

It’s�not�just�repeated�physical�ac�ons�that�can�rewire�our�brains.�Purely�mental� ac�vity�can�also�alter�our�neural�circuitry,�some�mes�in�far-reaching�ways.�In�the� late�1990s,�a�group�of�Bri�sh�researchers�scanned�the�brains�of�sixteen�London�cab� drivers�who�had�between�two�and�forty-two�years�of�experience�behind�the�wheel.� When�they�compared�the�scans�with�those�of�a�control�group,�they�found�that�the�

taxi�drivers’�posterior�hippocampus,�a�part�of�the�brain�that�plays�a�key�role�in� storing�and�manipula�ng�spa�al�representa�ons�of�a�person’s�surroundings,�was� much�larger�than�normal.�Moreover,�the�longer�a�cab�driver�had�been�on�the�job,� the�larger�his�posterior�hippocampus�tended�to�be.�The�researchers�also�discovered� that�a�por�on�of�the�drivers’�anterior�hippocampus�was�smaller�than�average,� apparently�a�result�of�the�need�to�accommodate�the�enlargement�of�the�posterior� area.�Further�tests�indicated�that�the�shrinking�of�the�anterior�hippocampus�might� have�reduced�the�cabbies’�ap�tude�for�certain�other�memoriza�on�tasks.�The� constant�spa�al�processing�required�to�navigate�London’s�intricate�road�system,�the� researchers�concluded,�is�“associated�with�a�rela�ve�redistribu�on�of�gray�ma�er�in� the�hippocampus.”30

Another�experiment,�conducted�by�Pascual-Leone�when�he�was�a�researcher�at�the� Na�onal�Ins�tutes�of�Health,�provides�even�more�remarkable�evidence�of�the�way� our�pa�erns�of�thought�a�ect�the�anatomy�of�our�brains.�Pascual-Leone�recruited� people�who�had�no�experience�playing�a�piano,�and�he�taught�them�how�to�play�a� simple�melody�consis�ng�of�a�short�series�of�notes.�He�then�split�the�par�cipants� into�two�groups.�He�had�the�members�of�one�group�prac�ce�the�melody�on�a� keyboard�for�two�hours�a�day�over�the�next��ve�days.�He�had�the�members�of�the� other�group�sit�in�front�of�a�keyboard�for�the�same�amount�of��me�but�only�imagine� playing�the�song—without�ever�touching�the�keys.�Using�a�technique�called� transcranial�magne�c�s�mula�on,�or�TMS,�Pascual-Leone�mapped�the�brain�ac�vity� of�all�the�par�cipants�before,�during,�and�a�er�the�test.�He�found�that�the�people� who�had�only�imagined�playing�the�notes�exhibited�precisely�the�same�changes�in� their�brains�as�those�who�had�actually�pressed�the�keys.31�Their�brains�had�changed� in�response�to�ac�ons�that�took�place�purely�in�their�imagina�on—in�response,�that� is,�to�their�thoughts.�Descartes�may�have�been�wrong�about�dualism,�but�he�appears� to�have�been�correct�in�believing�that�our�thoughts�can�exert�a�physical�in�uence�on,� or�at�least�cause�a�physical�reac�on�in,�our�brains.�We�become,�neurologically,�what� we�think.

MICHAEL�GREENBERG,�IN�a�2008�essay�in�the�New�York�Review�of�Books,�found�the� poetry�in�neuroplas�city.�He�observed�that�our�neurological�system,�“with�its� branches�and�transmi�ers�and�ingeniously�spanned�gaps,�has�an�improvised�quality� that�seems�to�mirror�the�unpredictability�of�thought�itself.”�It’s�“an�ephemeral�place� that�changes�as�our�experience�changes.”32�There�are�many�reasons�to�be�grateful� that�our�mental�hardware�is�able�to�adapt�so�readily�to�experience,�that�even�old� brains�can�be�taught�new�tricks.�The�brain’s�adaptability�hasn’t�just�led�to�new� treatments,�and�new�hope,�for�those�su�ering�from�brain�injury�or�illness.�It� provides�all�of�us�with�a�mental��exibility,�an�intellectual�litheness,�that�allows�us�to� adapt�to�new�situa�ons,�learn�new�skills,�and�in�general�expand�our�horizons.

But�the�news�is�not�all�good.�Although�neuroplas�city�provides�an�escape�from� gene�c�determinism,�a�loophole�for�free�thought�and�free�will,�it�also�imposes�its� own�form�of�determinism�on�our�behavior.�As�par�cular�circuits�in�our�brain� strengthen�through�the�repe��on�of�a�physical�or�mental�ac�vity,�they�begin�to� transform�that�ac�vity�into�a�habit.�The�paradox�of�neuroplas�city,�observes�Doidge,� is�that,�for�all�the�mental��exibility�it�grants�us,�it�can�end�up�locking�us�into�“rigid� behaviors.”33�The�chemically�triggered�synapses�that�link�our�neurons�program�us,� in�e�ect,�to�want�to�keep�exercising�the�circuits�they’ve�formed.�Once�we’ve�wired� new�circuitry�in�our�brain,�Doidge�writes,�“we�long�to�keep�it�ac�vated.”34�That’s�the� way�the�brain��ne-tunes�its�opera�ons.�Rou�ne�ac�vi�es�are�carried�out�ever�more� quickly�and�e�ciently,�while�unused�circuits�are�pruned�away.

Plas�c�does�not�mean�elas�c,�in�other�words.�Our�neural�loops�don’t�snap�back�to� their�former�state�the�way�a�rubber�band�does;�they�hold�onto�their�changed�state.� And�nothing�says�the�new�state�has�to�be�a�desirable�one.�Bad�habits�can�be� ingrained�in�our�neurons�as�easily�as�good�ones.�Pascual-Leone�observes�that� “plas�c�changes�may�not�necessarily�represent�a�behavioral�gain�for�a�given� subject.”�In�addi�on�to�being�“the�mechanism�for�development�and�learning,”� plas�city�can�be�“a�cause�of�pathology.”35

It�comes�as�no�surprise�that�neuroplas�city�has�been�linked�to�mental�a�ic�ons� ranging�from�depression�to�obsessive-compulsive�disorder�to��nnitus.�The�more�a� su�erer�concentrates�on�his�symptoms,�the�deeper�those�symptoms�are�etched�into� his�neural�circuits.�In�the�worst�cases,�the�mind�essen�ally�trains�itself�to�be�sick.� Many�addic�ons,�too,�are�reinforced�by�the�strengthening�of�plas�c�pathways�in�the� brain.�Even�very�small�doses�of�addic�ve�drugs�can�drama�cally�alter�the��ow�of� neurotransmi�ers�in�a�person’s�synapses,�resul�ng�in�long-las�ng�altera�ons�in� brain�circuitry�and�func�on.�In�some�cases,�the�buildup�of�certain�kinds�of� neurotransmi�ers,�such�as�dopamine,�a�pleasure-producing�cousin�to�adrenaline,� seems�to�actually�trigger�the�turning�on�or�o��of�par�cular�genes,�bringing�even� stronger�cravings�for�the�drug.�The�vital�paths�turn�deadly.

The�poten�al�for�unwelcome�neuroplas�c�adapta�ons�also�exists�in�the�everyday,� normal�func�oning�of�our�minds.�Experiments�show�that�just�as�the�brain�can�build� new�or�stronger�circuits�through�physical�or�mental�prac�ce,�those�circuits�can� weaken�or�dissolve�with�neglect.�“If�we�stop�exercising�our�mental�skills,”�writes� Doidge,�“we�do�not�just�forget�them:�the�brain�map�space�for�those�skills�is�turned� over�to�the�skills�we�prac�ce�instead.”36�Je�rey�Schwartz,�a�professor�of�psychiatry� at�UCLA’s�medical�school,�terms�this�process�“survival�of�the�busiest.”37�The�mental� skills�we�sacri�ce�may�be�as�valuable,�or�even�more�valuable,�than�the�ones�we�gain.� When�it�comes�to�the�quality�of�our�thought,�our�neurons�and�synapses�are�en�rely� indi�erent.�The�possibility�of�intellectual�decay�is�inherent�in�the�malleability�of�our�

brains.

That�doesn’t�mean�that�we�can’t,�with�concerted�e�ort,�once�again�redirect�our� neural�signals�and�rebuild�the�skills�we’ve�lost.�What�it�does�mean�is�that�the�vital� paths�in�our�brains�become,�as�Monsieur�Dumont�understood,�the�paths�of�least� resistance.�They�are�the�paths�that�most�of�us�will�take�most�of�the��me,�and�the� farther�we�proceed�down�them,�the�more�di�cult�it�becomes�to�turn�back.

a�digression

on�what�the�brain�thinks�about�when�it�thinks�about�itself

THE�FUNCTION�OF�the�brain,�Aristotle�believed,�was�to�keep�the�body�from� overhea�ng.�A�“compound�of�earth�and�water,”�brain�ma�er�“tempers�the�heat�and� seething�of�the�heart,”�he�wrote�in�The�Parts�of�Animals,�a�trea�se�on�anatomy�and� physiology.�Blood�rises�from�the�“�ery”�region�of�the�chest�un�l�it�reaches�the�head,� where�the�brain�reduces�its�temperature�“to�modera�on.”�The�cooled�blood�then� �ows�back�down�through�the�rest�of�the�body.�The�process,�suggested�Aristotle,�was� akin�to�that�which�“occurs�in�the�produc�on�of�showers.�For�when�vapor�steams�up� from�the�earth�under�the�in�uence�of�heat�and�is�carried�into�the�upper�regions,�so� soon�as�it�reaches�the�cold�air�that�is�above�the�earth,�it�condenses�again�into�water� owing�to�the�refrigera�on,�and�falls�back�to�the�earth�as�rain.”�The�reason�man�has� “the�largest�brain�in�propor�on�to�his�size”�is�that�“the�region�of�the�heart�and�of�the� lung�is�ho�er�and�richer�in�blood�in�man�than�in�any�other�animal.”�It�seemed� obvious�to�Aristotle�that�the�brain�could�not�possibly�be�“the�organ�of�sensa�on,”�as� Hippocrates�and�others�had�conjectured,�since�“when�it�is�touched,�no�sensa�on�is� produced.”�In�its�insensibility,�“it�resembles,”�he�wrote,�“the�blood�of�animals�and� their�excrement.”1

It’s�easy,�today,�to�chuckle�at�Aristotle’s�error.�But�it’s�also�easy�to�understand�how� the�great�philosopher�was�led�so�far�astray.�The�brain,�packed�neatly�into�the�bone- crate�of�the�skull,�gives�us�no�sensory�signal�of�its�existence.�We�feel�our�heart�beat,� our�lungs�expand,�our�stomach�churn—but�our�brain,�lacking�mo�lity�and�having�no� sensory�nerve�endings,�remains�impercep�ble�to�us.�The�source�of�consciousness� lies�beyond�the�grasp�of�consciousness.�Physicians�and�philosophers,�from�classical� �mes�through�the�Enlightenment,�had�to�deduce�the�brain’s�func�on�by�examining� and�dissec�ng�the�clumps�of�grayish��ssue�they�li�ed�from�the�skulls�of�corpses�and� other�dead�animals.�What�they�saw�usually�re�ected�their�assump�ons�about� human�nature�or,�more�generally,�the�nature�of�the�cosmos.�They�would,�as�Robert� Martensen�describes�in�The�Brain�Takes�Shape,��t�the�visible�structure�of�the�brain� into�their�preferred�metaphysical�metaphor,�arranging�the�organ’s�physical�parts�“so� as�to�portray�likeness�in�their�own�terms.”2

Wri�ng�nearly�two�thousand�years�a�er�Aristotle,�Descartes�conjured�up�another� watery�metaphor�to�explain�the�brain’s�func�on.�To�him,�the�brain�was�a�component� in�an�elaborate�hydraulic�“machine”�whose�workings�resembled�those�of�“fountains� in�the�royal�gardens.”�The�heart�would�pump�blood�to�the�brain,�where,�in�the�pineal� gland,�it�would�be�transformed,�by�means�of�pressure�and�heat,�into�“animal�spirits,”� which�then�would�travel�through�“the�pipes”�of�the�nerves.�The�brain’s�“cavi�es�and� pores”�served�as�“apertures”�regula�ng�the��ow�of�the�animal�spirits�throughout�the� rest�of�the�body.3�Descartes’�explana�on�of�the�brain’s�role��t�neatly�into�his� mechanis�c�cosmology,�in�which,�as�Martensen�writes,�“all�bodies�operated� dynamically�according�to�op�cal�and�geometric�proper�es”�within�self-contained� systems.4

Our�modern�microscopes,�scanners,�and�sensors�have�disabused�us�of�most�of�the� old�fanciful�no�ons�about�the�brain’s�func�on.�But�the�brain’s�strangely�remote� quality—the�way�it�seems�both�part�of�us�and�apart�from�us—s�ll�in�uences�our� percep�ons�in�subtle�ways.�We�have�a�sense�that�our�brain�exists�in�a�state�of� splendid�isola�on,�that�its�fundamental�nature�is�impervious�to�the�vagaries�of�our� day-to-day�lives.�While�we�know�that�our�brain�is�an�exquisitely�sensi�ve�monitor�of� experience,�we�want�to�believe�that�it�lies�beyond�the�in�uence�of�experience.�We� want�to�believe�that�the�impressions�our�brain�records�as�sensa�ons�and�stores�as� memories�leave�no�physical�imprint�on�its�own�structure.�To�believe�otherwise� would,�we�feel,�call�into�ques�on�the�integrity�of�the�self.

That�was�certainly�how�I�felt�when�I�began�to�worry�that�my�use�of�the�Internet� might�be�changing�the�way�my�brain�was�processing�informa�on.�I�resisted�the�idea� at��rst.�It�seemed�ludicrous�to�think�that��ddling�with�a�computer,�a�mere�tool,� could�alter�in�any�deep�or�las�ng�way�what�was�going�on�inside�my�head.�But�I�was� wrong.�As�neuroscien�sts�have�discovered,�the�brain—and�the�mind�to�which�it� gives�rise—is�forever�a�work�in�progress.�That’s�true�not�just�for�each�of�us�as� individuals.�It’s�true�for�all�of�us�as�a�species.

Three

TOOLS�OF�THE�MIND

A�child�takes�a�crayon�from�a�box�and�scribbles�a�yellow�circle�in�the�corner�of�a� sheet�of�paper:�this�is�the�sun.�She�takes�another�crayon�and�draws�a�green�squiggle� through�the�center�of�the�page:�this�is�the�horizon.�Cu�ng�through�the�horizon�she� draws�two�brown�lines�that�come�together�in�a�jagged�peak:�this�is�a�mountain.�Next� to�the�mountain,�she�draws�a�lopsided�black�rectangle�topped�by�a�red�triangle:�this� is�her�house.�The�child�gets�older,�goes�to�school,�and�in�her�classroom�she�traces�on�

a�page,�from�memory,�an�outline�of�the�shape�of�her�country.�She�divides�it,�roughly,� into�a�set�of�shapes�that�represent�the�states.�And�inside�one�of�the�states�she�draws� a��ve-pointed�star�to�mark�the�town�she�lives�in.�The�child�grows�up.�She�trains�to�be� a�surveyor.�She�buys�a�set�of��ne�instruments�and�uses�them�to�measure�the� boundaries�and�contours�of�a�property.�With�the�informa�on,�she�draws�a�precise� plot�of�the�land,�which�is�then�made�into�a�blueprint�for�others�to�use.

Our�intellectual�matura�on�as�individuals�can�be�traced�through�the�way�we�draw� pictures,�or�maps,�of�our�surroundings.�We�begin�with�primi�ve,�literal�renderings�of� the�features�of�the�land�we�see�around�us,�and�we�advance�to�ever�more�accurate,� and�more�abstract,�representa�ons�of�geographic�and�topographic�space.�We� progress,�in�other�words,�from�drawing�what�we�see�to�drawing�what�we�know.� Vincent�Virga,�an�expert�on�cartography�a�liated�with�the�Library�of�Congress,�has� observed�that�the�stages�in�the�development�of�our�mapmaking�skills�closely�parallel� the�general�stages�of�childhood�cogni�ve�development�delineated�by�the�twen�eth- century�Swiss�psychologist�Jean�Piaget.�We�progress�from�the�infant’s�egocentric,� purely�sensory�percep�on�of�the�world�to�the�young�adult’s�more�abstract�and� objec�ve�analysis�of�experience.�“First,”�writes�Virga,�in�describing�how�children’s� drawings�of�maps�advance,�“percep�ons�and�representa�onal�abili�es�are�not� matched;�only�the�simplest�topographical�rela�onships�are�presented,�without� regard�for�perspec�ve�or�distances.�Then�an�intellectual�‘realism’�evolves,�one�that� depicts�everything�known�with�burgeoning�propor�onal�rela�onships.�And��nally,�a� visual�‘realism’�appears,�[employing]�scien��c�calcula�ons�to�achieve�it.”1

As�we�go�through�this�process�of�intellectual�matura�on,�we�are�also�ac�ng�out�the� en�re�history�of�mapmaking.�Mankind’s��rst�maps,�scratched�in�the�dirt�with�a�s�ck� or�carved�into�a�stone�with�another�stone,�were�as�rudimentary�as�the�scribbles�of� toddlers.�Eventually�the�drawings�became�more�realis�c,�outlining�the�actual� propor�ons�of�a�space,�a�space�that�o�en�extended�well�beyond�what�could�be�seen� with�the�eye.�As�more��me�passed,�the�realism�became�scien��c�in�both�its� precision�and�its�abstrac�on.�The�mapmaker�began�to�use�sophis�cated�tools�like� the�direc�on-�nding�compass�and�the�angle-measuring�theodolite�and�to�rely�on� mathema�cal�reckonings�and�formulas.�Eventually,�in�a�further�intellectual�leap,� maps�came�to�be�used�not�only�to�represent�vast�regions�of�the�earth�or�heavens�in� minute�detail,�but�to�express�ideas—a�plan�of�ba�le,�an�analysis�of�the�spread�of�an� epidemic,�a�forecast�of�popula�on�growth.�“The�intellectual�process�of�transforming� experience�in�space�to�abstrac�on�of�space�is�a�revolu�on�in�modes�of�thinking,”� writes�Virga.2

The�historical�advances�in�cartography�didn’t�simply�mirror�the�development�of�the� human�mind.�They�helped�propel�and�guide�the�very�intellectual�advances�that�they� documented.�The�map�is�a�medium�that�not�only�stores�and�transmits�informa�on�

but�also�embodies�a�par�cular�mode�of�seeing�and�thinking.�As�mapmaking� progressed,�the�spread�of�maps�also�disseminated�the�mapmaker’s�dis�nc�ve�way� of�perceiving�and�making�sense�of�the�world.�The�more�frequently�and�intensively� people�used�maps,�the�more�their�minds�came�to�understand�reality�in�the�maps’� terms.�The�in�uence�of�maps�went�far�beyond�their�prac�cal�employment�in� establishing�property�boundaries�and�char�ng�routes.�“The�use�of�a�reduced,� subs�tute�space�for�that�of�reality,”�explains�the�cartographic�historian�Arthur� Robinson,�“is�an�impressive�act�in�itself.”�But�what’s�even�more�impressive�is�how� the�map�“advanced�the�evolu�on�of�abstract�thinking”�throughout�society.�“The� combina�on�of�the�reduc�on�of�reality�and�the�construct�of�an�analogical�space�is�an� a�ainment�in�abstract�thinking�of�a�very�high�order�indeed,”�writes�Robinson,�“for�it� enables�one�to�discover�structures�that�would�remain�unknown�if�not�mapped.”3� The�technology�of�the�map�gave�to�man�a�new�and�more�comprehending�mind,� be�er�able�to�understand�the�unseen�forces�that�shape�his�surroundings�and�his� existence.

What�the�map�did�for�space—translate�a�natural�phenomenon�into�an�ar��cial�and� intellectual�concep�on�of�that�phenomenon—another�technology,�the�mechanical� clock,�did�for��me.�For�most�of�human�history,�people�experienced��me�as�a� con�nuous,�cyclical��ow.�To�the�extent�that��me�was�“kept,”�the�keeping�was�done� by�instruments�that�emphasized�this�natural�process:�sundials�around�which� shadows�would�move,�hourglasses�down�which�sand�would�pour,�clepsydras� through�which�water�would�stream.�There�was�no�par�cular�need�to�measure��me� with�precision�or�to�break�a�day�up�into�li�le�pieces.�For�most�people,�the� movements�of�the�sun,�the�moon,�and�the�stars�provided�the�only�clocks�they� needed.�Life�was,�in�the�words�of�the�French�medievalist�Jacques�Le�Go�,� “dominated�by�agrarian�rhythms,�free�of�haste,�careless�of�exac�tude,�unconcerned� by�produc�vity.”4

That�began�to�change�in�the�la�er�half�of�the�Middle�Ages.�The��rst�people�to� demand�a�more�precise�measurement�of��me�were�Chris�an�monks,�whose�lives� revolved�around�a�rigorous�schedule�of�prayer.�In�the�sixth�century,�Saint�Benedict� had�ordered�his�followers�to�hold�seven�prayer�services�at�speci�ed��mes�during�the� day.�Six�hundred�years�later,�the�Cistercians�gave�new�emphasis�to�punctuality,� dividing�the�day�into�a�regimented�sequence�of�ac�vi�es�and�viewing�any�tardiness� or�other�waste�of��me�to�be�an�a�ront�to�God.�Spurred�by�the�need�for�temporal� exac�tude,�monks�took�the�lead�in�pushing�forward�the�technologies�of� �mekeeping.�It�was�in�the�monastery�that�the��rst�mechanical�clocks�were� assembled,�their�movements�governed�by�the�swinging�of�weights,�and�it�was�the� bells�in�the�church�tower�that��rst�sounded�the�hours�by�which�people�would�come� to�parcel�out�their�lives.

The�desire�for�accurate��mekeeping�spread�outward�from�the�monastery.�The�royal� and�princely�courts�of�Europe,�brimming�with�riches�and�prizing�the�latest�and�most� ingenious�devices,�began�to�covet�clocks�and�invest�in�their�re�nement�and� manufacture.�As�people�moved�from�the�countryside�to�the�town�and�started� working�in�markets,�mills,�and�factories�rather�than��elds,�their�days�came�to�be� carved�into�ever�more��nely�sliced�segments,�each�announced�by�the�tolling�of�a� bell.�As�David�Landes�describes�it�in�Revolu�on�in�Time,�his�history�of��mekeeping,� “Bells�sounded�for�start�of�work,�meal�breaks,�end�of�work,�closing�of�gates,�start�of� market,�close�of�market,�assembly,�emergencies,�council�mee�ngs,�end�of�drink� service,��me�for�street�cleaning,�curfew,�and�so�on�through�an�extraordinary�variety� of�special�peals�in�individual�towns�and�ci�es.”5

The�need�for��ghter�scheduling�and�synchroniza�on�of�work,�transport,�devo�on,� and�even�leisure�provided�the�impetus�for�rapid�progress�in�clock�technology.�It�was� no�longer�enough�for�every�town�or�parish�to�follow�its�own�clock.�Now,��me�had�to� be�the�same�everywhere—or�else�commerce�and�industry�would�falter.�Units�of� �me�became�standardized—seconds,�minutes,�hours—and�clock�mechanisms�were� �ne-tuned�to�measure�those�units�with�much�greater�accuracy.�By�the�fourteenth� century,�the�mechanical�clock�had�become�commonplace,�a�near-universal�tool�for� coordina�ng�the�intricate�workings�of�the�new�urban�society.�Ci�es�vied�with�one� another�to�install�the�most�elaborate�clocks�in�the�towers�of�their�town�halls,� churches,�or�palaces.�“No�European�community,”�the�historian�Lynn�White�has� observed,�“felt�able�to�hold�up�its�head�unless�in�its�midst�the�planets�wheeled�in� cycles�and�epicycles,�while�angels�trumpeted,�cocks�crew,�and�apostles,�kings�and� prophets�marched�and�countermarched�at�the�booming�of�the�hours.”6

Clocks�didn’t�just�become�more�accurate�and�more�ornate.�They�got�smaller�and� cheaper.�Advances�in�miniaturiza�on�led�to�the�development�of�a�ordable� �mepieces�that�could��t�into�the�rooms�of�people’s�houses�or�even�be�carried�on� their�person.�If�the�prolifera�on�of�public�clocks�changed�the�way�people�worked,� shopped,�played,�and�otherwise�behaved�as�members�of�an�ever�more�regulated� society,�the�spread�of�more�personal�tools�for�tracking��me—chamber�clocks,� pocket�watches,�and,�a�li�le�later,�wristwatches—had�more�in�mate�consequences.� The�personal�clock�became,�as�Landes�writes,�“an�ever-visible,�ever-audible� companion�and�monitor.”�By�con�nually�reminding�its�owner�of�“�me�used,��me� spent,��me�wasted,��me�lost,”�it�became�both�“prod�and�key�to�personal� achievement�and�produc�vity.”�The�“personaliza�on”�of�precisely�measured��me� “was�a�major�s�mulus�to�the�individualism�that�was�an�ever�more�salient�aspect�of� Western�civiliza�on.”7

The�mechanical�clock�changed�the�way�we�saw�ourselves.�And�like�the�map,�it� changed�the�way�we�thought.�Once�the�clock�had�rede�ned��me�as�a�series�of�units�

of�equal�dura�on,�our�minds�began�to�stress�the�methodical�mental�work�of�division� and�measurement.�We�began�to�see,�in�all�things�and�phenomena,�the�pieces�that� composed�the�whole,�and�then�we�began�to�see�the�pieces�of�which�the�pieces�were� made.�Our�thinking�became�Aristotelian�in�its�emphasis�on�discerning�abstract� pa�erns�behind�the�visible�surfaces�of�the�material�world.�The�clock�played�a�crucial� role�in�propelling�us�out�of�the�Middle�Ages�and�into�the�Renaissance�and�then�the� Enlightenment.�In�Technics�and�Civiliza�on,�his�1934�medita�on�on�the�human� consequences�of�technology,�Lewis�Mumford�described�how�the�clock�“helped� create�the�belief�in�an�independent�world�of�mathema�cally�measurable� sequences.”�The�“abstract�framework�of�divided��me”�became�“the�point�of� reference�for�both�ac�on�and�thought.”8�Independent�of�the�prac�cal�concerns�that� inspired�the��mekeeping�machine’s�crea�on�and�governed�its�day-to-day�use,�the� clock’s�methodical��cking�helped�bring�into�being�the�scien��c�mind�and�the� scien��c�man.

EVERY�TECHNOLOGY�IS�an�expression�of�human�will.�Through�our�tools,�we�seek�to� expand�our�power�and�control�over�our�circumstances—over�nature,�over��me�and� distance,�over�one�another.�Our�technologies�can�be�divided,�roughly,�into�four� categories,�according�to�the�way�they�supplement�or�amplify�our�na�ve�capaci�es.� One�set,�which�encompasses�the�plow,�the�darning�needle,�and�the��ghter�jet,� extends�our�physical�strength,�dexterity,�or�resilience.�A�second�set,�which�includes� the�microscope,�the�ampli�er,�and�the�Geiger�counter,�extends�the�range�or� sensi�vity�of�our�senses.�A�third�group,�spanning�such�technologies�as�the�reservoir,� the�birth�control�pill,�and�the�gene�cally�modi�ed�corn�plant,�enables�us�to�reshape� nature�to�be�er�serve�our�needs�or�desires.

The�map�and�the�clock�belong�to�the�fourth�category,�which�might�best�be�called,�to� borrow�a�term�used�in�slightly�di�erent�senses�by�the�social�anthropologist�Jack� Goody�and�the�sociologist�Daniel�Bell,�“intellectual�technologies.”�These�include�all� the�tools�we�use�to�extend�or�support�our�mental�powers—to��nd�and�classify� informa�on,�to�formulate�and�ar�culate�ideas,�to�share�know-how�and�knowledge,� to�take�measurements�and�perform�calcula�ons,�to�expand�the�capacity�of�our� memory.�The�typewriter�is�an�intellectual�technology.�So�are�the�abacus�and�the� slide�rule,�the�sextant�and�the�globe,�the�book�and�the�newspaper,�the�school�and� the�library,�the�computer�and�the�Internet.�Although�the�use�of�any�kind�of�tool�can� in�uence�our�thoughts�and�perspec�ves—the�plow�changed�the�outlook�of�the� farmer,�the�microscope�opened�new�worlds�of�mental�explora�on�for�the�scien�st— it�is�our�intellectual�technologies�that�have�the�greatest�and�most�las�ng�power�over� what�and�how�we�think.�They�are�our�most�in�mate�tools,�the�ones�we�use�for�self- expression,�for�shaping�personal�and�public�iden�ty,�and�for�cul�va�ng�rela�ons� with�others.

What�Nietzsche�sensed�as�he�typed�his�words�onto�the�paper�clamped�in�his�wri�ng� ball—that�the�tools�we�use�to�write,�read,�and�otherwise�manipulate�informa�on� work�on�our�minds�even�as�our�minds�work�with�them—is�a�central�theme�of� intellectual�and�cultural�history.�As�the�stories�of�the�map�and�the�mechanical�clock� illustrate,�intellectual�technologies,�when�they�come�into�popular�use,�o�en� promote�new�ways�of�thinking�or�extend�to�the�general�popula�on�established�ways� of�thinking�that�had�been�limited�to�a�small,�elite�group.�Every�intellectual� technology,�to�put�it�another�way,�embodies�an�intellectual�ethic,�a�set�of� assump�ons�about�how�the�human�mind�works�or�should�work.�The�map�and�the� clock�shared�a�similar�ethic.�Both�placed�a�new�stress�on�measurement�and� abstrac�on,�on�perceiving�and�de�ning�forms�and�processes�beyond�those�apparent� to�the�senses.

The�intellectual�ethic�of�a�technology�is�rarely�recognized�by�its�inventors.�They�are� usually�so�intent�on�solving�a�par�cular�problem�or�untangling�some�thorny�scien��c� or�engineering�dilemma�that�they�don’t�see�the�broader�implica�ons�of�their�work.� The�users�of�the�technology�are�also�usually�oblivious�to�its�ethic.�They,�too,�are� concerned�with�the�prac�cal�bene�ts�they�gain�from�employing�the�tool.�Our� ancestors�didn’t�develop�or�use�maps�in�order�to�enhance�their�capacity�for� conceptual�thinking�or�to�bring�the�world’s�hidden�structures�to�light.�Nor�did�they� manufacture�mechanical�clocks�to�spur�the�adop�on�of�a�more�scien��c�mode�of� thinking.�Those�were�by-products�of�the�technologies.�But�what�by-products!� Ul�mately,�it’s�an�inven�on’s�intellectual�ethic�that�has�the�most�profound�e�ect�on� us.�The�intellectual�ethic�is�the�message�that�a�medium�or�other�tool�transmits�into� the�minds�and�culture�of�its�users.

For�centuries,�historians�and�philosophers�have�traced,�and�debated,�technology’s� role�in�shaping�civiliza�on.�Some�have�made�the�case�for�what�the�sociologist� Thorstein�Veblen�dubbed�“technological�determinism”�they’ve�argued�that� technological�progress,�which�they�see�as�an�autonomous�force�outside�man’s� control,�has�been�the�primary�factor�in�uencing�the�course�of�human�history.�Karl� Marx�gave�voice�to�this�view�when�he�wrote,�“The�windmill�gives�you�society�with� the�feudal�lord;�the�steam-mill,�society�with�the�industrial�capitalist.”�9�Ralph�Waldo� Emerson�put�it�more�crisply:�“Things�are�in�the�saddle/And�ride�mankind.”10�In�the� most�extreme�expression�of�the�determinist�view,�human�beings�become�li�le�more� than�“the�sex�organs�of�the�machine�world,”�as�McLuhan�memorably�wrote�in�the� “Gadget�Lover”�chapter�of�Understanding�Media.11�Our�essen�al�role�is�to�produce� ever�more�sophis�cated�tools—to�“fecundate”�machines�as�bees�fecundate�plants— un�l�technology�has�developed�the�capacity�to�reproduce�itself�on�its�own.�At�that� point,�we�become�dispensable.

At�the�other�end�of�the�spectrum�are�the�instrumentalists—the�people�who,�like�

David�Sarno�,�downplay�the�power�of�technology,�believing�tools�to�be�neutral� ar�facts,�en�rely�subservient�to�the�conscious�wishes�of�their�users.�Our� instruments�are�the�means�we�use�to�achieve�our�ends;�they�have�no�ends�of�their� own.�Instrumentalism�is�the�most�widely�held�view�of�technology,�not�least�because� it’s�the�view�we�would�prefer�to�be�true.�The�idea�that�we’re�somehow�controlled�by� our�tools�is�anathema�to�most�people.�“Technology�is�technology,”�declared�the� media�cri�c�James�Carey;�“it�is�a�means�for�communica�on�and�transporta�on�over� space,�and�nothing�more.”12

The�debate�between�determinists�and�instrumentalists�is�an�illumina�ng�one.�Both� sides�command�strong�arguments.�If�you�look�at�a�par�cular�technology�at�a� par�cular�point�in��me,�it�certainly�appears�that,�as�the�instrumentalists�claim,�our� tools�are��rmly�under�our�control.�Every�day,�each�of�us�makes�conscious�decisions� about�which�tools�we�use�and�how�we�use�them.�Socie�es,�too,�make�deliberate� choices�about�how�they�deploy�di�erent�technologies.�The�Japanese,�looking�to� preserve�the�tradi�onal�samurai�culture,�e�ec�vely�banned�the�use�of��rearms�in� their�country�for�two�centuries.�Some�religious�communi�es,�such�as�the�Old�Order� Amish�fellowships�in�North�America,�shun�motor�cars�and�other�modern� technologies.�All�countries�put�legal�or�other�restric�ons�on�the�use�of�certain�tools.

But�if�you�take�a�broader�historical�or�social�view,�the�claims�of�the�determinists�gain� credibility.�Although�individuals�and�communi�es�may�make�very�di�erent�decisions� about�which�tools�they�use,�that�doesn’t�mean�that�as�a�species�we’ve�had�much� control�over�the�path�or�pace�of�technological�progress.�It�strains�belief�to�argue�that� we�“chose”�to�use�maps�and�clocks�(as�if�we�might�have�chosen�not�to).�It’s�even� harder�to�accept�that�we�“chose”�the�myriad�side�e�ects�of�those�technologies,� many�of�which,�as�we’ve�seen,�were�en�rely�unan�cipated�when�the�technologies� came�into�use.�“If�the�experience�of�modern�society�shows�us�anything,”�observes� the�poli�cal�scien�st�Langdon�Winner,�“it�is�that�technologies�are�not�merely�aids�to� human�ac�vity,�but�also�powerful�forces�ac�ng�to�reshape�that�ac�vity�and�its� meaning.”13�Though�we’re�rarely�conscious�of�the�fact,�many�of�the�rou�nes�of�our� lives�follow�paths�laid�down�by�technologies�that�came�into�use�long�before�we�were� born.�It’s�an�overstatement�to�say�that�technology�progresses�autonomously—our� adop�on�and�use�of�tools�are�heavily�in�uenced�by�economic,�poli�cal,�and� demographic�considera�ons—but�it�isn’t�an�overstatement�to�say�that�progress�has� its�own�logic,�which�is�not�always�consistent�with�the�inten�ons�or�wishes�of�the� toolmakers�and�tool�users.�Some�mes�our�tools�do�what�we�tell�them�to.�Other� �mes,�we�adapt�ourselves�to�our�tools’�requirements.

The�con�ict�between�the�determinists�and�the�instrumentalists�will�never�be� resolved.�It�involves,�a�er�all,�two�radically�di�erent�views�of�the�nature�and�des�ny� of�humankind.�The�debate�is�as�much�about�faith�as�it�is�about�reason.�But�there�is�

one�thing�that�determinists�and�instrumentalists�can�agree�on:�technological� advances�o�en�mark�turning�points�in�history.�New�tools�for�hun�ng�and�farming� brought�changes�in�pa�erns�of�popula�on�growth,�se�lement,�and�labor.�New� modes�of�transport�led�to�expansions�and�realignments�of�trade�and�commerce.� New�weaponry�altered�the�balance�of�power�between�states.�Other�breakthroughs,� in��elds�as�various�as�medicine,�metallurgy,�and�magne�sm,�changed�the�way� people�live�in�innumerable�ways—and�con�nue�to�do�so�today.�In�large�measure,� civiliza�on�has�assumed�its�current�form�as�a�result�of�the�technologies�people�have� come�to�use.

What’s�been�harder�to�discern�is�the�in�uence�of�technologies,�par�cularly� intellectual�technologies,�on�the�func�oning�of�people’s�brains.�We�can�see�the� products�of�thought—works�of�art,�scien��c�discoveries,�symbols�preserved�on� documents—but�not�the�thought�itself.�There�are�plenty�of�fossilized�bodies,�but� there�are�no�fossilized�minds.�“Gladly�would�I�unfold�in�calm�degrees�a�natural� history�of�the�intellect,”�wrote�Emerson�in�1841,�“but�what�man�has�yet�been�able�to� mark�the�steps�and�boundaries�of�that�transparent�essence?”14

Today,�at�last,�the�mists�that�have�obscured�the�interplay�between�technology�and� the�mind�are�beginning�to�li�.�The�recent�discoveries�about�neuroplas�city�make�the� essence�of�the�intellect�more�visible,�its�steps�and�boundaries�easier�to�mark.�They� tell�us�that�the�tools�man�has�used�to�support�or�extend�his�nervous�system—all� those�technologies�that�through�history�have�in�uenced�how�we��nd,�store,�and� interpret�informa�on,�how�we�direct�our�a�en�on�and�engage�our�senses,�how�we� remember�and�how�we�forget—have�shaped�the�physical�structure�and�workings�of� the�human�mind.�Their�use�has�strengthened�some�neural�circuits�and�weakened� others,�reinforced�certain�mental�traits�while�leaving�others�to�fade�away.� Neuroplas�city�provides�the�missing�link�to�our�understanding�of�how�informa�onal� media�and�other�intellectual�technologies�have�exerted�their�in�uence�over�the� development�of�civiliza�on�and�helped�to�guide,�at�a�biological�level,�the�history�of� human�consciousness.

We�know�that�the�basic�form�of�the�human�brain�hasn’t�changed�much�in�the�last� forty�thousand�years.15�Evolu�on�at�the�gene�c�level�proceeds�with�exquisite� slowness,�at�least�when�gauged�by�man’s�concep�on�of��me.�But�we�also�know�that� the�ways�human�beings�think�and�act�have�changed�almost�beyond�recogni�on� through�those�millennia.�As�H.�G.�Wells�observed�of�mankind�in�his�1938�book�World� Brain,�“His�social�life,�his�habits,�have�changed�completely,�have�even�undergone� reversion�and�reversal,�while�his�heredity�seems�to�have�changed�very�li�le�if�at�all,� since�the�late�Stone�Age.”16�Our�new�knowledge�of�neuroplas�city�untangles�this� conundrum.�Between�the�intellectual�and�behavioral�guardrails�set�by�our�gene�c� code,�the�road�is�wide,�and�we�hold�the�steering�wheel.�Through�what�we�do�and�

how�we�do�it—moment�by�moment,�day�by�day,�consciously�or�unconsciously—we� alter�the�chemical��ows�in�our�synapses�and�change�our�brains.�And�when�we�hand� down�our�habits�of�thought�to�our�children,�through�the�examples�we�set,�the� schooling�we�provide,�and�the�media�we�use,�we�hand�down�as�well�the� modi�ca�ons�in�the�structure�of�our�brains.

Although�the�workings�of�our�gray�ma�er�s�ll�lie�beyond�the�reach�of�archaeologists’� tools,�we�now�know�not�only�that�it�is�probable�that�the�use�of�intellectual� technologies�shaped�and�reshaped�the�circuitry�in�our�heads,�but�that�it�had�to�be� so.�Any�repeated�experience�in�uences�our�synapses;�the�changes�wrought�by�the� recurring�use�of�tools�that�extend�or�supplement�our�nervous�systems�should�be� par�cularly�pronounced.�And�even�though�we�can’t�document,�at�a�physical�level,� the�changes�in�thinking�that�happened�in�the�distant�past,�we�can�use�proxies�in�the� present.�We�see,�for�example,�direct�evidence�of�the�ongoing�process�of�mental� regenera�on�and�degenera�on�in�the�brain�changes�that�occur�when�a�blind�person� learns�to�read�Braille.�Braille,�a�er�all,�is�a�technology,�an�informa�onal�medium.

Knowing�what�we�do�about�London�cabbies,�we�can�posit�that�as�people�became� more�dependent�on�maps,�rather�than�their�own�memories,�in�naviga�ng�their� surroundings,�they�almost�certainly�experienced�both�anatomical�and�func�onal� changes�in�the�hippocampus�and�other�brain�areas�involved�in�spa�al�modeling�and� memory.�The�circuitry�devoted�to�maintaining�representa�ons�of�space�likely� shrank,�while�areas�employed�in�deciphering�complex�and�abstract�visual� informa�on�likely�expanded�or�strengthened.�We�also�now�know�that�the�changes�in� the�brain�spurred�by�map�use�could�be�deployed�for�other�purposes,�which�helps� explain�how�abstract�thinking�in�general�could�be�promoted�by�the�spread�of�the� cartographer’s�cra�.

The�process�of�our�mental�and�social�adapta�on�to�new�intellectual�technologies�is� re�ected�in,�and�reinforced�by,�the�changing�metaphors�we�use�to�portray�and� explain�the�workings�of�nature.�Once�maps�had�become�common,�people�began�to� picture�all�sorts�of�natural�and�social�rela�onships�as�cartographic,�as�a�set�of��xed,� bounded�arrangements�in�real�or��gura�ve�space.�We�began�to�“map”�our�lives,�our� social�spheres,�even�our�ideas.�Under�the�sway�of�the�mechanical�clock,�people� began�thinking�of�their�brains�and�their�bodies—of�the�en�re�universe,�in�fact—as� opera�ng�“like�clockwork.”�In�the�clock’s��ghtly�interconnected�gears,�turning�in� accord�with�the�laws�of�physics�and�forming�a�long�and�traceable�chain�of�cause�and� e�ect,�we�found�a�mechanis�c�metaphor�that�seemed�to�explain�the�workings�of�all� things,�as�well�as�the�rela�ons�between�them.�God�became�the�Great�Clockmaker.� His�crea�on�was�no�longer�a�mystery�to�be�accepted.�It�was�a�puzzle�to�be�worked� out.�Wrote�Descartes�in�1646,�“Doubtless�when�the�swallows�come�in�spring,�they� operate�like�clocks.”17

THE�MAP�AND�clock�changed�language�indirectly,�by�sugges�ng�new�metaphors�to� describe�natural�phenomena.�Other�intellectual�technologies�change�language�more� directly,�and�more�deeply,�by�actually�altering�the�way�we�speak�and�listen�or�read� and�write.�They�might�enlarge�or�compress�our�vocabulary,�modify�the�norms�of� dic�on�or�word�order,�or�encourage�either�simpler�or�more�complex�syntax.�Because� language�is,�for�human�beings,�the�primary�vessel�of�conscious�thought,�par�cularly� higher�forms�of�thought,�the�technologies�that�restructure�language�tend�to�exert� the�strongest�in�uence�over�our�intellectual�lives.�As�the�classical�scholar�Walter�J.� Ong�put�it,�“Technologies�are�not�mere�exterior�aids�but�also�interior� transforma�ons�of�consciousness,�and�never�more�than�when�they�a�ect�the� word.”18�The�history�of�language�is�also�a�history�of�the�mind.

Language�itself�is�not�a�technology.�It’s�na�ve�to�our�species.�Our�brains�and�bodies� have�evolved�to�speak�and�to�hear�words.�A�child�learns�to�talk�without�instruc�on,� as�a��edgling�bird�learns�to��y.�Because�reading�and�wri�ng�have�become�so�central� to�our�iden�ty�and�culture,�it’s�easy�to�assume�that�they,�too,�are�innate�talents.�But� they’re�not.�Reading�and�wri�ng�are�unnatural�acts,�made�possible�by�the� purposeful�development�of�the�alphabet�and�many�other�technologies.�Our�minds� have�to�be�taught�how�to�translate�the�symbolic�characters�we�see�into�the�language� we�understand.�Reading�and�wri�ng�require�schooling�and�prac�ce,�the�deliberate� shaping�of�the�brain.

Evidence�of�this�shaping�process�can�be�seen�in�many�neurological�studies.� Experiments�have�revealed�that�the�brains�of�the�literate�di�er�from�the�brains�of� the�illiterate�in�many�ways—not�only�in�how�they�understand�language�but�in�how� they�process�visual�signals,�how�they�reason,�and�how�they�form�memories.� “Learning�how�to�read,”�reports�the�Mexican�psychologist�Feggy�Ostrosky-Solís,�has� been�shown�to�“powerfully�shape�adult�neuropsychological�systems.”19�Brain�scans� have�also�revealed�that�people�whose�wri�en�language�uses�logographic�symbols,� like�the�Chinese,�develop�a�mental�circuitry�for�reading�that�is�considerably�di�erent� from�the�circuitry�found�in�people�whose�wri�en�language�employs�a�phone�c� alphabet.�As�Tu�s�University�developmental�psychologist�Maryanne�Wolf�explains�in� her�book�on�the�neuroscience�of�reading,�Proust�and�the�Squid,�“Although�all� reading�makes�use�of�some�por�ons�of�the�frontal�and�temporal�lobes�for�planning� and�for�analyzing�sounds�and�meanings�in�words,�logographic�systems�appear�to� ac�vate�very�dis�nc�ve�parts�of�[those]�areas,�par�cularly�regions�involved�in� motoric�memory�skills.”20�Di�erences�in�brain�ac�vity�have�even�been�documented� among�readers�of�di�erent�alphabe�c�languages.�Readers�of�English,�for�instance,� have�been�found�to�draw�more�heavily�on�areas�of�the�brain�associated�with� deciphering�visual�shapes�than�do�readers�of�Italian.�The�di�erence�stems,�it’s� believed,�from�the�fact�that�English�words�o�en�look�very�di�erent�from�the�way�

they�sound,�whereas�in�Italian�words�tend�to�be�spelled�exactly�as�they’re�spoken.21

The�earliest�examples�of�reading�and�wri�ng�date�back�many�thousands�of�years.�As� long�ago�as�8000�BC,�people�were�using�small�clay�tokens�engraved�with�simple� symbols�to�keep�track�of�quan��es�of�livestock�and�other�goods.�Interpre�ng�even� such�rudimentary�markings�required�the�development�of�extensive�new�neural� pathways�in�people’s�brains,�connec�ng�the�visual�cortex�with�nearby�sense-making� areas�of�the�brain.�Modern�studies�show�that�the�neural�ac�vity�along�these� pathways�doubles�or�triples�when�we�look�at�meaningful�symbols�as�opposed�to� meaningless�doodles.�As�Wolf�describes,�“Our�ancestors�could�read�tokens�because� their�brains�were�able�to�connect�their�basic�visual�regions�to�adjacent�regions� dedicated�to�more�sophis�cated�visual�and�conceptual�processing.”22�Those� connec�ons,�which�people�bequeathed�to�their�children�when�they�taught�them�to� use�the�tokens,�formed�the�basic�wiring�for�reading.

The�technology�of�wri�ng�took�an�important�step�forward�around�the�end�of�the� fourth�millennium�BC.�It�was�then�that�the�Sumerians,�living�between�the�Tigris�and� Euphrates�rivers�in�what�is�now�Iraq,�began�wri�ng�with�a�system�of�wedge-shaped� symbols,�called�cuneiform,�while�a�few�hundred�miles�to�the�west�the�Egyp�ans� developed�increasingly�abstract�hieroglyphs�to�represent�objects�and�ideas.�Because� the�cuneiform�and�hieroglyphic�systems�incorporated�many�logosyllabic�characters,� deno�ng�not�just�things�but�also�speech�sounds,�they�placed�far�greater�demands�on� the�brain�than�did�the�simple�accoun�ng�tokens.�Before�readers�could�interpret�the� meaning�of�a�character,�they�had�to�analyze�the�character�to��gure�out�how�it�was� being�used.�The�Sumerians�and�the�Egyp�ans�had�to�develop�neural�circuits�that,� according�to�Wolf,�literally�“crisscrossed”�the�cortex,�linking�areas�involved�not�only� in�seeing�and�sense-making�but�in�hearing,�spa�al�analysis,�and�decision�making.23� As�these�logosyllabic�systems�expanded�to�include�many�hundreds�of�characters,� memorizing�and�interpre�ng�them�became�so�mentally�taxing�that�their�use�was� probably�restricted�to�an�intellectual�elite�blessed�with�a�lot�of��me�and�brain� power.�For�wri�ng�technology�to�progress�beyond�the�Sumerian�and�Egyp�an� models,�for�it�to�become�a�tool�used�by�the�many�rather�than�the�few,�it�had�to�get�a� whole�lot�simpler.

That�didn’t�happen�un�l�fairly�recently—around�750�BC—when�the�Greeks�invented� the��rst�complete�phone�c�alphabet.�The�Greek�alphabet�had�many�forerunners,� par�cularly�the�system�of�le�ers�developed�by�the�Phoenicians�a�few�centuries� earlier,�but�linguists�generally�agree�that�it�was�the��rst�to�include�characters� represen�ng�vowel�sounds�as�well�as�consonant�sounds.�The�Greeks�analyzed�all�the� sounds,�or�phonemes,�used�in�spoken�language,�and�were�able�to�represent�them� with�just�twenty-four�characters,�making�their�alphabet�a�comprehensive�and� e�cient�system�for�wri�ng�and�reading.�The�“economy�of�characters,”�writes�Wolf,�

reduced�“the��me�and�a�en�on�needed�for�rapid�recogni�on”�of�the�symbols�and� hence�required�“fewer�perceptual�and�memory�resources.”�Recent�brain�studies� reveal�that�considerably�less�of�the�brain�is�ac�vated�in�reading�words�formed�from� phone�c�le�ers�than�in�interpre�ng�logograms�or�other�pictorial�symbols.24

The�Greek�alphabet�became�the�model�for�most�subsequent�Western�alphabets,� including�the�Roman�alphabet�that�we�s�ll�use�today.�Its�arrival�marked�the�start�of� one�of�the�most�far-reaching�revolu�ons�in�intellectual�history:�the�shi��from�an�oral� culture,�in�which�knowledge�was�exchanged�mainly�by�speaking,�to�a�literary�culture,� in�which�wri�ng�became�the�major�medium�for�expressing�thought.�It�was�a� revolu�on�that�would�eventually�change�the�lives,�and�the�brains,�of�nearly� everyone�on�earth,�but�the�transforma�on�was�not�welcomed�by�everyone,�at�least� not�at��rst.

Early�in�the�fourth�century�BC,�when�the�prac�ce�of�wri�ng�was�s�ll�novel�and� controversial�in�Greece,�Plato�wrote�Phaedrus,�his�dialogue�about�love,�beauty,�and� rhetoric.�In�the�tale,�the��tle�character,�a�ci�zen�of�Athens,�takes�a�walk�with�the� great�orator�Socrates�into�the�countryside,�where�the�two�friends�sit�under�a�tree� beside�a�stream�and�have�a�long�and�circuitous�conversa�on.�They�discuss�the��ner� points�of�speech�making,�the�nature�of�desire,�the�varie�es�of�madness,�and�the� journey�of�the�immortal�soul,�before�turning�their�a�en�on�to�the�wri�en�word.� “There�remains�the�ques�on,”�muses�Socrates,�“of�propriety�and�impropriety�in� wri�ng.”25�Phaedrus�agrees,�and�Socrates�launches�into�a�story�about�a�mee�ng� between�the�mul�talented�Egyp�an�god�Theuth,�whose�many�inven�ons�included� the�alphabet,�and�one�of�the�kings�of�Egypt,�Thamus.

Theuth�describes�the�art�of�wri�ng�to�Thamus�and�argues�that�the�Egyp�ans�should� be�allowed�to�share�in�its�blessings.�It�will,�he�says,�“make�the�people�of�Egypt�wiser� and�improve�their�memories,”�for�it�“provides�a�recipe�for�memory�and�wisdom.”� Thamus�disagrees.�He�reminds�the�god�that�an�inventor�is�not�the�most�reliable� judge�of�the�value�of�his�inven�on:�“O�man�full�of�arts,�to�one�is�it�given�to�create�the� things�of�art,�and�to�another�to�judge�what�measure�of�harm�and�of�pro�t�they�have� for�those�that�shall�employ�them.�And�so�it�is�that�you,�by�reason�of�the�tender� regard�for�the�wri�ng�that�is�your�o�spring,�have�declared�the�very�opposite�of�its� true�e�ect.”�Should�the�Egyp�ans�learn�to�write,�Thamus�goes�on,�“it�will�implant� forge�ulness�in�their�souls:�they�will�cease�to�exercise�memory�because�they�rely�on� that�which�is�wri�en,�calling�things�to�remembrance�no�longer�from�within� themselves,�but�by�means�of�external�marks.”�The�wri�en�word�is�“a�recipe�not�for� memory,�but�for�reminder.�And�it�is�no�true�wisdom�that�you�o�er�your�disciples,� but�only�its�semblance.”�Those�who�rely�on�reading�for�their�knowledge�will�“seem� to�know�much,�while�for�the�most�part�they�know�nothing.”�They�will�be�“�lled,�not� with�wisdom,�but�with�the�conceit�of�wisdom.”

Socrates,�it’s�clear,�shares�Thamus’s�view.�Only�“a�simple�person,”�he�tells�Phaedrus,� would�think�that�a�wri�en�account�“was�at�all�be�er�than�knowledge�and� recollec�on�of�the�same�ma�ers.”�Far�be�er�than�a�word�wri�en�in�the�“water”�of� ink�is�“an�intelligent�word�graven�in�the�soul�of�the�learner”�through�spoken� discourse.�Socrates�grants�that�there�are�prac�cal�bene�ts�to�capturing�one’s� thoughts�in�wri�ng—“as�memorials�against�the�forge�ulness�of�old�age”—but�he� argues�that�a�dependence�on�the�technology�of�the�alphabet�will�alter�a�person’s� mind,�and�not�for�the�be�er.�By�subs�tu�ng�outer�symbols�for�inner�memories,� wri�ng�threatens�to�make�us�shallower�thinkers,�he�says,�preven�ng�us�from� achieving�the�intellectual�depth�that�leads�to�wisdom�and�true�happiness.

Unlike�the�orator�Socrates,�Plato�was�a�writer,�and�while�we�can�assume�that�he� shared�Socrates’�worry�that�reading�might�subs�tute�for�remembering,�leading�to�a� loss�of�inner�depth,�it’s�also�clear�that�he�recognized�the�advantages�that�the�wri�en� word�had�over�the�spoken�one.�In�a�famous�and�revealing�passage�at�the�end�of�The� Republic,�a�dialogue�believed�to�have�been�wri�en�around�the�same��me�as� Phaedrus,�Plato�has�Socrates�go�out�of�his�way�to�a�ack�“poetry,”�declaring�that�he� would�ban�poets�from�his�perfect�state.�Today�we�think�of�poetry�as�being�part�of� literature,�a�form�of�wri�ng,�but�that�wasn’t�the�case�in�Plato’s��me.�Declaimed� rather�than�inscribed,�listened�to�rather�than�read,�poetry�represented�the�ancient� tradi�on�of�oral�expression,�which�remained�central�to�the�Greek�educa�onal� system,�as�well�as�the�general�Greek�culture.�Poetry�and�literature�represented� opposing�ideals�of�the�intellectual�life.�Plato’s�argument�with�the�poets,�channeled� through�Socrates’�voice,�was�an�argument�not�against�verse�but�against�the�oral� tradi�on—the�tradi�on�of�the�bard�Homer�but�also�the�tradi�on�of�Socrates�himself —and�the�ways�of�thinking�it�both�re�ected�and�encouraged.�The�“oral�state�of� mind,”�wrote�the�Bri�sh�scholar�Eric�Havelock�in�Preface�to�Plato,�was�Plato’s�“main� enemy.”26

Implicit�in�Plato’s�cri�cism�of�poetry�was,�as�Havelock,�Ong,�and�other�classicists� have�shown,�a�defense�of�the�new�technology�of�wri�ng�and�the�state�of�mind�it� encouraged�in�the�reader:�logical,�rigorous,�self-reliant.�Plato�saw�the�great� intellectual�bene�ts�that�the�alphabet�could�bring�to�civiliza�on—bene�ts�that�were� already�apparent�in�his�own�wri�ng.�“Plato’s�philosophically�analy�cal�thought,”� writes�Ong,�“was�possible�only�because�of�the�e�ects�that�wri�ng�was�beginning�to� have�on�mental�processes.”27�In�the�subtly�con�ic�ng�views�of�the�value�of�wri�ng� expressed�in�Phaedrus�and�The�Republic,�we�see�evidence�of�the�strains�created�by� the�transi�on�from�an�oral�to�a�literary�culture.�It�was,�as�both�Plato�and�Socrates� recognized�in�their�di�erent�ways,�a�shi��that�was�set�in�mo�on�by�the�inven�on�of� a�tool,�the�alphabet,�and�that�would�have�profound�consequences�for�our�language� and�our�minds.

In�a�purely�oral�culture,�thinking�is�governed�by�the�capacity�of�human�memory.� Knowledge�is�what�you�recall,�and�what�you�recall�is�limited�to�what�you�can�hold�in� your�mind.28�Through�the�millennia�of�man’s�preliterate�history,�language�evolved� to�aid�the�storage�of�complex�informa�on�in�individual�memory�and�to�make�it�easy� to�exchange�that�informa�on�with�others�through�speech.�“Serious�thought,”�Ong� writes,�was�by�necessity�“intertwined�with�memory�systems.”29�Dic�on�and�syntax� became�highly�rhythmical,�tuned�to�the�ear,�and�informa�on�was�encoded�in� common�turns�of�phrase—what�we’d�today�call�clichés—to�aid�memoriza�on.� Knowledge�was�embedded�in�“poetry,”�as�Plato�de�ned�it,�and�a�specialized�class�of� poet-scholars�became�the�human�devices,�the��esh-and-blood�intellectual� technologies,�for�informa�on�storage,�retrieval,�and�transmission.�Laws,�records,� transac�ons,�decisions,�tradi�ons—everything�that�today�would�be� “documented”—in�oral�cultures�had�to�be,�as�Havelock�says,�“composed�in� formulaic�verse”�and�distributed�“by�being�sung�or�chanted�aloud.”30

The�oral�world�of�our�distant�ancestors�may�well�have�had�emo�onal�and�intui�ve� depths�that�we�can�no�longer�appreciate.�McLuhan�believed�that�preliterate�peoples� must�have�enjoyed�a�par�cularly�intense�“sensuous�involvement”�with�the�world.� When�we�learned�to�read,�he�argued,�we�su�ered�a�“considerable�detachment�from� the�feelings�or�emo�onal�involvement�that�a�nonliterate�man�or�society�would� experience.”31�But�intellectually,�our�ancestors’�oral�culture�was�in�many�ways�a� shallower�one�than�our�own.�The�wri�en�word�liberated�knowledge�from�the� bounds�of�individual�memory�and�freed�language�from�the�rhythmical�and�formulaic� structures�required�to�support�memoriza�on�and�recita�on.�It�opened�to�the�mind� broad�new�fron�ers�of�thought�and�expression.�“The�achievements�of�the�Western� world,�it�is�obvious,�are�tes�mony�to�the�tremendous�values�of�literacy,”�McLuhan� wrote.32

Ong,�in�his�in�uen�al�1982�study�Orality�and�Literacy,�took�a�similar�view.�“Oral� cultures,”�he�observed,�could�“produce�powerful�and�beau�ful�verbal�performances� of�high�ar�s�c�and�human�worth,�which�are�no�longer�even�possible�once�wri�ng� has�taken�possession�of�the�psyche.”�But�literacy�“is�absolutely�necessary�for�the� development�not�only�of�science�but�also�of�history,�philosophy,�explica�ve� understanding�of�literature�and�of�any�art,�and�indeed�for�the�explana�on�of� language�(including�oral�speech)�itself.”33�The�ability�to�write�is�“u�erly�invaluable� and�indeed�essen�al�for�the�realiza�on�of�fuller,�interior,�human�poten�als,”�Ong� concluded.�“Wri�ng�heightens�consciousness.”34

In�Plato’s��me,�and�for�centuries�a�erward,�that�heightened�consciousness�was� reserved�for�an�elite.�Before�the�cogni�ve�bene�ts�of�the�alphabet�could�spread�to� the�masses,�another�set�of�intellectual�technologies—those�involved�in�the�

transcrip�on,�produc�on,�and�distribu�on�of�wri�en�works—would�have�to�be� invented.

THE�DEEPENING�PAGE

When�people��rst�began�wri�ng�things�down,�they’d�scratch�their�marks�on� anything�that�happened�to�be�lying�around—smooth-faced�rocks,�scraps�of�wood,� strips�of�bark,�bits�of�cloth,�pieces�of�bone,�chunks�of�broken�po�ery.�Such� ephemera�were�the�original�media�for�the�wri�en�word.�They�had�the�advantages�of� being�cheap�and�plen�ful�but�the�disadvantages�of�being�small,�irregular�in�shape,� and�easily�lost,�broken,�or�otherwise�damaged.�They�were�suitable�for�inscrip�ons� and�labels,�perhaps�a�brief�note�or�no�ce,�but�not�much�else.�No�one�would�think�to� commit�a�deep�thought�or�a�long�argument�to�a�pebble�or�a�potsherd.

The�Sumerians�were�the��rst�to�use�a�specialized�medium�for�wri�ng.�They�etched� their�cuneiform�into�carefully�prepared�tablets�made�of�clay,�an�abundant�resource� in�Mesopotamia.�They�would�wash�a�handful�of�clay,�form�it�into�a�thin�block,� inscribe�it�with�a�sharpened�reed,�and�then�dry�it�under�the�sun�or�in�a�kiln.� Government�records,�business�correspondence,�commercial�receipts,�and�legal� agreements�were�all�wri�en�on�the�durable�tablets,�as�were�lengthier,�more�literary� works,�such�as�historical�and�religious�stories�and�accounts�of�contemporary�events.� To�accommodate�the�longer�pieces�of�wri�ng,�the�Sumerians�would�o�en�number� their�tablets,�crea�ng�a�sequence�of�clay�“pages”�that�an�cipated�the�form�of�the� modern�book.�Clay�tablets�would�con�nue�to�be�a�popular�wri�ng�medium�for� centuries,�but�because�preparing,�carrying,�and�storing�them�were�di�cult,�they� tended�to�be�reserved�for�formal�documents�wri�en�by�o�cial�scribes.�Wri�ng�and� reading�remained�arcane�talents.

Around�2500�BC,�the�Egyp�ans�began�manufacturing�scrolls�from�the�papyrus�plants� that�grew�throughout�the�Nile�delta.�They�would�strip��bers�from�the�plants,�lay�the� �bers�in�a�crisscross�pa�ern,�and�dampen�them�to�release�their�sap.�The�resin�glued� the��bers�into�a�sheet,�which�was�then�hammered�to�form�a�smooth,�white�wri�ng� surface�not�all�that�di�erent�from�the�paper�we�use�today.�As�many�as�twenty�of�the� sheets�would�be�glued�end�to�end�into�long�scrolls,�and�the�scrolls,�like�the�earlier� clay�tablets,�would�some�mes�be�arranged�in�numbered�sequences.�Flexible,� portable,�and�easy�to�store,�scrolls�o�ered�considerable�advantages�over�the�much� heavier�tablets.�The�Greeks�and�the�Romans�adopted�scrolls�as�their�primary�wri�ng� medium,�though�parchment,�made�of�goat�or�sheep�hide,�eventually�replaced� papyrus�as�the�material�of�choice�in�making�them.

Scrolls�were�expensive.�Papyrus�had�to�be�carted�in�from�Egypt,�and�turning�skins� into�parchment�was�a��me-consuming�job�requiring�a�certain�amount�of�skill.�As�

wri�ng�became�more�common,�demand�grew�for�a�cheaper�op�on,�something�that� schoolboys�could�use�to�take�notes�and�write�composi�ons.�That�need�spurred�the� development�of�a�new�wri�ng�device,�the�wax�tablet.�It�consisted�of�a�simple� wooden�frame��lled�with�a�layer�of�wax.�Le�ers�were�scratched�into�the�wax�with�a� new�kind�of�stylus�that�had,�in�addi�on�to�the�sharpened�wri�ng��p,�a�blunt�end�for� scraping�the�wax�clean.�Because�words�could�be�erased�easily�from�the�tablets,� students�and�other�writers�were�able�to�use�them�over�and�over�again,�making�them� far�more�economical�than�scrolls.�Though�not�a�very�sophis�cated�tool,�the�wax� tablet�played�a�major�role�in�turning�wri�ng�and�reading�from�specialized,�formal� cra�s�into�casual,�everyday�ac�vi�es—for�literate�ci�zens,�anyway.

The�wax�tablet�was�important�for�another�reason.�When�the�ancients�wanted�an� inexpensive�way�to�store�or�distribute�a�lengthy�text,�they�would�lash�a�few�tablets� together�with�a�strip�of�leather�or�cloth.�These�bound�tablets,�popular�in�their�own� right,�served�as�a�model�for�an�anonymous�Roman�ar�san�who,�shortly�a�er�the� �me�of�Christ,�sewed�several�sheets�of�parchment�between�a�pair�of�rigid�rectangles� of�leather�to�create�the��rst�real�book.�Though�a�few�centuries�would�pass�before� the�bound�book,�or�codex,�supplanted�the�scroll,�the�bene�ts�of�the�technology� must�have�been�clear�to�even�its�earliest�users.�Because�a�scribe�could�write�on�both� sides�of�a�codex�page,�a�book�required�much�less�papyrus�or�parchment�than�did�a� one-sided�scroll,�reducing�the�cost�of�produc�on�substan�ally.�Books�were�also� much�more�compact,�making�them�easier�to�transport�and�to�conceal.�They�quickly� became�the�format�of�choice�for�publishing�early�Bibles�and�other�controversial� works.�Books�were�easier�to�navigate�too.�Finding�a�par�cular�passage,�an�awkward� task�with�a�long�roll�of�text,�became�a�simple�ma�er�of��ipping�back�and�forth� through�a�set�of�pages.

Even�as�the�technology�of�the�book�sped�ahead,�the�legacy�of�the�oral�world� con�nued�to�shape�the�way�words�on�pages�were�wri�en�and�read.�Silent�reading� was�largely�unknown�in�the�ancient�world.�The�new�codices,�like�the�tablets�and� scrolls�that�preceded�them,�were�almost�always�read�aloud,�whether�the�reader�was� in�a�group�or�alone.�In�a�famous�passage�in�his�Confessions,�Saint�Augus�ne� described�the�surprise�he�felt�when,�around�the�year�AD�380,�he�saw�Ambrose,�the� bishop�of�Milan,�reading�silently�to�himself.�“When�he�read,�his�eyes�scanned�the� page�and�his�heart�explored�the�meaning,�but�his�voice�was�silent�and�his�tongue� was�s�ll,”�wrote�Augus�ne.�“O�en,�when�we�came�to�see�him,�we�found�him� reading�like�this�in�silence,�for�he�never�read�aloud.”�Ba�ed�by�such�peculiar� behavior,�Augus�ne�wondered�whether�Ambrose�“needed�to�spare�his�voice,�which� quite�easily�became�hoarse.”1

It’s�hard�for�us�to�imagine�today,�but�no�spaces�separated�the�words�in�early�wri�ng.� In�the�books�inked�by�scribes,�words�ran�together�without�any�break�across�every�

line�on�every�page,�in�what’s�now�referred�to�as�scriptura�con�nua.�The�lack�of�word� separa�on�re�ected�language’s�origins�in�speech.�When�we�talk,�we�don’t�insert� pauses�between�each�word—long�stretches�of�syllables��ow�unbroken�from�our�lips.� It�would�never�have�crossed�the�minds�of�the��rst�writers�to�put�blank�spaces� between�words.�They�were�simply�transcribing�speech,�wri�ng�what�their�ears�told� them�to�write.�(Today,�when�young�children�begin�to�write,�they�also�run�their� words�together.�Like�the�early�scribes,�they�write�what�they�hear.)�The�scribes�didn’t� pay�much�a�en�on�to�the�order�of�the�words�in�a�sentence�either.�In�spoken� language,�meaning�had�always�been�conveyed�mainly�through�in�ec�on,�the�pa�ern� of�stresses�a�speaker�places�on�syllables,�and�that�oral�tradi�on�con�nued�to�govern� wri�ng.�In�interpre�ng�the�wri�ng�in�books�through�the�early�Middle�Ages,�readers� would�not�have�been�able�to�use�word�order�as�a�signal�of�meaning.�The�rules�hadn’t� been�invented�yet.2

The�lack�of�word�separa�on,�combined�with�the�absence�of�word�order�conven�ons,� placed�an�“extra�cogni�ve�burden”�on�ancient�readers,�explains�John�Saenger�in� Space�between�Words,�his�history�of�the�scribal�book.3�Readers’�eyes�had�to�move� slowly�and�hal�ngly�across�the�lines�of�text,�pausing�frequently�and�o�en�backing�up� to�the�start�of�a�sentence,�as�their�minds�struggled�to��gure�out�where�one�word� ended�and�a�new�one�began�and�what�role�each�word�was�playing�in�the�meaning�of� the�sentence.�Reading�was�like�working�out�a�puzzle.�The�brain’s�en�re�cortex,� including�the�forward�areas�associated�with�problem�solving�and�decision�making,� would�have�been�buzzing�with�neural�ac�vity.

The�slow,�cogni�vely�intensive�parsing�of�text�made�the�reading�of�books�laborious.� It�was�also�the�reason�no�one,�other�than�the�odd�case�like�Ambrose,�read�silently.� Sounding�out�the�syllables�was�crucial�to�deciphering�the�wri�ng.�Those�constraints,� which�would�seem�intolerable�to�us�today,�didn’t�ma�er�much�in�a�culture�s�ll� rooted�in�orality.�“Because�those�who�read�relished�the�melli�uous�metrical�and� accentual�pa�erns�of�pronounced�text,”�writes�Saenger,�“the�absence�of�interword� space�in�Greek�and�La�n�was�not�perceived�to�be�an�impediment�to�e�ec�ve� reading,�as�it�would�be�to�the�modern�reader,�who�strives�to�read�swi�ly.”�4�Besides,� most�literate�Greeks�and�Romans�were�more�than�happy�to�have�their�books�read�to� them�by�slaves.

NOT�UNTIL�WELL�a�er�the�collapse�of�the�Roman�Empire�did�the�form�of�wri�en� language��nally�break�from�the�oral�tradi�on�and�begin�to�accommodate�the�unique� needs�of�readers.�As�the�Middle�Ages�progressed,�the�number�of�literate�people— cenobites,�students,�merchants,�aristocrats—grew�steadily,�and�the�availability�of� books�expanded.�Many�of�the�new�books�were�of�a�technical�nature,�intended�not� for�leisurely�or�scholarly�reading�but�for�prac�cal�reference.�People�began�to�want,� and�to�need,�to�read�quickly�and�privately.�Reading�was�becoming�less�an�act�of�

performance�and�more�a�means�of�personal�instruc�on�and�improvement.�That�shi�� led�to�the�most�important�transforma�on�of�wri�ng�since�the�inven�on�of�the� phone�c�alphabet.�By�the�start�of�the�second�millennium,�writers�had�begun�to� impose�rules�of�word�order�on�their�work,���ng�words�into�a�predictable,� standardized�system�of�syntax.�At�the�same��me,�beginning�in�Ireland�and�England� and�then�spreading�throughout�the�rest�of�western�Europe,�scribes�started�dividing� sentences�into�individual�words,�separated�by�spaces.�By�the�thirteenth�century,� scriptura�con�nua�was�largely�obsolete,�for�La�n�texts�as�well�as�those�wri�en�in�the� vernacular.�Punctua�on�marks,�which�further�eased�the�work�of�the�reader,�began� to�become�common�too.�Wri�ng,�for�the��rst��me,�was�aimed�as�much�at�the�eye�as� the�ear.

It�would�be�di�cult�to�overstate�the�signi�cance�of�these�changes.�The�emergence� of�word�order�standards�sparked�a�revolu�on�in�the�structure�of�language—one� that,�as�Saenger�notes,�“was�inherently�an�the�cal�to�the�ancient�quest�for�metrical� and�rhythmical�eloquence.”5�The�placing�of�spaces�between�words�alleviated�the� cogni�ve�strain�involved�in�deciphering�text,�making�it�possible�for�people�to�read� quickly,�silently,�and�with�greater�comprehension.�Such��uency�had�to�be�learned.�It� required�complex�changes�in�the�circuitry�of�the�brain,�as�contemporary�studies�of� young�readers�reveal.�The�accomplished�reader,�Maryanne�Wolf�explains,�develops� specialized�brain�regions�geared�to�the�rapid�deciphering�of�text.�The�areas�are� wired�“to�represent�the�important�visual,�phonological,�and�seman�c�informa�on� and�to�retrieve�this�informa�on�at�lightning�speed.”�The�visual�cortex,�for�example,� develops�“a�veritable�collage”�of�neuron�assemblies�dedicated�to�recognizing,�in�a� ma�er�of�milliseconds,�“visual�images�of�le�ers,�le�er�pa�erns,�and�words.”6�As�the� brain�becomes�more�adept�at�decoding�text,�turning�what�had�been�a�demanding� problem-solving�exercise�into�a�process�that�is�essen�ally�automa�c,�it�can�dedicate� more�resources�to�the�interpreta�on�of�meaning.�What�we�today�call�“deep� reading”�becomes�possible.�By�“altering�the�neurophysiological�process�of�reading,”� word�separa�on�“freed�the�intellectual�facul�es�of�the�reader,”�Saenger�writes;� “even�readers�of�modest�intellectual�capacity�could�read�more�swi�ly,�and�they� could�understand�an�increasing�number�of�inherently�more�di�cult�texts.”7

Readers�didn’t�just�become�more�e�cient.�They�also�became�more�a�en�ve.�To� read�a�long�book�silently�required�an�ability�to�concentrate�intently�over�a�long� period�of��me,�to�“lose�oneself”�in�the�pages�of�a�book,�as�we�now�say.�Developing� such�mental�discipline�was�not�easy.�The�natural�state�of�the�human�brain,�like�that� of�the�brains�of�most�of�our�rela�ves�in�the�animal�kingdom,�is�one�of� distractedness.�Our�predisposi�on�is�to�shi��our�gaze,�and�hence�our�a�en�on,�from� one�object�to�another,�to�be�aware�of�as�much�of�what’s�going�on�around�us�as� possible.�Neuroscien�sts�have�discovered�primi�ve�“bo�om-up�mechanisms”�in�our� brains�that,�as�the�authors�of�a�2004�ar�cle�in�Current�Biology�put�it,�“operate�on�

raw�sensory�input,�rapidly�and�involuntarily�shi�ing�a�en�on�to�salient�visual� features�of�poten�al�importance.”8�What�draws�our�a�en�on�most�of�all�is�any�hint� of�a�change�in�our�surroundings.�“Our�senses�are��nely�a�uned�to�change,”�explains� Maya�Pines�of�the�Howard�Hughes�Medical�Ins�tute.�“Sta�onary�or�unchanging� objects�become�part�of�the�scenery�and�are�mostly�unseen.”�But�as�soon�as� “something�in�the�environment�changes,�we�need�to�take�no�ce�because�it�might� mean�danger—or�opportunity.”�9�Our�fast-paced,�re�exive�shi�s�in�focus�were�once� crucial�to�our�survival.�They�reduced�the�odds�that�a�predator�would�take�us�by� surprise�or�that�we’d�overlook�a�nearby�source�of�food.�For�most�of�history,�the� normal�path�of�human�thought�was�anything�but�linear.

To�read�a�book�was�to�prac�ce�an�unnatural�process�of�thought,�one�that�demanded� sustained,�unbroken�a�en�on�to�a�single,�sta�c�object.�It�required�readers�to�place� themselves�at�what�T.�S.�Eliot,�in�Four�Quartets,�would�call�“the�s�ll�point�of�the� turning�world.”�They�had�to�train�their�brains�to�ignore�everything�else�going�on� around�them,�to�resist�the�urge�to�let�their�focus�skip�from�one�sensory�cue�to� another.�They�had�to�forge�or�strengthen�the�neural�links�needed�to�counter�their� ins�nc�ve�distractedness,�applying�greater�“top-down�control”�over�their� a�en�on.10�“The�ability�to�focus�on�a�single�task,�rela�vely�uninterrupted,”�writes� Vaughan�Bell,�a�research�psychologist�at�King’s�College�London,�represents�a� “strange�anomaly�in�the�history�of�our�psychological�development.”11

Many�people�had,�of�course,�cul�vated�a�capacity�for�sustained�a�en�on�long� before�the�book�or�even�the�alphabet�came�along.�The�hunter,�the�cra�sman,�the� asce�c—all�had�to�train�their�brains�to�control�and�concentrate�their�a�en�on.� What�was�so�remarkable�about�book�reading�was�that�the�deep�concentra�on�was� combined�with�the�highly�ac�ve�and�e�cient�deciphering�of�text�and�interpreta�on� of�meaning.�The�reading�of�a�sequence�of�printed�pages�was�valuable�not�just�for�the� knowledge�readers�acquired�from�the�author’s�words�but�for�the�way�those�words� set�o��intellectual�vibra�ons�within�their�own�minds.�In�the�quiet�spaces�opened�up� by�the�prolonged,�undistracted�reading�of�a�book,�people�made�their�own� associa�ons,�drew�their�own�inferences�and�analogies,�fostered�their�own�ideas.� They�thought�deeply�as�they�read�deeply.

Even�the�earliest�silent�readers�recognized�the�striking�change�in�their�consciousness� that�took�place�as�they�immersed�themselves�in�the�pages�of�a�book.�The�medieval� bishop�Isaac�of�Syria�described�how,�whenever�he�read�to�himself,�“as�in�a�dream,�I� enter�a�state�when�my�sense�and�thoughts�are�concentrated.�Then,�when�with� prolonging�of�this�silence�the�turmoil�of�memories�is�s�lled�in�my�heart,�ceaseless� waves�of�joy�are�sent�me�by�inner�thoughts,�beyond�expecta�on�suddenly�arising�to� delight�my�heart.”12�Reading�a�book�was�a�medita�ve�act,�but�it�didn’t�involve�a� clearing�of�the�mind.�It�involved�a��lling,�or�replenishing,�of�the�mind.�Readers�

disengaged�their�a�en�on�from�the�outward��ow�of�passing�s�muli�in�order�to� engage�it�more�deeply�with�an�inward��ow�of�words,�ideas,�and�emo�ons.�That�was —and�is—the�essence�of�the�unique�mental�process�of�deep�reading.�It�was�the� technology�of�the�book�that�made�this�“strange�anomaly”�in�our�psychological� history�possible.�The�brain�of�the�book�reader�was�more�than�a�literate�brain.�It�was� a�literary�brain.

The�changes�in�wri�en�language�liberated�the�writer�as�well�as�the�reader.�Scriptura� con�nua�wasn’t�just�a�nuisance�to�decipher;�it�was�a�trial�to�write.�To�escape�the� drudgery,�writers�would�usually�dictate�their�works�to�a�professional�scribe.�As�soon� as�the�introduc�on�of�word�spaces�made�wri�ng�easier,�authors�took�up�pens�and� began�pu�ng�their�words�onto�the�page�themselves,�in�private.�Their�works� immediately�became�more�personal�and�more�adventurous.�They�began�to�give� voice�to�unconven�onal,�skep�cal,�and�even�here�cal�and�sedi�ous�ideas,�pushing� the�bounds�of�knowledge�and�culture.�Working�alone�in�his�chambers,�the� Benedic�ne�monk�Guibert�of�Nogent�had�the�con�dence�to�compose�unorthodox� interpreta�ons�of�scripture,�vivid�accounts�of�his�dreams,�even�ero�c�poetry—things� he�would�never�have�wri�en�had�he�been�required�to�dictate�them�to�a�scribe.� When,�late�in�his�life,�he�lost�his�sight�and�had�to�go�back�to�dicta�on,�he�complained� of�having�to�write�“only�by�voice,�without�the�hand,�without�the�eyes.”13

Authors�also�began�to�revise�and�edit�their�works�heavily,�something�that�dicta�on� had�o�en�precluded.�That,�too,�altered�the�form�and�the�content�of�wri�ng.�For�the� �rst��me,�explains�Saenger,�a�writer�“could�see�his�manuscript�as�a�whole�and�by� means�of�cross-references�develop�internal�rela�onships�and�eliminate�the� redundancies�common�to�the�dictated�literature”�of�the�earlier�Middle�Ages.14�The� arguments�in�books�became�longer�and�clearer,�as�well�as�more�complex�and�more� challenging,�as�writers�strived�self-consciously�to�re�ne�their�ideas�and�their�logic.�By� the�end�of�the�fourteenth�century,�wri�en�works�were�o�en�being�divided�into� paragraphs�and�chapters,�and�they�some�mes�included�tables�of�contents�to�help� guide�the�reader�through�their�increasingly�elaborate�structures.15�There�had,�of� course,�been�sensi�ve�and�self-conscious�prose�and�verse�stylists�in�the�past,�as� Plato’s�dialogues�elegantly�demonstrate,�but�the�new�wri�ng�conven�ons�greatly� expanded�the�produc�on�of�literary�works,�par�cularly�those�composed�in�the� vernacular.

The�advances�in�book�technology�changed�the�personal�experience�of�reading�and� wri�ng.�They�also�had�social�consequences.�The�broader�culture�began�to�mold� itself,�in�ways�both�subtle�and�obvious,�around�the�prac�ce�of�silent�book�reading.� The�nature�of�educa�on�and�scholarship�changed,�as�universi�es�began�to�stress� private�reading�as�an�essen�al�complement�to�classroom�lectures.�Libraries�began�to� play�much�more�central�roles�in�university�life�and,�more�generally,�in�the�life�of�the�

city.�Library�architecture�evolved�too.�Private�cloisters�and�carrels,�tailored�to� accommodate�vocal�reading,�were�torn�out�and�replaced�by�large�public�rooms� where�students,�professors,�and�other�patrons�sat�together�at�long�tables�reading� silently�to�themselves.�Reference�books�such�as�dic�onaries,�glossaries,�and� concordances�became�important�as�aids�to�reading.�Copies�of�the�precious�texts� were�o�en�chained�to�the�library�reading�tables.�To��ll�the�increasing�demand�for� books,�a�publishing�industry�started�to�take�shape.�Book�produc�on,�long�the�realm� of�the�religious�scribe�working�in�a�monastery’s�scriptorium,�started�to�be� centralized�in�secular�workshops,�where�professional�scribes�worked�for�pay�under� the�direc�on�of�the�owner.�A�lively�market�for�used�books�materialized.�For�the��rst� �me�in�history,�books�had�set�prices.16

For�centuries,�the�technology�of�wri�ng�had�re�ected,�and�reinforced,�the� intellectual�ethic�of�the�oral�culture�in�which�it�arose.�The�wri�ng�and�reading�of� tablets,�scrolls,�and�early�codices�had�stressed�the�communal�development�and� propaga�on�of�knowledge.�Individual�crea�vity�had�remained�subordinate�to�the� needs�of�the�group.�Wri�ng�had�remained�more�a�means�of�recording�than�a� method�of�composi�on.�Now,�wri�ng�began�to�take�on,�and�to�disseminate,�a�new� intellectual�ethic:�the�ethic�of�the�book.�The�development�of�knowledge�became�an� increasingly�private�act,�with�each�reader�crea�ng,�in�his�own�mind,�a�personal� synthesis�of�the�ideas�and�informa�on�passed�down�through�the�wri�ngs�of�other� thinkers.�The�sense�of�individualism�strengthened.�“Silent�reading,”�the�novelist�and� historian�James�Carroll�has�noted,�is�“both�the�sign�of�and�a�means�to�self- awareness,�with�the�knower�taking�responsibility�for�what�is�known.”17�Quiet,� solitary�research�became�a�prerequisite�for�intellectual�achievement.�Originality�of� thought�and�crea�vity�of�expression�became�the�hallmarks�of�the�model�mind.�The� con�ict�between�the�orator�Socrates�and�the�writer�Plato�had�at�last�been�decided— in�Plato’s�favor.

But�the�victory�was�incomplete.�Because�handwri�en�codices�remained�costly�and� scarce,�the�intellectual�ethic�of�the�book,�and�the�mind�of�the�deep�reader,� con�nued�to�be�restricted�to�a�rela�vely�small�group�of�privileged�ci�zens.�The� alphabet,�a�medium�of�language,�had�found�its�own�ideal�medium�in�the�book,�a� medium�of�wri�ng.�Books,�however,�had�yet�to��nd�their�ideal�medium—the� technology�that�would�allow�them�to�be�produced�and�distributed�cheaply,�quickly,� and�in�abundance.

SOMETIME�AROUND�1445,�a�German�goldsmith�named�Johannes�Gutenberg�le�� Strasbourg,�where�he�had�been�living�for�several�years,�and�followed�the�Rhine�River� back�to�the�city�of�his�birth,�Mainz.�He�was�carrying�a�secret—a�big�one.�For�at�least� ten�years,�he�had�been�working�covertly�on�several�inven�ons�that�he�believed� would,�in�combina�on,�form�the�basis�of�an�altogether�new�sort�of�publishing�

business.�He�saw�an�opportunity�to�automate�the�produc�on�of�books�and�other� wri�en�works,�replacing�the�venerable�scribe�with�a�newfangled�prin�ng�machine.� A�er�securing�two�sizable�loans�from�Johann�Fust,�a�prosperous�neighbor,� Gutenberg�set�up�a�shop�in�Mainz,�bought�some�tools�and�materials,�and�set�to� work.�Pu�ng�his�metalworking�skills�to�use,�he�created�small,�adjustable�molds�for� cas�ng�alphabe�cal�le�ers�of�uniform�height�but�varying�width�out�of�a�molten� metal�alloy.�The�cast�le�ers,�or�movable�type,�could�be�arranged�quickly�into�a�page� of�text�for�prin�ng�and�then,�when�the�job�was�done,�disassembled�and�reset�for�a� new�page.18�Gutenberg�also�developed�a�re�ned�version�of�a�wooden-screw�press,� used�at�the��me�to�crush�grapes�for�wine,�that�was�able�to�transfer�the�image�of�the� type�onto�a�sheet�of�parchment�or�paper�without�smudging�the�le�ers.�And�he� invented�the�third�cri�cal�element�of�his�prin�ng�system:�an�oil-based�ink�that�would� adhere�to�the�metal�type.

Having�built�the�le�erpress,�Gutenberg�quickly�put�it�to�use�prin�ng�indulgences�for� the�Catholic�Church.�The�job�paid�well,�but�it�wasn’t�the�work�Gutenberg�had�in�mind� for�his�new�machine.�He�had�much�greater�ambi�ons.�Drawing�on�Fust’s�funds,�he� began�to�prepare�his��rst�major�work:�the�magni�cent,�two-volume�edi�on�of�the� Bible�that�would�come�to�bear�his�name.�Spanning�twelve�hundred�pages,�each� composed�of�two�forty-two-line�columns,�the�Gutenberg�Bible�was�printed�in�a� heavy�Gothic�typeface�painstakingly�designed�to�imitate�the�handwri�ng�of�the�best� German�scribes.�The�Bible,�which�took�at�least�three�years�to�produce,�was� Gutenberg’s�triumph.�It�was�also�his�undoing.�In�1455,�having�printed�just�two� hundred�copies,�he�ran�out�of�money.�Unable�to�pay�the�interest�on�his�loans,�he� was�forced�to�hand�his�press,�type,�and�ink�over�to�Fust�and�abandon�the�prin�ng� trade.�Fust,�who�had�made�his�fortune�through�a�successful�career�as�a�merchant,� proved�to�be�as�adept�at�the�business�of�prin�ng�as�Gutenberg�had�been�at�its� mechanics.�Together�with�Peter�Schoe�er,�one�of�Gutenberg’s�more�talented� employees�(and�a�former�scribe�himself),�Fust�set�the�opera�on�on�a�pro�table� course,�organizing�a�sales�force�and�publishing�a�variety�of�books�that�sold�widely� throughout�Germany�and�France.19

Although�Gutenberg�would�not�share�in�its�rewards,�his�le�erpress�would�become� one�of�the�most�important�inven�ons�in�history.�With�remarkable�speed,�at�least�by� medieval�standards,�movable-type�prin�ng�“changed�the�face�and�condi�on�of� things�all�over�the�world,”�Francis�Bacon�wrote�in�his�1620�book�Novum�Organum,� “so�that�no�empire�or�sect�or�star�seems�to�have�exercised�a�greater�power�and� in�uence�on�human�a�airs.”20�(The�only�other�inven�ons�that�Bacon�felt�had�as� great�an�impact�as�the�le�erpress�were�gunpowder�and�the�compass.)�By�turning�a� manual�cra��into�a�mechanical�industry,�Gutenberg�had�changed�the�economics�of� prin�ng�and�publishing.�Large�edi�ons�of�perfect�copies�could�be�mass-produced� quickly�by�a�few�workers.�Books�went�from�being�expensive,�scarce�commodi�es�to�

being�a�ordable,�plen�ful�ones.

In�1483,�a�prin�ng�shop�in�Florence,�run�by�nuns�from�the�Convent�of�San�Jacopo�di� Ripoli,�charged�three��orins�for�prin�ng�1,025�copies�of�a�new�transla�on�of�Plato’s� Dialogues.�A�scribe�would�have�charged�about�one��orin�for�copying�the�work,�but� he�would�have�produced�only�a�single�copy.21�The�steep�reduc�on�in�the�cost�of� manufacturing�books�was�ampli�ed�by�the�growing�use�of�paper,�an�inven�on� imported�from�China,�in�place�of�more�costly�parchment.�As�book�prices�fell,� demand�surged,�spurring,�in�turn,�a�rapid�expansion�in�supply.�New�edi�ons��ooded� the�markets�of�Europe.�According�to�one�es�mate,�the�number�of�books�produced�in� the���y�years�following�Gutenberg’s�inven�on�equaled�the�number�produced�by� European�scribes�during�the�preceding�thousand�years.22�The�sudden�prolifera�on� of�once-rare�books�struck�people�of�the��me�“as�su�ciently�remarkable�to�suggest� supernatural�interven�on,”�reports�Elizabeth�Eisenstein�in�The�Prin�ng�Press�as�an� Agent�of�Change.23�When�Johann�Fust�carried�a�large�supply�of�printed�books�into� Paris�on�an�early�sales�trip,�he�was�reportedly�run�out�of�town�by�the�gendarmes�on� suspicion�of�being�in�league�with�the�devil.24

Fears�of�satanic�in�uence�quickly�dissipated�as�people�rushed�to�buy�and�read�the� inexpensive�products�of�the�le�erpress.�When,�in�1501,�the�Italian�printer�Aldus� Manu�us�introduced�the�pocket-sized�octavo�format,�considerably�smaller�than�the� tradi�onal�folio�and�quarto,�books�became�even�more�a�ordable,�portable,�and� personal.�Just�as�the�miniaturiza�on�of�the�clock�made�everyone�a��mekeeper,�so� the�miniaturiza�on�of�the�book�helped�weave�book-reading�into�the�fabric�of� everyday�life.�It�was�no�longer�just�scholars�and�monks�who�sat�reading�words�in� quiet�rooms.�Even�a�person�of�fairly�modest�means�could�begin�to�assemble�a�library� of�several�volumes,�making�it�possible�not�only�to�read�broadly�but�to�draw� comparisons�between�di�erent�works.�“All�the�world�is�full�of�knowing�men,�of�most� learned�Schoolmasters,�and�vast�Libraries,”�exclaimed�the��tle�character�of�Rabelais’� 1534�best�seller�Gargantua,�“and�it�appears�to�me�as�a�truth,�that�neither�in�Plato’s� �me,�nor�Cicero’s,�nor�Papinian’s,�there�was�ever�such�conveniency�for�studying,�as� we�see�at�this�day�there�is.”25

A�virtuous�cycle�had�been�set�in�mo�on.�The�growing�availability�of�books��red�the� public’s�desire�for�literacy,�and�the�expansion�of�literacy�further�s�mulated�the� demand�for�books.�The�prin�ng�industry�boomed.�By�the�end�of�the���eenth� century,�nearly�250�towns�in�Europe�had�print�shops,�and�some�12�million�volumes� had�already�come�o��their�presses.�The�sixteenth�century�saw�Gutenberg’s� technology�leap�from�Europe�to�Asia,�the�Middle�East,�and,�when�the�Spanish�set�up� a�press�in�Mexico�City�in�1539,�the�Americas.�By�the�start�of�the�seventeenth� century,�le�erpresses�were�everywhere,�producing�not�only�books�but�newspapers,� scien��c�journals,�and�a�variety�of�other�periodicals.�The��rst�great��owering�of�

printed�literature�arrived,�with�works�by�such�masters�as�Shakespeare,�Cervantes,� Molière,�and�Milton,�not�to�men�on�Bacon�and�Descartes,�entering�the�inventories� of�booksellers�and�the�libraries�of�readers.

It�wasn’t�just�contemporary�works�that�were�coming�o��the�presses.�Printers,� striving�to��ll�the�public’s�demand�for�inexpensive�reading�material,�produced�large� edi�ons�of�the�classics,�both�in�the�original�Greek�and�La�n�and�in�transla�on.� Although�most�of�the�printers�were�mo�vated�by�the�desire�to�turn�an�easy�pro�t,� the�distribu�on�of�the�older�texts�helped�give�intellectual�depth�and�historical� con�nuity�to�the�emerging�book-centered�culture.�As�Eisenstein�writes,�the�printer� who�“duplicated�a�seemingly�an�quated�backlist”�may�have�been�lining�his�own� pockets,�but�in�the�process�he�gave�readers�“a�richer,�more�varied�diet�than�had� been�provided�by�the�scribe.”26

Along�with�the�high-minded�came�the�low-minded.�Tawdry�novels,�quack�theories,� gu�er�journalism,�propaganda,�and,�of�course,�reams�of�pornography�poured�into� the�marketplace�and�found�eager�buyers�at�every�sta�on�in�society.�Priests�and� poli�cians�began�to�wonder�whether,�as�England’s��rst�o�cial�book�censor�put�it�in� 1660,�“more�mischief�than�advantage�were�not�occasion’d�to�the�Chris�an�world�by� the�Inven�on�of�Typography.”27�The�famed�Spanish�drama�st�Lope�de�Vega� expressed�the�feelings�of�many�a�grandee�when,�in�his�1612�play�All�Ci�zens�Are� Soldiers,�he�wrote:

So�many�books—so�much�confusion!

All�around�us�an�ocean�of�print

And�most�of�it�covered�in�froth.28

But�the�froth�itself�was�vital.�Far�from�dampening�the�intellectual�transforma�on� wrought�by�the�printed�book,�it�magni�ed�it.�By�accelera�ng�the�spread�of�books� into�popular�culture�and�making�them�a�mainstay�of�leisure��me,�the�cruder,� crasser,�and�more�tri�ing�works�also�helped�spread�the�book’s�ethic�of�deep,� a�en�ve�reading.�“The�same�silence,�solitude,�and�contempla�ve�a�tudes� associated�formerly�with�pure�spiritual�devo�on,”�writes�Eisenstein,�“also� accompanies�the�perusal�of�scandal�sheets,�‘lewd�Ballads,’�‘merry�bookes�of�Italie,’� and�other�‘corrupted�tales�in�Inke�and�Paper.’”29�Whether�a�person�is�immersed�in�a� bodice�ripper�or�a�Psalter,�the�synap�c�e�ects�are�largely�the�same.

Not�everyone�became�a�book�reader,�of�course.�Plenty�of�people—the�poor,�the� illiterate,�the�isolated,�the�incurious—never�par�cipated,�at�least�not�directly,�in� Gutenberg’s�revolu�on.�And�even�among�the�most�avid�of�the�book-reading�public,�

many�of�the�old�oral�prac�ces�of�informa�on�exchange�remained�popular.�People� con�nued�to�chat�and�to�argue,�to�a�end�lectures,�speeches,�debates,�and� sermons.30�Such�quali�ca�ons�deserve�note—any�generaliza�on�about�the� adop�on�and�use�of�a�new�technology�will�be�imperfect—but�they�don’t�change�the� fact�that�the�arrival�of�movable-type�prin�ng�was�a�central�event�in�the�history�of� Western�culture�and�the�development�of�the�Western�mind.

“For�the�medieval�type�of�brain,”�writes�J.�Z.�Young,�“making�true�statements� depended�on���ng�sensory�experience�with�the�symbols�of�religion.”�The� le�erpress�changed�that.�“As�books�became�common,�men�could�look�more�directly� at�each�other’s�observa�ons,�with�a�great�increase�in�the�accuracy�and�content�of� the�informa�on�conveyed.”31�Books�allowed�readers�to�compare�their�thoughts�and� experiences�not�just�with�religious�precepts,�whether�embedded�in�symbols�or� voiced�by�the�clergy,�but�with�the�thoughts�and�experiences�of�others.32�The�social� and�cultural�consequences�were�as�widespread�as�they�were�profound,�ranging�from� religious�and�poli�cal�upheaval�to�the�ascendancy�of�the�scien��c�method�as�the� central�means�for�de�ning�truth�and�making�sense�of�existence.�What�was�widely� seen�as�a�new�“Republic�of�Le�ers”�came�into�being,�open�at�least�theore�cally�to� anyone�able�to�exercise,�as�the�Harvard�historian�Robert�Darnton�puts�it,�“the�two� main�a�ributes�of�ci�zenship,�wri�ng�and�reading.”33�The�literary�mind,�once� con�ned�to�the�cloisters�of�the�monastery�and�the�towers�of�the�university,�had� become�the�general�mind.�The�world,�as�Bacon�recognized,�had�been�remade.

THERE�ARE�MANY�kinds�of�reading.�David�Levy,�in�Scrolling�Forward,�a�book�about� our�present-day�transi�on�from�printed�to�electronic�documents,�notes�that�literate� people�“read�all�day�long,�mostly�unconsciously.”�We�glance�at�road�signs,�menus,� headlines,�shopping�lists,�the�labels�of�products�in�stores.�“These�forms�of�reading,”� he�says,�“tend�to�be�shallow�and�of�brief�dura�on.”�They’re�the�types�of�reading�we� share�with�our�distant�ancestors�who�deciphered�the�marks�scratched�on�pebbles� and�potsherds.�But�there�are�also��mes,�Levy�con�nues,�“when�we�read�with�greater� intensity�and�dura�on,�when�we�become�absorbed�in�what�we�are�reading�for� longer�stretches�of��me.�Some�of�us,�indeed,�don’t�just�read�in�this�way�but�think�of� ourselves�as�readers.”34

Wallace�Stevens,�in�the�exquisite�couplets�of�“The�House�Was�Quiet�and�the�World� Was�Calm,”�provides�a�par�cularly�memorable�and�moving�portrayal�of�the�kind�of� reading�Levy�is�talking�about:

The�house�was�quiet�and�the�world�was�calm.

The�reader�became�the�book;�and�summer�night

Was�like�the�conscious�being�of�the�book.

The�house�was�quiet�and�the�world�was�calm.

The�words�were�spoken�as�if�there�was�no�book,

Except�that�the�reader�leaned�above�the�page,

Wanted�to�lean,�wanted�much�most�to�be

The�scholar�to�whom�his�book�is�true,�to�whom

The�summer�night�is�like�a�perfec�on�of�thought.

The�house�was�quiet�because�it�had�to�be.

The�quiet�was�part�of�the�meaning,�part�of�the�mind:

The�access�of�perfec�on�to�the�page.

Stevens’�poem�not�only�describes�deep�reading.�It�demands�deep�reading.�The� apprehension�of�the�poem�requires�the�mind�the�poem�describes.�The�“quiet”�and� the�“calm”�of�the�deep�reader’s�a�en�veness�become�“part�of�the�meaning”�of�the� poem,�forming�the�pathway�through�which�“perfec�on”�of�thought�and�expression� reaches�the�page.�In�the�metaphorical�“summer�night”�of�the�wholly�engaged� intellect,�the�writer�and�the�reader�merge,�together�crea�ng�and�sharing�“the� conscious�being�of�the�book.”

Recent�research�into�the�neurological�e�ects�of�deep�reading�has�added�a�scien��c� gloss�to�Stevens’�lyric.�In�one�fascina�ng�study,�conducted�at�Washington� University’s�Dynamic�Cogni�on�Laboratory�and�published�in�the�journal� Psychological�Science�in�2009,�researchers�used�brain�scans�to�examine�what� happens�inside�people’s�heads�as�they�read��c�on.�They�found�that�“readers� mentally�simulate�each�new�situa�on�encountered�in�a�narra�ve.�Details�about� ac�ons�and�sensa�on�are�captured�from�the�text�and�integrated�with�personal� knowledge�from�past�experiences.”�The�brain�regions�that�are�ac�vated�o�en� “mirror�those�involved�when�people�perform,�imagine,�or�observe�similar�real-world� ac�vi�es.”�Deep�reading,�says�the�study’s�lead�researcher,�Nicole�Speer,�“is�by�no� means�a�passive�exercise.”35�The�reader�becomes�the�book.

The�bond�between�book�reader�and�book�writer�has�always�been�a��ghtly�symbio�c� one,�a�means�of�intellectual�and�ar�s�c�cross-fer�liza�on.�The�words�of�the�writer�

act�as�a�catalyst�in�the�mind�of�the�reader,�inspiring�new�insights,�associa�ons,�and� percep�ons,�some�mes�even�epiphanies.�And�the�very�existence�of�the�a�en�ve,� cri�cal�reader�provides�the�spur�for�the�writer’s�work.�It�gives�the�author�the� con�dence�to�explore�new�forms�of�expression,�to�blaze�di�cult�and�demanding� paths�of�thought,�to�venture�into�uncharted�and�some�mes�hazardous�territory.�“All� great�men�have�wri�en�proudly,�nor�cared�to�explain,”�said�Emerson.�“They�knew� that�the�intelligent�reader�would�come�at�last,�and�would�thank�them.”36

Our�rich�literary�tradi�on�is�unthinkable�without�the�in�mate�exchanges�that�take� place�between�reader�and�writer�within�the�crucible�of�a�book.�A�er�Gutenberg’s� inven�on,�the�bounds�of�language�expanded�rapidly�as�writers,�compe�ng�for�the� eyes�of�ever�more�sophis�cated�and�demanding�readers,�strived�to�express�ideas� and�emo�ons�with�superior�clarity,�elegance,�and�originality.�The�vocabulary�of�the� English�language,�once�limited�to�just�a�few�thousand�words,�expanded�to�upwards� of�a�million�words�as�books�proliferated.37�Many�of�the�new�words�encapsulated� abstract�concepts�that�simply�hadn’t�existed�before.�Writers�experimented�with� syntax�and�dic�on,�opening�new�pathways�of�thought�and�imagina�on.�Readers� eagerly�traveled�down�those�pathways,�becoming�adept�at�following��uid,� elaborate,�and�idiosyncra�c�prose�and�verse.�The�ideas�that�writers�could�express� and�readers�could�interpret�became�more�complex�and�subtle,�as�arguments�wound� their�way�linearly�across�many�pages�of�text.�As�language�expanded,�consciousness� deepened.

The�deepening�extended�beyond�the�page.�It’s�no�exaggera�on�to�say�that�the� wri�ng�and�reading�of�books�enhanced�and�re�ned�people’s�experience�of�life�and� of�nature.�“The�remarkable�virtuosity�displayed�by�new�literary�ar�sts�who�managed� to�counterfeit�taste,�touch,�smell,�or�sound�in�mere�words�required�a�heightened� awareness�and�closer�observa�on�of�sensory�experience�that�was�passed�on�in�turn� to�the�reader,”�writes�Eisenstein.�Like�painters�and�composers,�writers�were�able�“to� alter�percep�on”�in�a�way�“that�enriched�rather�than�stunted�sensuous�response�to� external�s�muli,�expanded�rather�than�contracted�sympathe�c�response�to�the� varie�es�of�human�experience.”38�The�words�in�books�didn’t�just�strengthen� people’s�ability�to�think�abstractly;�they�enriched�people’s�experience�of�the�physical� world,�the�world�outside�the�book.

One�of�the�most�important�lessons�we’ve�learned�from�the�study�of�neuroplas�city� is�that�the�mental�capaci�es,�the�very�neural�circuits,�we�develop�for�one�purpose� can�be�put�to�other�uses�as�well.�As�our�ancestors�imbued�their�minds�with�the� discipline�to�follow�a�line�of�argument�or�narra�ve�through�a�succession�of�printed� pages,�they�became�more�contempla�ve,�re�ec�ve,�and�imagina�ve.�“New�thought� came�more�readily�to�a�brain�that�had�already�learned�how�to�rearrange�itself�to� read,”�says�Maryanne�Wolf;�“the�increasingly�sophis�cated�intellectual�skills�

promoted�by�reading�and�wri�ng�added�to�our�intellectual�repertoire.”39�The�quiet� of�deep�reading�became,�as�Stevens�understood,�“part�of�the�mind.”

Books�weren’t�the�only�reason�that�human�consciousness�was�transformed�during� the�years�following�the�inven�on�of�the�le�erpress—many�other�technologies�and� social�and�demographic�trends�played�important�roles—but�books�were�at�the�very� center�of�the�change.�As�the�book�came�to�be�the�primary�means�of�exchanging� knowledge�and�insight,�its�intellectual�ethic�became�the�founda�on�of�our�culture.� The�book�made�possible�the�delicately�nuanced�self-knowledge�found�in� Wordsworth’s�Prelude�and�Emerson’s�essays�and�the�equally�subtle�understanding� of�social�and�personal�rela�ons�found�in�the�novels�of�Austen,�Flaubert,�and�Henry� James.�Even�the�great�twen�eth-century�experiments�in�nonlinear�narra�ve�by� writers�like�James�Joyce�and�William�Burroughs�would�have�been�unthinkable� without�the�ar�sts’�presump�on�of�a�en�ve,�pa�ent�readers.�When�transcribed�to�a� page,�a�stream�of�consciousness�becomes�literary�and�linear.

The�literary�ethic�was�not�only�expressed�in�what�we�normally�think�of�as�literature.� It�became�the�ethic�of�the�historian,�illumina�ng�works�like�Gibbon’s�Decline�and�Fall� of�the�Roman�Empire.�It�became�the�ethic�of�the�philosopher,�informing�the�ideas�of� Descartes,�Locke,�Kant,�and�Nietzsche.�And,�crucially,�it�became�the�ethic�of�the� scien�st.�One�could�argue�that�the�single�most�in�uen�al�literary�work�of�the� nineteenth�century�was�Darwin’s�On�the�Origin�of�Species.�In�the�twen�eth�century,� the�literary�ethic�ran�through�such�diverse�books�as�Einstein’s�Rela�vity,�Keynes’s� General�Theory�of�Employment,�Interest�and�Money,�Thomas�Kuhn’s�Structure�of� Scien��c�Revolu�ons,�and�Rachel�Carson’s�Silent�Spring.�None�of�these�momentous� intellectual�achievements�would�have�been�possible�without�the�changes�in�reading� and�wri�ng—and�in�perceiving�and�thinking—spurred�by�the�e�cient�reproduc�on� of�long�forms�of�wri�ng�on�printed�pages.

LIKE�OUR�FOREBEARS�during�the�later�years�of�the�Middle�Ages,�we��nd�ourselves� today�between�two�technological�worlds.�A�er�550�years,�the�prin�ng�press�and�its� products�are�being�pushed�from�the�center�of�our�intellectual�life�to�its�edges.�The� shi��began�during�the�middle�years�of�the�twen�eth�century,�when�we�started� devo�ng�more�and�more�of�our��me�and�a�en�on�to�the�cheap,�copious,�and� endlessly�entertaining�products�of�the��rst�wave�of�electric�and�electronic�media:� radio,�cinema,�phonograph,�television.�But�those�technologies�were�always�limited� by�their�inability�to�transmit�the�wri�en�word.�They�could�displace�but�not�replace� the�book.�Culture’s�mainstream�s�ll�ran�through�the�prin�ng�press.

Now�the�mainstream�is�being�diverted,�quickly�and�decisively,�into�a�new�channel.� The�electronic�revolu�on�is�approaching�its�culmina�on�as�the�computer—desktop,� laptop,�handheld—becomes�our�constant�companion�and�the�Internet�becomes�our�

medium�of�choice�for�storing,�processing,�and�sharing�informa�on�in�all�forms,� including�text.�The�new�world�will�remain,�of�course,�a�literate�world,�packed�with� the�familiar�symbols�of�the�alphabet.�We�cannot�go�back�to�the�lost�oral�world,�any� more�than�we�can�turn�the�clock�back�to�a��me�before�the�clock�existed.40�“Wri�ng� and�print�and�the�computer,”�writes�Walter�Ong,�“are�all�ways�of�technologizing�the� word”�and�once�technologized,�the�word�cannot�be�de-technologized.41�But�the� world�of�the�screen,�as�we’re�already�coming�to�understand,�is�a�very�di�erent�place� from�the�world�of�the�page.�A�new�intellectual�ethic�is�taking�hold.�The�pathways�in� our�brains�are�once�again�being�rerouted.

a�digression

on�lee�de�forest�and�his�amazing�audion

OUR�MODERN�MEDIA�spring�from�a�common�source,�an�inven�on�that�is�rarely� men�oned�today�but�that�had�as�decisive�a�role�in�shaping�society�as�the�internal� combus�on�engine�or�the�incandescent�lightbulb.�The�inven�on�was�called�the� Audion.�It�was�the��rst�electronic�audio�ampli�er,�and�the�man�who�created�it�was� Lee�de�Forest.

Even�when�judged�by�the�high�standards�set�by�America’s�mad-genius�inventors,�de� Forest�was�an�oddball.�Nasty,�ill-favored,�and�generally�despised—in�high�school�he� was�voted�“homeliest�boy”�in�his�class—he�was�propelled�by�an�enormous�ego�and� an�equally�out-sized�inferiority�complex.1�When�he�wasn’t�marrying�or�divorcing�a� wife,�aliena�ng�a�colleague,�or�leading�a�business�to�ruin,�he�was�usually�in�court� defending�himself�against�charges�of�fraud�or�patent�infringement—or�pressing�his� own�suit�against�one�of�his�many�enemies.

De�Forest�grew�up�in�Alabama,�the�son�of�a�schoolmaster.�A�er�earning�a�doctorate� in�engineering�from�Yale�in�1896,�he�spent�a�decade��ddling�with�the�latest�radio� and�telegraph�technology,�desperately�seeking�the�breakthrough�that�would�make� his�name�and�fortune.�In�1906,�his�moment�arrived.�Without�quite�knowing�what�he� was�doing,�he�took�a�standard�two-pole�vacuum�tube,�which�sent�an�electric�current� from�one�wire�(the��lament)�to�a�second�(the�plate),�and�he�added�a�third�wire�to�it,� turning�the�diode�into�a�triode.�He�found�that�when�he�sent�a�small�electric�charge� into�the�third�wire—the�grid—it�boosted�the�strength�of�the�current�running� between�the��lament�and�the�plate.�The�device,�he�explained�in�a�patent� applica�on,�could�be�adapted�“for�amplifying�feeble�electric�currents.”2

De�Forest’s�seemingly�modest�inven�on�turned�out�to�be�a�world�changer.�Because� it�could�be�used�to�amplify�an�electrical�signal,�it�could�also�be�used�to�amplify�audio� transmissions�sent�and�received�as�radio�waves.�Up�to�then,�radios�had�been�of�

limited�use�because�their�signals�faded�so�quickly.�With�the�Audion�to�boost�the� signals,�long-distance�wireless�transmissions�became�possible,�se�ng�the�stage�for� radio�broadcas�ng.�The�Audion�became,�as�well,�a�cri�cal�component�of�the�new� telephone�system,�enabling�people�on�opposite�sides�of�the�country,�or�the�world,�to� hear�each�other�talk.

De�Forest�couldn’t�have�known�it�at�the��me,�but�he�had�inaugurated�the�age�of� electronics.�Electric�currents�are,�simply�put,�streams�of�electrons,�and�the�Audion� was�the��rst�device�that�allowed�the�intensity�of�those�streams�to�be�controlled�with� precision.�As�the�twen�eth�century�progressed,�triode�tubes�came�to�form�the� technological�heart�of�the�modern�communica�ons,�entertainment,�and�media� industries.�They�could�be�found�in�radio�transmi�ers�and�receivers,�in�hi-��sets,�in� public�address�systems,�in�guitar�amps.�Arrays�of�tubes�also�served�as�the�processing� units�and�data�storage�systems�in�many�early�digital�computers.�The��rst� mainframes�o�en�had�tens�of�thousands�of�them.�When,�around�1950,�vacuum� tubes�began�to�be�replaced�by�smaller,�cheaper,�and�more�reliable�solid-state� transistors,�the�popularity�of�electronic�appliances�exploded.�In�the�miniaturized� form�of�the�triode�transistor,�Lee�de�Forest’s�inven�on�became�the�workhorse�of�our� informa�on�age.

In�the�end,�de�Forest�wasn’t�quite�sure�whether�to�be�pleased�or�dismayed�by�the� world�he�had�helped�bring�into�being.�In�“Dawn�of�the�Electronic�Age,”�a�1952�ar�cle� he�wrote�for�Popular�Mechanics,�he�crowed�about�his�crea�on�of�the�Audion,� referring�to�it�as�“this�small�acorn�from�which�has�sprung�the�gigan�c�oak�that�is� today�world-embracing.”�At�the�same��me,�he�lamented�the�“moral�depravity”�of� commercial�broadcast�media.�“A�melancholy�view�of�our�na�onal�mental�level�is� obtained�from�a�survey�of�the�moronic�quality�of�the�majority�of�today’s�radio� programs,”�he�wrote.

Looking�ahead�to�future�applica�ons�of�electronics,�he�grew�even�gloomier.�He� believed�that�“electron�physiologists”�would�eventually�be�able�to�monitor�and� analyze�“thought�or�brain�waves,”�allowing�“joy�and�grief�[to]�be�measured�in� de�nite,�quan�ta�ve�units.”�Ul�mately,�he�concluded,�“a�professor�may�be�able�to� implant�knowledge�into�the�reluctant�brains�of�his�22nd-century�pupils.�What� terrifying�poli�cal�possibili�es�may�be�lurking�there!�Let�us�be�thankful�that�such� things�are�only�for�posterity,�not�for�us.”3

A�MEDIUM�OF�THE�MOST�GENERAL�NATURE

In�the�spring�of�1954,�as�the��rst�digital�computers�were�moving�into�mass� produc�on,�the�brilliant�Bri�sh�mathema�cian�Alan�Turing�killed�himself�by�ea�ng�a� cyanide-laced�apple—a�piece�of�fruit�that�had�been�plucked�at�incalculable�cost,�the�

act�begs�us�to�conclude,�from�the�tree�of�knowledge.�Turing,�who�displayed� throughout�his�short�life�what�one�biographer�calls�an�“otherworldly�innocence,”1� had�during�the�Second�World�War�played�a�crucial�part�in�cracking�the�codes�of� Enigma,�the�elaborate�typewriter�that�the�Nazis�used�to�encipher�and�decipher� military�commands�and�other�sensi�ve�messages.�The�breaking�of�Enigma�was�an� epic�achievement�that�helped�turn�the��de�of�the�war�and�ensure�an�Allied�victory,� though�it�didn’t�save�Turing�from�the�humilia�on�of�being�arrested,�a�few�years� later,�for�having�sex�with�another�man.

Today,�Alan�Turing�is�best�remembered�as�the�creator�of�an�imaginary�compu�ng� device�that�an�cipated,�and�served�as�a�blueprint�for,�the�modern�computer.�He�was� just�twenty-four,�a�recently�elected�fellow�at�Cambridge�University,�when�he� introduced�what�would�come�to�be�called�the�Turing�machine�in�a�1936�paper� en�tled�“On�Computable�Numbers,�with�an�Applica�on�to�the� Entscheidungsproblem.”�Turing’s�intent�in�wri�ng�the�paper�was�to�show�that�there� is�no�such�thing�as�a�perfect�system�of�logic�or�mathema�cs—that�there�will�always� be�some�statements�that�cannot�be�proven�either�true�or�false,�that�will�remain� “uncomputable.”�To�help�prove�the�point,�he�conjured�up�a�simple,�digital�calculator� able�to�follow�coded�instruc�ons�and�to�read,�write,�and�erase�symbols.�Such�a� computer,�he�demonstrated,�could�be�programmed�to�perform�the�func�on�of�any� other�informa�on-processing�device.�It�was�a�“universal�machine.”2

In�a�later�paper,�“Compu�ng�Machinery�and�Intelligence,”�Turing�explained�how�the� existence�of�programmable�computers�“has�the�important�consequence�that,� considera�ons�of�speed�apart,�it�is�unnecessary�to�design�various�new�machines�to� do�various�compu�ng�processes.�They�can�all�be�done�with�one�digital�computer,� suitably�programmed�for�each�case.”�What�that�means,�he�concluded,�is�that�“all� digital�computers�are�in�a�sense�equivalent.”3�Turing�was�not�the��rst�person�to� imagine�how�a�programmable�computer�might�work—more�than�a�century�earlier,� another�English�mathema�cian,�Charles�Babbage,�had�drawn�up�plans�for�an� “analy�cal�engine”�that�would�be�“a�machine�of�the�most�general�nature”�4—but� Turing�seems�to�have�been�the��rst�to�understand�the�digital�computer’s�limitless� adaptability.

What�he�could�not�have�an�cipated�was�the�way�his�universal�machine�would,�just�a� few�decades�a�er�his�death,�become�our�universal�medium.�Because�the�di�erent� sorts�of�informa�on�distributed�by�tradi�onal�media—words,�numbers,�sounds,� images,�moving�pictures—can�all�be�translated�into�digital�code,�they�can�all�be� “computed.”�Everything�from�Beethoven’s�Ninth�to�a�porn��ick�can�be�reduced�to�a� string�of�ones�and�zeros�and�processed,�transmi�ed,�and�displayed�or�played�by�a� computer.�Today,�with�the�Internet,�we’re�seeing��rsthand�the�extraordinary� implica�ons�of�Turing’s�discovery.�Constructed�of�millions�of�interconnected�

computers�and�data�banks,�the�Net�is�a�Turing�machine�of�immeasurable�power,�and� it�is,�true�to�form,�subsuming�most�of�our�other�intellectual�technologies.�It’s� becoming�our�typewriter�and�our�prin�ng�press,�our�map�and�our�clock,�our� calculator�and�our�telephone,�our�post�o�ce�and�our�library,�our�radio�and�our�TV.� It’s�even�taking�over�the�func�ons�of�other�computers;�more�and�more�of�our� so�ware�programs�run�through�the�Internet—or�“in�the�cloud,”�as�the�Silicon�Valley� types�say—rather�than�inside�our�home�computers.

As�Turing�pointed�out,�the�limi�ng�factor�of�his�universal�machine�was�speed.�Even� the�earliest�digital�computer�could,�in�theory,�do�any�informa�on-processing�job,�but� a�complicated�task—rendering�a�photograph,�say—would�have�taken�it�far�too�long,� and�cost�far�too�much,�to�be�prac�cable.�A�guy�in�a�darkroom�with�trays�of�chemicals� could�do�the�work�much�more�quickly�and�cheaply.�Compu�ng’s�speed�limits,� though,�turned�out�to�be�only�temporary�obstacles.�Since�the��rst�mainframe�was� assembled�in�the�1940s,�the�speed�of�computers�and�data�networks�has�increased�at� a�breakneck�pace,�and�the�cost�of�processing�and�transmi�ng�data�has�fallen� equally�rapidly.�Over�the�past�three�decades,�the�number�of�instruc�ons�a�computer� chip�can�process�every�second�has�doubled�about�every�three�years,�while�the�cost� of�processing�those�instruc�ons�has�fallen�by�almost�half�every�year.�Overall,�the� price�of�a�typical�compu�ng�task�has�dropped�by�99.9�percent�since�the�1960s.5� Network�bandwidth�has�expanded�at�an�equally�fast�clip,�with�Internet�tra�c� doubling,�on�average,�every�year�since�the�World�Wide�Web�was�invented.6� Computer�applica�ons�that�were�unimaginable�in�Turing’s�day�are�now�rou�ne.

The�way�the�Web�has�progressed�as�a�medium�replays,�with�the�velocity�of�a��me- lapse��lm,�the�en�re�history�of�modern�media.�Hundreds�of�years�have�been� compressed�into�a�couple�of�decades.�The��rst�informa�on-processing�machine�that� the�Net�replicated�was�Gutenberg’s�press.�Because�text�is�fairly�simple�to�translate� into�so�ware�code�and�to�share�over�networks—it�doesn’t�require�a�lot�of�memory� to�store,�a�lot�of�bandwidth�to�transmit,�or�a�lot�of�processing�power�to�render�on�a� screen—early�Web�sites�were�usually�constructed�en�rely�of�typographical�symbols.� The�very�term�we�came�to�use�to�describe�what�we�look�at�online—pages— emphasized�the�connec�on�with�printed�documents.�Publishers�of�magazines�and� newspapers,�realizing�that�large�quan��es�of�text�could,�for�the��rst��me�in�history,� be�broadcast�the�way�radio�and�TV�programs�had�always�been,�were�among�the��rst� businesses�to�open�online�outlets,�pos�ng�ar�cles,�excerpts,�and�other�pieces�of� wri�ng�on�their�sites.�The�ease�with�which�words�could�be�transmi�ed�led,�as�well,� to�the�widespread�and�extraordinarily�rapid�adop�on�of�e-mail,�rendering�the� personal�le�er�obsolete.

As�the�cost�of�memory�and�bandwidth�fell,�it�became�possible�to�incorporate� photographs�and�drawings�into�Web�pages.�At��rst,�the�images,�like�the�text�they�

o�en�accompanied,�were�in�black�and�white,�and�their�low�resolu�on�made�them� blurry.�They�looked�like�the��rst�photos�printed�in�newspapers�a�hundred�years�ago.� But�the�capacity�of�the�Net�expanded�to�handle�color�pictures,�and�the�size�and� quality�of�the�images�increased�enormously.�Soon,�simple�anima�ons�began�to�play� online,�mimicking�the�herky-jerky�mo�ons�of�the��ip�books,�or�kineographs,�that� were�popular�at�the�end�of�the�nineteenth�century.

Next,�the�Web�began�to�take�over�the�work�of�our�tradi�onal�sound-processing� equipment—radios�and�phonographs�and�tape�decks.�The�earliest�sounds�to�be� heard�online�were�spoken�words,�but�soon�snippets�of�music,�and�then�en�re�songs� and�even�symphonies,�were�streaming�through�sites,�at�ever-higher�levels�of��delity.� The�network’s�ability�to�handle�audio�streams�was�aided�by�the�development�of� so�ware�algorithms,�such�as�the�one�used�to�produce�MP3��les,�that�erase�from� music�and�other�recordings�sounds�that�are�hard�for�the�human�ear�to�hear.�The� algorithms�allowed�sound��les�to�be�compressed�to�much�smaller�sizes�with�only� slight�sacri�ces�in�quality.�Telephone�calls�also�began�to�be�routed�over�the��ber- op�c�cables�of�the�Internet,�bypassing�tradi�onal�phone�lines.

Finally,�video�came�online,�as�the�Net�subsumed�the�technologies�of�cinema�and� television.�Because�the�transmission�and�display�of�moving�pictures�place�great� demands�on�computers�and�networks,�the��rst�online�videos�played�in��ny�windows� inside�browsers.�The�pictures�would�o�en�stu�er�or�drop�out,�and�they�were�usually� out�of�sync�with�their�soundtracks.�But�here,�too,�gains�came�swi�ly.�Within�just�a� few�years,�elaborate�three-dimensional�games�were�being�played�online,�and� companies�like�Ne�lix�and�Apple�were�sending�high-de�ni�on�movies�and�TV�shows� over�the�network�and�onto�screens�in�customers’�homes.�Even�the�long-promised� “picture�phone”�is��nally�becoming�a�reality,�as�webcams�become�a�regular�feature� of�computers�and�Net-connected�televisions,�and�popular�Internet�telephone� services�like�Skype�incorporate�video�transmissions.

THE�NET�DIFFERS�from�most�of�the�mass�media�it�replaces�in�an�obvious�and�very� important�way:�it’s�bidirec�onal.�We�can�send�messages�through�the�network�as� well�as�receive�them.�That’s�made�the�system�all�the�more�useful.�The�ability�to� exchange�informa�on�online,�to�upload�as�well�as�download,�has�turned�the�Net�into� a�thoroughfare�for�business�and�commerce.�With�a�few�clicks,�people�can�search� virtual�catalogues,�place�orders,�track�shipments,�and�update�informa�on�in� corporate�databases.�But�the�Net�doesn’t�just�connect�us�with�businesses;�it� connects�us�with�one�another.�It’s�a�personal�broadcas�ng�medium�as�well�as�a� commercial�one.�Millions�of�people�use�it�to�distribute�their�own�digital�crea�ons,�in� the�form�of�blogs,�videos,�photos,�songs,�and�podcasts,�as�well�as�to�cri�que,�edit,�or� otherwise�modify�the�crea�ons�of�others.�The�vast,�volunteer-wri�en�encyclopedia� Wikipedia,�the�largely�amateur-produced�YouTube�video�service,�the�massive�Flickr�

photo�repository,�the�sprawling�Hu�ngton�Post�blog�compendium—all�of�these� popular�media�services�were�unimaginable�before�the�Web�came�along.�The� interac�vity�of�the�medium�has�also�turned�it�into�the�world’s�mee�nghouse,�where� people�gather�to�chat,�gossip,�argue,�show�o�,�and��irt�on�Facebook,�Twi�er,� MySpace,�and�all�sorts�of�other�social�(and�some�mes�an�social)�networks.

As�the�uses�of�the�Internet�have�proliferated,�the��me�we�devote�to�the�medium�has� grown�apace,�even�as�speedier�connec�ons�have�allowed�us�to�do�more�during� every�minute�we’re�logged�on.�By�2009,�adults�in�North�America�were�spending�an� average�of�twelve�hours�online�a�week,�double�the�average�in�2005.7�If�you�consider� only�those�adults�with�Internet�access,�online�hours�jump�considerably,�to�more� than�seventeen�a�week.�For�younger�adults,�the��gure�is�higher�s�ll,�with�people�in� their�twen�es�spending�more�than�nineteen�hours�a�week�online.8�American� children�between�the�ages�of�two�and�eleven�were�using�the�Net�about�eleven�hours� a�week�in�2009,�an�increase�of�more�than�sixty�percent�since�2004.9�The�typical� European�adult�was�online�nearly�eight�hours�a�week�in�2009,�up�about�thirty� percent�since�2005.�Europeans�in�their�twen�es�were�online�about�twelve�hours�a� week�on�average.10A�2008�interna�onal�survey�of�27,500�adults�between�the�ages� of�eighteen�and���y-�ve�found�that�people�are�spending�thirty�percent�of�their� leisure��me�online,�with�the�Chinese�being�the�most�intensive�surfers,�devo�ng� forty-four�percent�of�their�o�-work�hours�to�the�Net.11

These��gures�don’t�include�the��me�people�spend�using�their�mobile�phones�and� other�handheld�computers�to�exchange�text�messages,�which�also�con�nues�to� increase�rapidly.�Text�messaging�now�represents�one�of�the�most�common�uses�of� computers,�par�cularly�for�the�young.�By�the�beginning�of�2009,�the�average� American�cell�phone�user�was�sending�or�receiving�nearly�400�texts�a�month,�more� than�a�fourfold�increase�from�2006.�The�average�American�teen�was�sending�or� receiving�a�mind-boggling�2,272�texts�a�month.12�Worldwide,�well�over�two�trillion� text�messages�zip�between�mobile�phones�every�year,�far�outstripping�the�number� of�voice�calls.13�Thanks�to�our�ever-present�messaging�systems�and�devices,�we� “never�really�have�to�disconnect,”�says�Danah�Boyd,�a�social�scien�st�who�works�for� Microso�.14

It’s�o�en�assumed�that�the��me�we�devote�to�the�Net�comes�out�of�the��me�we� would�otherwise�spend�watching�TV.�But�sta�s�cs�suggest�otherwise.�Most�studies� of�media�ac�vity�indicate�that�as�Net�use�has�gone�up,�television�viewing�has�either� held�steady�or�increased.�The�Nielsen�Company’s�long-running�media-tracking� survey�reveals�that�the��me�Americans�devote�to�TV�viewing�has�been�going�up� throughout�the�Web�era.�The�hours�we�spend�in�front�of�the�tube�rose�another�two� percent�between�2008�and�2009,�reaching�153�hours�a�month,�the�highest�level� since�Nielsen�began�collec�ng�data�in�the�1950s�(and�that�doesn’t�include�the��me�

people�spend�watching�TV�shows�on�their�computers).15�In�Europe�as�well,�people� con�nue�to�watch�television�as�much�as�they�ever�have.�The�average�European� viewed�more�than�a�dozen�hours�of�TV�a�week�in�2009,�nearly�an�hour�more�than�in� 2004.16

A�2006�study�by�Jupiter�Research�revealed�“a�huge�overlap”�between�TV�viewing� and�Web�sur�ng,�with�forty-two�percent�of�the�most�avid�TV�fans�(those�watching� thirty-�ve�or�more�hours�of�programming�a�week)�also�being�among�the�most� intensive�users�of�the�Net�(those�spending�thirty�or�more�hours�online�a�week).17� The�growth�in�our�online��me�has,�in�other�words,�expanded�the�total�amount�of� �me�we�spend�in�front�of�screens.�According�to�an�extensive�2009�study�conducted� by�Ball�State�University’s�Center�for�Media�Design,�most�Americans,�no�ma�er�what� their�age,�spend�at�least�eight�and�a�half�hours�a�day�looking�at�a�television,�a� computer�monitor,�or�the�screen�of�their�mobile�phone.�Frequently,�they�use�two�or� even�all�three�of�the�devices�simultaneously.18

What�does�seem�to�be�decreasing�as�Net�use�grows�is�the��me�we�spend�reading� print�publica�ons—par�cularly�newspapers�and�magazines,�but�also�books.�Of�the� four�major�categories�of�personal�media,�print�is�now�the�least�used,�lagging�well� behind�television,�computers,�and�radio.�By�2008,�according�to�the�U.S.�Bureau�of� Labor�Sta�s�cs,�the��me�that�the�average�American�over�the�age�of�fourteen� devoted�to�reading�printed�works�had�fallen�to�143�minutes�a�week,�a�drop�of� eleven�percent�since�2004.�Young�adults�between�the�ages�of�twenty-�ve�and�thirty- four,�who�are�among�the�most�avid�Net�users,�were�reading�printed�works�for�a�total� of�just�forty-nine�minutes�a�week�in�2008,�down�a�precipitous�twenty-nine�percent� from�2004.19�In�a�small�but�telling�2008�study�conducted�for�Adweek�magazine,�four� typical�Americans—a�barber,�a�chemist,�an�elementary�school�principal,�and�a�real� estate�agent—were�shadowed�during�the�course�of�a�day�to�document�their�media� usage.�The�people�displayed�very�di�erent�habits,�but�they�shared�one�thing�in� common,�according�to�the�magazine:�“None�of�the�four�cracked�open�any�print� media�during�their�observed�hours.”20�Because�of�the�ubiquity�of�text�on�the�Net� and�our�phones,�we’re�almost�certainly�reading�more�words�today�than�we�did� twenty�years�ago,�but�we’re�devo�ng�much�less��me�to�reading�words�printed�on� paper.

The�Internet,�like�the�personal�computer�before�it,�has�proven�to�be�so�useful�in�so� many�ways�that�we’ve�welcomed�every�expansion�of�its�scope.�Rarely�have�we� paused�to�ponder,�much�less�ques�on,�the�media�revolu�on�that�has�been�playing� out�all�around�us,�in�our�homes,�our�workplaces,�our�schools.�Un�l�the�Net�arrived,� the�history�of�media�had�been�a�tale�of�fragmenta�on.�Di�erent�technologies� progressed�down�di�erent�paths,�leading�to�a�prolifera�on�of�special-purpose�tools.� Books�and�newspapers�could�present�text�and�images,�but�they�couldn’t�handle�

sounds�or�moving�pictures.�Visual�media�like�cinema�and�TV�were�unsuited�to�the� display�of�text,�except�in�the�smallest�of�quan��es.�Radios,�telephones,� phonographs,�and�tape�players�were�limited�to�transmi�ng�sounds.�If�you�wanted� to�add�up�numbers,�you�used�a�calculator.�If�you�wanted�to�look�up�facts,�you� consulted�a�set�of�encyclopedias�or�a�World�Almanac.�The�produc�on�end�of�the� business�was�every�bit�as�fragmented�as�the�consump�on�end.�If�a�company�wanted� to�sell�words,�it�printed�them�on�paper.�If�it�wanted�to�sell�movies,�it�wound�them� onto�spools�of��lm.�If�it�wanted�to�sell�songs,�it�pressed�them�onto�vinyl�records�or� recorded�them�onto�magne�c�tape.�If�it�wanted�to�distribute�TV�shows�and� commercials,�it�shot�them�through�the�air�from�a�big�antenna�or�sent�them�down� thick�black�coaxial�cables.

Once�informa�on�is�digi�zed,�the�boundaries�between�media�dissolve.�We�replace� our�special-purpose�tools�with�an�all-purpose�tool.�And�because�the�economics�of� digital�produc�on�and�distribu�on�are�almost�always�superior�to�what�came�before —the�cost�of�crea�ng�electronic�products�and�transmi�ng�them�through�the�Net�is� a�small�frac�on�of�the�cost�of�manufacturing�physical�goods�and�shipping�them� through�warehouses�and�into�stores—the�shi��happens�very�quickly,�following� capitalism’s�inexorable�logic.�Today,�nearly�all�media�companies�distribute�digital� versions�of�their�products�through�the�Net,�and�the�growth�in�the�consump�on�of� media�goods�is�taking�place�almost�en�rely�online.

That�doesn’t�mean�that�tradi�onal�forms�of�media�have�disappeared.�We�s�ll�buy� books�and�subscribe�to�magazines.�We�s�ll�go�to�the�movies�and�listen�to�the�radio.� Some�of�us�s�ll�buy�music�on�CDs�and�movies�on�DVDs.�A�few�of�us�will�even�pick�up� a�newspaper�now�and�then.�When�old�technologies�are�supplanted�by�new�ones,�the� old�technologies�o�en�con�nue�to�be�used�for�a�long��me,�some�mes�inde�nitely.� Decades�a�er�the�inven�on�of�movable�type,�many�books�were�s�ll�being� handwri�en�by�scribes�or�printed�from�woodblocks—and�some�of�the�most� beau�ful�books�con�nue�to�be�produced�in�those�ways�today.�Quite�a�few�people� s�ll�listen�to�vinyl�records,�use��lm�cameras�to�take�photographs,�and�look�up�phone� numbers�in�the�printed�Yellow�Pages.�But�the�old�technologies�lose�their�economic� and�cultural�force.�They�become�progress’s�dead�ends.�It’s�the�new�technologies� that�govern�produc�on�and�consump�on,�that�guide�people’s�behavior�and�shape� their�percep�ons.�That’s�why�the�future�of�knowledge�and�culture�no�longer�lies�in� books�or�newspapers�or�TV�shows�or�radio�programs�or�records�or�CDs.�It�lies�in� digital��les�shot�through�our�universal�medium�at�the�speed�of�light.

“A�NEW�MEDIUM�is�never�an�addi�on�to�an�old�one,”�wrote�McLuhan�in� Understanding�Media,�“nor�does�it�leave�the�old�one�in�peace.�It�never�ceases�to� oppress�the�older�media�un�l�it��nds�new�shapes�and�posi�ons�for�them.”21�His� observa�on�rings�par�cularly�true�today.�Tradi�onal�media,�even�electronic�ones,�

are�being�refashioned�and�reposi�oned�as�they�go�through�the�shi��to�online� distribu�on.�When�the�Net�absorbs�a�medium,�it�re-creates�that�medium�in�its�own� image.�It�not�only�dissolves�the�medium’s�physical�form;�it�injects�the�medium’s� content�with�hyperlinks,�breaks�up�the�content�into�searchable�chunks,�and� surrounds�the�content�with�the�content�of�all�the�other�media�it�has�absorbed.�All� these�changes�in�the�form�of�the�content�also�change�the�way�we�use,�experience,� and�even�understand�the�content.

A�page�of�online�text�viewed�through�a�computer�screen�may�seem�similar�to�a�page� of�printed�text.�But�scrolling�or�clicking�through�a�Web�document�involves�physical� ac�ons�and�sensory�s�muli�very�di�erent�from�those�involved�in�holding�and�turning� the�pages�of�a�book�or�a�magazine.�Research�has�shown�that�the�cogni�ve�act�of� reading�draws�not�just�on�our�sense�of�sight�but�also�on�our�sense�of�touch.�It’s� tac�le�as�well�as�visual.�“All�reading,”�writes�Anne�Mangen,�a�Norwegian�literary� studies�professor,�is�“mul�-sensory.”�There’s�“a�crucial�link”�between�“the�sensory- motor�experience�of�the�materiality”�of�a�wri�en�work�and�“the�cogni�ve�processing� of�the�text�content.”�22�The�shi��from�paper�to�screen�doesn’t�just�change�the�way� we�navigate�a�piece�of�wri�ng.�It�also�in�uences�the�degree�of�a�en�on�we�devote� to�it�and�the�depth�of�our�immersion�in�it.

Hyperlinks�also�alter�our�experience�of�media.�Links�are�in�one�sense�a�varia�on�on� the�textual�allusions,�cita�ons,�and�footnotes�that�have�long�been�common� elements�of�documents.�But�their�e�ect�on�us�as�we�read�is�not�at�all�the�same.�Links� don’t�just�point�us�to�related�or�supplemental�works;�they�propel�us�toward�them.� They�encourage�us�to�dip�in�and�out�of�a�series�of�texts�rather�than�devote�sustained� a�en�on�to�any�one�of�them.�Hyperlinks�are�designed�to�grab�our�a�en�on.�Their� value�as�naviga�onal�tools�is�inextricable�from�the�distrac�on�they�cause.

The�searchability�of�online�works�also�represents�a�varia�on�on�older�naviga�onal� aids�such�as�tables�of�contents,�indexes,�and�concordances.�But�here,�too,�the�e�ects� are�di�erent.�As�with�links,�the�ease�and�ready�availability�of�searching�make�it�much� simpler�to�jump�between�digital�documents�than�it�ever�was�to�jump�between� printed�ones.�Our�a�achment�to�any�one�text�becomes�more�tenuous,�more� provisional.�Searches�also�lead�to�the�fragmenta�on�of�online�works.�A�search� engine�o�en�draws�our�a�en�on�to�a�par�cular�snippet�of�text,�a�few�words�or� sentences�that�have�strong�relevance�to�whatever�we’re�searching�for�at�the� moment,�while�providing�li�le�incen�ve�for�taking�in�the�work�as�a�whole.�We�don’t� see�the�forest�when�we�search�the�Web.�We�don’t�even�see�the�trees.�We�see�twigs� and�leaves.�As�companies�like�Google�and�Microso��perfect�search�engines�for�video� and�audio�content,�more�products�are�undergoing�the�fragmenta�on�that�already� characterizes�wri�en�works.

By�combining�many�di�erent�kinds�of�informa�on�on�a�single�screen,�the�mul�media� Net�further�fragments�content�and�disrupts�our�concentra�on.�A�single�Web�page� may�contain�a�few�chunks�of�text,�a�video�or�audio�stream,�a�set�of�naviga�onal� tools,�various�adver�sements,�and�several�small�so�ware�applica�ons,�or�“widgets,”� running�in�their�own�windows.�We�all�know�how�distrac�ng�this�cacophony�of� s�muli�can�be.�We�joke�about�it�all�the��me.�A�new�e-mail�message�announces�its� arrival�as�we’re�glancing�over�the�latest�headlines�at�a�newspaper’s�site.�A�few� seconds�later,�our�RSS�reader�tells�us�that�one�of�our�favorite�bloggers�has�uploaded� a�new�post.�A�moment�a�er�that,�our�mobile�phone�plays�the�ringtone�that�signals� an�incoming�text�message.�Simultaneously,�a�Facebook�or�Twi�er�alert�blinks�on- screen.�In�addi�on�to�everything��owing�through�the�network,�we�also�have� immediate�access�to�all�the�other�so�ware�programs�running�on�our�computers— they,�too,�compete�for�a�piece�of�our�mind.�Whenever�we�turn�on�our�computer,�we� are�plunged�into�an�“ecosystem�of�interrup�on�technologies,”�as�the�blogger�and� science��c�on�writer�Cory�Doctorow�terms�it.23

Interac�vity,�hyperlinking,�searchability,�mul�media—all�these�quali�es�of�the�Net� bring�a�rac�ve�bene�ts.�Along�with�the�unprecedented�volume�of�informa�on� available�online,�they’re�the�main�reasons�that�most�of�us�are�drawn�to�using�the� Net�so�much.�We�like�to�be�able�to�switch�between�reading�and�listening�and� watching�without�having�to�get�up�and�turn�on�another�appliance�or�dig�through�a� pile�of�magazines�or�disks.�We�like�to�be�able�to��nd�and�be�transported�instantly�to� relevant�data—without�having�to�sort�through�lots�of�extraneous�stu�.�We�like�to�be� in�touch�with�friends,�family�members,�and�colleagues.�We�like�to�feel�connected— and�we�hate�to�feel�disconnected.�The�Internet�doesn’t�change�our�intellectual� habits�against�our�will.�But�change�them�it�does.

Our�use�of�the�Net�will�only�grow,�and�its�impact�on�us�will�only�strengthen,�as�it� becomes�ever�more�present�in�our�lives.�Like�the�clock�and�the�book�before�it,�the� computer�con�nues�to�get�smaller�and�cheaper�as�technology�advances.�Inexpensive� laptops�gave�us�the�ability�to�take�the�Internet�with�us�when�we�le��our�o�ce�or�our� home.�But�the�laptop�was�itself�a�cumbersome�device,�and�connec�ng�one�to�the� Internet�was�not�always�easy.�The�introduc�on�of�the��ny�netbook�and�the�even� �nier�smartphone�solves�those�problems.�Powerful�pocket-sized�computers�like�the� Apple�iPhone,�the�Motorola�Droid,�and�the�Google�Nexus�One�come�bundled�with� Internet�access.�Along�with�the�incorpora�on�of�Internet�services�into�everything� from�car�dashboards�to�televisions�to�the�cabins�of�airplanes,�these�small�devices� promise�to�more�deeply�integrate�the�Web�into�our�everyday�ac�vi�es,�making�our� universal�medium�all�the�more�universal.

As�the�Net�expands,�other�media�contract.�By�changing�the�economics�of�produc�on� and�distribu�on,�the�Net�has�cut�into�the�pro�tability�of�many�news,�informa�on,�

and�entertainment�businesses,�par�cularly�those�that�have�tradi�onally�sold� physical�products.�Sales�of�music�CDs�have�fallen�steadily�over�the�last�decade,� dropping�twenty�percent�in�2008�alone.24�Sales�of�movie�DVDs,�a�major�recent� source�of�pro�ts�for�Hollywood�studios,�are�also�now�in�decline,�falling�six�percent� during�2008�and�then�plunging�another�fourteen�percent�during�the��rst�half�of� 2009.25�Unit�sales�of�gree�ng�cards�and�postcards�are�dropping.26�The�volume�of� mail�sent�through�the�U.S.�Postal�Service�declined�at�its�fastest�pace�ever�during� 2009.27�Universi�es�are�discon�nuing�the�printed�edi�ons�of�scholarly�monographs� and�journals�and�moving�to�strictly�electronic�distribu�on.28�Public�schools�are� pushing�students�to�use�online�reference�materials�in�place�of�what�California� Governor�Arnold�Schwarzenegger�refers�to�as�“an�quated,�heavy,�expensive� textbooks.”29�Everywhere�you�look,�you�see�signs�of�the�Net’s�growing�hegemony� over�the�packaging�and��ow�of�informa�on.

Nowhere�have�the�e�ects�been�so�unse�ling�as�in�the�newspaper�industry,�which� faces�par�cularly�severe��nancial�challenges�as�readers�and�adver�sers�embrace�the� Net�as�their�medium�of�choice.�The�decline�in�Americans’�newspaper�reading�began� decades�ago,�when�radio�and�TV�began�consuming�more�of�peoples’�leisure��me,� but�the�Internet�has�accelerated�the�trend.�Between�2008�and�2009,�newspaper� circula�on�dropped�more�than�seven�percent,�while�visits�to�newspaper�Web�sites� grew�by�more�than�ten�percent.30�One�of�America’s�oldest�dailies,�the�Chris�an� Science�Monitor,�announced�in�early�2009�that�a�er�a�hundred�years�it�was�stopping� its�presses.�The�Web�would�become�its�main�channel�for�distribu�ng�news.�The� move,�said�the�paper’s�publisher,�Jonathan�Wells,�was�a�harbinger�of�what�lay�in� store�for�other�newspapers.�“Changes�in�the�industry—changes�in�the�concept�of� news�and�the�economics�underlying�the�industry—hit�the�Monitor��rst,”�he� explained.31

He�was�soon�proved�correct.�Within�months,�Colorado’s�oldest�newspaper,�the� Rocky�Mountain�News,�had�gone�out�of�business;�the�Sea�le�Post-Intelligencer�had� abandoned�its�print�edi�on�and��red�most�of�its�sta�;�the�Washington�Post�had�shut� down�all�its�U.S.�bureaus�and�let�more�than�a�hundred�journalists�go;�and�the� owners�of�more�than�thirty�other�U.S.�newspapers,�including�the�Los�Angeles�Times,� Chicago�Tribune,�Philadelphia�Inquirer,�and�Minneapolis�Star�Tribune,�had��led�for� bankruptcy.�Tim�Brooks,�the�managing�director�of�Guardian�News�and�Media,�which� publishes�The�Guardian�and�The�Independent�in�Britain,�announced�that�all�his� company’s�future�investments�would�go�into�mul�media�digital�products,�mainly� delivered�through�its�Web�sites.�“The�days�when�you�can�trade�in�just�words�are� gone,”�he�told�an�industry�conference.32

AS�PEOPLE’S�MINDS�become�a�uned�to�the�crazy�quilt�of�Web�content,�media� companies�have�to�adapt�to�the�audience’s�new�expecta�ons.�Many�producers�are�

chopping�up�their�products�to��t�the�shorter�a�en�on�spans�of�online�consumers,�as� well�as�to�raise�their�pro�les�on�search�engines.�Snippets�of�TV�shows�and�movies� are�distributed�through�YouTube,�Hulu,�and�other�video�services.�Excerpts�of�radio� programs�are�o�ered�as�podcasts�or�streams.�Individual�magazine�and�newspaper� ar�cles�circulate�in�isola�on.�Pages�of�books�are�displayed�through�Amazon.com�and� Google�Book�Search.�Music�albums�are�split�apart,�their�songs�sold�through�iTunes�or� streamed�through�Spo�fy.�Even�the�songs�themselves�are�broken�into�pieces,�with� their�ri�s�and�hooks�packaged�as�ringtones�for�cell�phones�or�embedded�in�video� games.�There’s�much�to�be�said�for�what�economists�call�the�“unbundling”�of� content.�It�provides�people�with�more�choices�and�frees�them�from�unwanted� purchases.�But�it�also�illustrates�and�reinforces�the�changing�pa�erns�of�media� consump�on�promoted�by�the�Web.�As�the�economist�Tyler�Cowen�says,�“When� access�[to�informa�on]�is�easy,�we�tend�to�favor�the�short,�the�sweet,�and�the� bi�y.”33

The�Net’s�in�uence�doesn’t�end�at�the�edge�of�a�computer�screen.�Media�companies� are�reshaping�their�tradi�onal�products,�even�the�physical�ones,�to�more�closely� resemble�what�people�experience�when�they’re�online.�If,�in�the�early�days�of�the� Web,�the�design�of�online�publica�ons�was�inspired�by�print�publica�ons�(as�the� design�of�Gutenberg’s�Bible�was�inspired�by�scribal�books),�today�the�inspira�on� tends�to�go�in�the�opposite�direc�on.�Many�magazines�have�tweaked�their�layouts�to� mimic�or�at�least�echo�the�look�and�feel�of�Web�sites.�They’ve�shortened�their� ar�cles,�introduced�capsule�summaries,�and�crowded�their�pages�with�easy-to- browse�blurbs�and�cap�ons.�Rolling�Stone,�once�known�for�publishing�sprawling,� adventurous�features�by�writers�like�Hunter�S.�Thompson,�now�eschews�such�works,� o�ering�readers�a�jumble�of�short�ar�cles�and�reviews.�There�was�“no�Internet,”� publisher�Jann�Wenner�explains,�“back�when�Rolling�Stone�was�publishing�these� seven-thousand-word�stories.”�Most�popular�magazines�have�come�to�be�“�lled� with�color,�oversized�headlines,�graphics,�photos,�and�pull�quotes,”�writes�Michael� Scherer�in�the�Columbia�Journalism�Review.�“The�gray�text�page,�once�a�magazine� staple,�has�been�all�but�banished.”34

The�design�of�newspapers�is�also�changing.�Many�papers,�including�industry� stalwarts�like�the�Wall�Street�Journal�and�the�Los�Angeles�Times,�have�over�the�last� few�years�moved�to�trim�the�length�of�their�ar�cles�and�introduce�more�summaries� and�naviga�onal�aids�to�make�the�scanning�of�their�contents�easier.�An�editor�at�the� Times�of�London�a�ributes�such�format�changes�to�the�newspaper�industry’s� adapta�on�to�“an�Internet�age,�a�headline�age.”35�In�March�of�2008,�the�New�York� Times�announced�it�would�begin�devo�ng�three�pages�of�every�edi�on�to� paragraph-long�ar�cle�abstracts�and�other�brief�items.�Its�design�director,�Tom� Bodkin,�explained�that�the�“shortcuts”�would�allow�harried�readers�to�get�a�quick� “taste”�of�the�day’s�news,�sparing�them�the�“less�e�cient”�method�of�actually�

turning�the�pages�and�reading�the�ar�cles.36

Such�copycat�strategies�haven’t�been�par�cularly�successful�in�stanching�the��ow�of� readers�from�print�to�online�publica�ons.�A�er�a�year,�during�which�its�circula�on� con�nued�to�decline,�the�New�York�Times�quietly�abandoned�much�of�its�redesign,� restric�ng�ar�cle�summaries�to�a�single�page�in�most�edi�ons.�A�few�magazines,� realizing�that�compe�ng�with�the�Web�on�its�own�terms�is�a�losing�proposi�on,�have� reversed�their�strategies.�They’ve�gone�back�to�simpler,�less�clu�ered�designs�and� longer�ar�cles.�Newsweek�over-hauled�its�pages�in�2009,�placing�a�greater�emphasis� on�essays�and�professional�photographs�and�adop�ng�a�heavier,�more�expensive� paper�stock.�The�price�that�publica�ons�pay�for�going�against�the�conven�ons�of�the� Web�is�a�further�whi�ling�of�their�readership.�When�Newsweek�unveiled�its�new� design,�it�also�announced�it�was�slashing�the�circula�on�it�guaranteed�its�adver�sers� from�2.6�million�to�1.5�million.37

Like�their�print�counterparts,�most�TV�shows�and�movies�are�also�trying�to�become� more�Web-like.�Television�networks�have�added�text�“crawls”�and�“�ippers”�to�their� screens�and�rou�nely�run�infographics�and�pop-up�ads�during�their�programs.�Some� newer�shows,�such�as�NBC’s�Late�Night�with�Jimmy�Fallon,�have�been�explicitly� designed�to�cater�as�much�to�Net�surfers�as�TV�viewers,�with�an�emphasis�on�brief� segments�that�lend�themselves�to�distribu�on�as�YouTube�clips.�Cable�and�satellite� companies�o�er�theme�channels�that�enable�viewers�to�watch�several�programs� simultaneously,�using�their�remote�control�as�a�kind�of�mouse�to�click�between� audio�tracks.�Web�content�is�also�beginning�to�be�o�ered�directly�through�TVs,�as� leading�television�manufacturers�like�Sony�and�Samsung�redesign�their�sets�to� seamlessly�combine�Internet�programming�with�tradi�onal�broadcasts.�Movie� studios�have�begun�incorpora�ng�social-networking�features�into�the�disks�they�sell.� With�the�Blu-ray�version�of�Disney’s�Snow�White,�viewers�can�chat�with�one�another� through�the�Net�while�watching�the�seven�dwarves�march�o��to�work.�The�disk�of� Watchmen�automa�cally�syncs�with�Facebook�accounts,�le�ng�viewers�exchange� “live�commentary”�on�the��lm�with�their�“friends.”38�Craig�Kornblau,�the�president� of�Universal�Studios�Home�Entertainment,�says�the�studio�plans�to�introduce�more� such�features,�with�the�goal�of�turning�the�viewing�of�movies�into�“interac�ve� experiences.”39

The�Net�has�begun�to�alter�the�way�we�experience�actual�performances�as�well�as� the�recordings�of�those�performances.�When�we�carry�a�powerful�mobile�computer� into�a�theater�or�other�venue,�we�carry,�as�well,�all�the�communica�on�and�social- networking�tools�available�on�the�Web.�It�long�ago�became�common�for� concertgoers�to�record�and�broadcast�snippets�of�shows�to�friends�through�the� cameras�in�their�cell�phones.�Now,�mobile�computers�are�beginning�to�be� deliberately�incorporated�into�performances�as�a�way�to�appeal�to�a�new�genera�on�

of�Net-saturated�patrons.�During�a�2009�performance�of�Beethoven’s�Pastoral� Symphony�at�Wolf�Trap�in�Virginia,�the�Na�onal�Symphony�Orchestra�sent�out�a� stream�of�Twi�er�tweets,�wri�en�by�conductor�Emil�de�Cou,�explaining�some�of� Beethoven’s�musical�references.40�The�New�York�Philharmonic�and�the�Indianapolis� Symphony�Orchestra�have�begun�encouraging�audience�members�to�use�their� phones�to�vote,�via�text�messaging,�for�the�evening’s�encore.�“It�was�less�passive� than�just�si�ng�there�and�listening�to�music,”�commented�an�a�endee�a�er�a� recent�Philharmonic�performance.41�A�growing�number�of�American�churches�are� encouraging�parishioners�to�bring�laptops�and�smartphones�to�services�in�order�to� exchange�inspira�onal�messages�through�Twi�er�and�other�microblogging� services.42�Eric�Schmidt,�Google’s�chief�execu�ve,�sees�the�incorpora�on�of�social� networking�into�theatrical�and�other�events�as�an�exci�ng�new�business�opportunity� for�Internet��rms.�“The�most�obvious�use�of�Twi�er,”�he�says,�can�be�seen�in� situa�ons�where�“everybody�is�watching�a�play�and�are�busy�talking�about�the�play� while�the�play�is�under�way.”43�Even�the�experiences�we�have�in�the�real�world�are� coming�to�be�mediated�by�networked�computers.

A�par�cularly�striking�illustra�on�of�how�the�Net�is�reshaping�our�expecta�ons�about� media�can�be�seen�in�any�library.�Although�we�don’t�tend�to�think�of�libraries�as� media�technologies,�they�are.�The�public�library�is,�in�fact,�one�of�the�most�important� and�in�uen�al�informa�onal�media�ever�created—and�one�that�proliferated�only� a�er�the�arrival�of�silent�reading�and�movable-type�prin�ng.�A�community’s� a�tudes�and�preferences�toward�informa�on�take�concrete�shape�in�its�library’s� design�and�services.�Un�l�recently,�the�public�library�was�an�oasis�of�bookish� tranquility�where�people�searched�through�shelves�of�neatly�arranged�volumes�or� sat�in�carrels�and�read�quietly.�Today’s�library�is�very�di�erent.�Internet�access�is� rapidly�becoming�its�most�popular�service.�According�to�recent�surveys�by�the� American�Library�Associa�on,�ninety-nine�percent�of�U.S.�public�library�branches� provide�Internet�access,�and�the�average�branch�has�eleven�public�computers.�More� than�three-quarters�of�branches�also�o�er�Wi-��networks�for�their�patrons’�use.44� The�predominant�sound�in�the�modern�library�is�the�tapping�of�keys,�not�the�turning� of�pages.

The�architecture�of�one�of�the�newest�branches�of�the�venerable�New�York�Public� Library,�the�Bronx�Library�Center,�tes��es�to�the�library’s�changing�role.�Wri�ng�in� the�journal�Strategy�&�Business,�three�management�consultants�describe�the� building’s�layout:�“On�the�library’s�four�main��oors,�the�stacks�of�books�have�been� placed�at�each�end,�leaving�ample�space�in�the�middle�for�tables�that�have� computers�on�them,�many�with�broadband�access�to�the�Internet.�The�people�using� the�computers�are�young�and�aren’t�necessarily�using�them�for�academic�purposes —here�is�one�doing�a�Google�search�on�Hannah�Montana�pictures,�there�is�one� upda�ng�his�Facebook�page,�and�over�there�a�few�children�are�playing�video�games,�

including�The�Fight�for�Glorton.�Librarians�answer�ques�ons�and�organize�online� gaming�tournaments,�and�none�of�them�are�shushing�anyone.”45�The�consultants� point�to�the�Bronx�branch�as�an�example�of�how�forward-looking�libraries�are� retaining�their�“relevance”�by�“launching�new�digital�ini�a�ves�to�meet�users’� needs.”�The�library’s�layout�provides,�as�well,�a�powerful�symbol�of�our�new�media� landscape:�at�the�center�stands�the�screen�of�the�Internet-connected�computer;�the� printed�word�has�been�pushed�to�the�margins.

THE�VERY�IMAGE�OF�A�BOOK

And�what�of�the�book�itself?�Of�all�popular�media,�it’s�probably�the�one�that�has� been�most�resistant�to�the�Net’s�in�uence.�Book�publishers�have�su�ered�some� losses�of�business�as�reading�has�shi�ed�from�the�printed�page�to�the�screen,�but� the�form�of�the�book�itself�hasn’t�changed�much.�A�long�sequence�of�printed�pages� assembled�between�a�pair�of�s���covers�has�proven�to�be�a�remarkably�robust� technology,�remaining�useful�and�popular�for�more�than�half�a�millennium.

It’s�not�hard�to�see�why�books�have�been�slow�to�make�the�leap�into�the�digital�age.� There’s�not�a�whole�lot�of�di�erence�between�a�computer�monitor�and�a�television� screen,�and�the�sounds�coming�from�speakers�hit�your�ears�in�pre�y�much�the�same� way�whether�they’re�being�transmi�ed�through�a�computer�or�a�radio.�But�as�a� device�for�reading,�the�book�retains�some�compelling�advantages�over�the� computer.�You�can�take�a�book�to�the�beach�without�worrying�about�sand�ge�ng�in� its�works.�You�can�take�it�to�bed�without�being�nervous�about�it�falling�to�the��oor� should�you�nod�o�.�You�can�spill�co�ee�on�it.�You�can�sit�on�it.�You�can�put�it�down� on�a�table,�open�to�the�page�you’re�reading,�and�when�you�pick�it�up�a�few�days�later� it�will�s�ll�be�exactly�as�you�le��it.�You�never�have�to�be�concerned�about�plugging�a� book�into�an�outlet�or�having�its�ba�ery�die.

The�experience�of�reading�tends�to�be�be�er�with�a�book�too.�Words�stamped�on�a� page�in�black�ink�are�easier�to�read�than�words�formed�of�pixels�on�a�backlit�screen.� You�can�read�a�dozen�or�a�hundred�printed�pages�without�su�ering�the�eye�fa�gue� that�o�en�results�from�even�a�brief�stretch�of�online�reading.�Naviga�ng�a�book�is� simpler�and,�as�so�ware�programmers�say,�more�intui�ve.�You�can��ip�through�real� pages�much�more�quickly�and��exibly�than�you�can�through�virtual�pages.�And�you� can�write�notes�in�a�book’s�margins�or�highlight�passages�that�move�or�inspire�you.� You�can�even�get�a�book’s�author�to�sign�its��tle�page.�When�you’re��nished�with�a� book,�you�can�use�it�to��ll�an�empty�space�on�your�bookshelf—or�lend�it�to�a�friend.

Despite�years�of�hype�about�electronic�books,�most�people�haven’t�shown�much� interest�in�them.�Inves�ng�a�few�hundred�dollars�in�a�specialized�“digital�reader”�has� seemed�silly,�given�the�ease�and�pleasure�of�buying�and�reading�old-fashioned�

books.�But�books�will�not�remain�exempt�from�the�digital�media�revolu�on.�The� economic�advantages�of�digital�produc�on�and�distribu�on—no�big�purchases�of�ink� and�paper,�no�printer�bills,�no�loading�of�heavy�boxes�onto�trucks,�no�returns�of� unsold�copies—are�every�bit�as�compelling�for�book�publishers�and�distributors�as� for�other�media�companies.�And�the�lower�costs�translate�into�lower�prices.�It’s�not� unusual�for�e-books�to�be�sold�for�half�the�price�of�print�edi�ons,�thanks�in�part�to� subsidies�from�device�manufacturers.�The�sharp�discounts�provide�a�strong�incen�ve� for�people�to�make�the�switch�from�paper�to�pixels.

Digital�readers�have�also�improved�greatly�in�recent�years.�The�advantages�of� tradi�onal�books�are�not�quite�as�clear-cut�as�they�used�to�be.�Thanks�to�high- resolu�on�screens�made�of�materials�like�Vizplex,�a�charged-par�cle��lm�developed� by�the�Massachuse�s�company�E�Ink,�the�clarity�of�digital�text�now�almost�rivals�that� of�printed�text.�The�latest�readers�don’t�require�backligh�ng,�allowing�them�to�be� used�in�direct�sunlight�and�reducing�eye�strain�considerably.�The�func�ons�of�the� readers�have�also�improved,�making�it�much�easier�to�click�through�pages,�add� bookmarks,�highlight�text,�and�even�scribble�marginal�notes.�People�with�weak�eyes� can�increase�the�size�of�the�type�in�e-books—something�they�can’t�do�with�printed� books.�And�as�computer�memory�prices�have�gone�down,�the�capacity�of�the� readers�has�gone�up.�You�can�now�load�them�with�hundreds�of�books.�Just�as�an� iPod�can�hold�the�en�re�contents�of�an�average�person’s�music�collec�on,�so�an�e- book�reader�can�now�hold�an�en�re�personal�library.

Although�sales�of�e-books�s�ll�represent�a��ny�frac�on�of�overall�book�sales,�they� have�been�increasing�at�a�much�faster�pace�than�sales�of�physical�books.� Amazon.com�reported�in�early�2009�that�for�the�275,000�books�it�sells�in�both� tradi�onal�and�digital�form,�the�e-book�versions�account�for�thirty-�ve�percent�of� total�sales,�up�sharply�from�less�than�ten�percent�just�a�year�earlier.�Long�stagnant,� sales�of�digital�readers�are�now�booming,�rising�from�about�one�million�units�in�2008� to�an�es�mated�twelve�million�in�2010.1�As�Brad�Stone�and�Motoko�Rich�of�the�New� York�Times�recently�reported,�“the�e-book�has�started�to�take�hold.”2

ONE�OF�THE�more�popular�of�the�new�digital�readers�is�Amazon’s�own�Kindle.� Introduced�with�great�fanfare�in�2007,�the�gadget�incorporates�all�the�latest�screen� technology�and�reading�func�ons�and�includes�a�full�keypad.�But�it�has�another� feature�that�greatly�increases�its�a�rac�veness.�The�Kindle�has�a�built-in,�always- available�wireless�connec�on�to�the�Internet.�The�cost�of�the�connec�on�is�rolled� into�the�price�of�the�Kindle,�so�there’s�no�addi�onal�subscrip�on�fee�involved.�The� connec�on�allows�you,�not�surprisingly,�to�shop�for�books�at�the�Amazon�store�and� immediately�download�the�ones�you�buy.�But�it�lets�you�do�much�more�than�that.� You�can�read�digital�newspapers�and�magazines,�scan�blogs,�perform�Google� searches,�listen�to�MP3s,�and,�through�a�specially�made�browser,�surf�other�Web�

sites.�The�Kindle’s�most�radical�feature,�at�least�when�it�comes�to�thinking�about� what’s�in�store�for�books,�is�its�incorpora�on�of�links�into�the�text�it�displays.�The� Kindle�turns�the�words�of�books�into�hypertext.�You�can�click�on�a�word�or�a�phrase� and�be�taken�to�a�related�dic�onary�entry,�Wikipedia�ar�cle,�or�list�of�Google�search� results.

The�Kindle�points�to�the�future�of�digital�readers.�Its�features,�and�even�its�so�ware,� are�being�incorporated�into�iPhones�and�PCs,�transforming�the�reader�from�a� specialized�and�expensive�device�to�just�another�cheap�applica�on�running�in� Turing’s�universal�machine.�The�Kindle�also,�if�less�happily,�points�to�the�future�of� books.�In�a�2009�Newsweek�ar�cle,�the�journalist�and�editor�Jacob�Weisberg,�once�a� skep�c�about�electronic�books,�praised�the�Kindle�as�“a�machine�that�marks�a� cultural�revolu�on”�in�which�“reading�and�prin�ng�are�ge�ng�separated.”�What�the� Kindle�tells�us,�Weisberg�went�on,�is�“that�printed�books,�the�most�important� ar�facts�of�human�civiliza�on,�are�going�to�join�newspapers�and�magazines�on�the� road�to�obsolescence.”3�Charles�McGrath,�one�me�editor�of�the�New�York�Times� Book�Review,�has�also�become�a�Kindle�believer,�calling�“the�seduc�ve�white�gizmo”� a�“precursor”�of�what’s�to�come�for�books�and�reading.�“It’s�surprising�how�easily� you�succumb�to�convenience,”�he�says,�“and�how�li�le�you�miss,�once�they’re�gone,� all�the�nice�es�of�typography�and�design�that�you�used�to�value�so�much.”�While�he� doesn’t�think�that�printed�books�are�going�to�disappear�any�me�soon,�he�does�sense� that�“in�the�future�we�will�keep�them�around�as�fond�relics,�reminders�of�what� reading�used�to�be�like.”�4

What�would�that�mean�for�how�we�read�what�we�used�to�read�in�books?�The�Wall� Street�Journal’s�L.�Gordon�Crovitz�has�suggested�that�easy-to-use,�networked� readers�like�the�Kindle�“can�help�return�to�us�our�a�en�on�spans�and�extend�what� makes�books�great:�words�and�their�meaning.”5�That’s�a�sen�ment�most�literary- minded�folks�would�be�eager�to�share.�But�it’s�wishful�thinking.�Crovitz�has�fallen� vic�m�to�the�blindness�that�McLuhan�warned�against:�the�inability�to�see�how�a� change�in�a�medium’s�form�is�also�a�change�in�its�content.�“E-books�should�not�just� be�print�books�delivered�electronically,”�says�a�senior�vice�president�of� HarperStudio,�an�imprint�of�the�publishing�giant�HarperCollins.�“We�need�to�take� advantage�of�the�medium�and�create�something�dynamic�to�enhance�the� experience.�I�want�links�and�behind�the�scenes�extras�and�narra�on�and�videos�and� conversa�on.”6�As�soon�as�you�inject�a�book�with�links�and�connect�it�to�the�Web— as�soon�as�you�“extend”�and�“enhance”�it�and�make�it�“dynamic”—you�change�what� it�is�and�you�change,�as�well,�the�experience�of�reading�it.�An�e-book�is�no�more�a� book�than�an�online�newspaper�is�a�newspaper.

Soon�a�er�the�author�Steven�Johnson�began�reading�e-books�on�his�new�Kindle,�he� realized�that�“the�book’s�migra�on�to�the�digital�realm�would�not�be�a�simple�ma�er�

of�trading�ink�for�pixels,�but�would�likely�change�the�way�we�read,�write,�and�sell� books�in�profound�ways.”�He�was�excited�by�the�Kindle’s�poten�al�for�expanding� “the�universe�of�books�at�our��nger�ps”�and�making�books�as�searchable�as�Web� pages.�But�the�digital�device�also��lled�him�with�trepida�on:�“I�fear�that�one�of�the� great�joys�of�book�reading—the�total�immersion�in�another�world,�or�in�the�world�of� the�author’s�ideas—will�be�compromised.�We�all�may�read�books�the�way�we� increasingly�read�magazines�and�newspapers:�a�li�le�bit�here,�a�li�le�bit�there.”�7

Chris�ne�Rosen,�a�fellow�at�the�Ethics�and�Public�Policy�Center�in�Washington,�DC,� recently�wrote�about�her�experience�using�a�Kindle�to�read�the�Dickens�novel� Nicholas�Nickleby.�Her�story�underscores�Johnson’s�fears:�“Although�mildly� disorien�ng�at��rst,�I�quickly�adjusted�to�the�Kindle’s�screen�and�mastered�the�scroll� and�page-turn�bu�ons.�Nevertheless,�my�eyes�were�restless�and�jumped�around�as� they�do�when�I�try�to�read�for�a�sustained��me�on�the�computer.�Distrac�ons� abounded.�I�looked�up�Dickens�on�Wikipedia,�then�jumped�straight�down�the� Internet�rabbit�hole�following�a�link�about�a�Dickens�short�story,�‘Mugby�Junc�on.’� Twenty�minutes�later�I�s�ll�hadn’t�returned�to�my�reading�of�Nickleby�on�the� Kindle.”8

Rosen’s�struggle�sounds�almost�iden�cal�to�the�one�that�the�historian�David�Bell� went�through�back�in�2005�when�he�read�a�new�electronic�book,�The�Genesis�of� Napoleonic�Propaganda,�on�the�Internet.�He�described�his�experience�in�a�New� Republic�ar�cle:�“A�few�clicks,�and�the�text�duly�appears�on�my�computer�screen.�I� start�reading,�but�while�the�book�is�well�wri�en�and�informa�ve,�I��nd�it�remarkably� hard�to�concentrate.�I�scroll�back�and�forth,�search�for�key�words,�and�interrupt� myself�even�more�o�en�than�usual�to�re�ll�my�co�ee�cup,�check�my�e-mail,�check� the�news,�rearrange��les�in�my�desk�drawer.�Eventually�I�get�through�the�book�and� am�glad�to�have�done�so.�But�a�week�later�I��nd�it�remarkably�hard�to�remember� what�I�have�read.”�9

When�a�printed�book—whether�a�recently�published�scholarly�history�or�a�two- hundred-year-old�Victorian�novel—is�transferred�to�an�electronic�device�connected� to�the�Internet,�it�turns�into�something�very�like�a�Web�site.�Its�words�become� wrapped�in�all�the�distrac�ons�of�the�networked�computer.�Its�links�and�other�digital� enhancements�propel�the�reader�hither�and�yon.�It�loses�what�the�late�John�Updike� called�its�“edges”�and�dissolves�into�the�vast,�roiling�waters�of�the�Net.10�The� linearity�of�the�printed�book�is�sha�ered,�along�with�the�calm�a�en�veness�it� encourages�in�the�reader.�The�high-tech�features�of�devices�like�the�Kindle�and� Apple’s�new�iPad�may�make�it�more�likely�that�we’ll�read�e-books,�but�the�way�we� read�them�will�be�very�di�erent�from�the�way�we�read�printed�edi�ons.

CHANGES�IN�READING�style�will�also�bring�changes�in�wri�ng�style,�as�authors�and�

their�publishers�adapt�to�readers’�new�habits�and�expecta�ons.�A�striking�example� of�this�process�is�already�on�display�in�Japan.�In�2001,�young�Japanese�women�began� composing�stories�on�their�mobile�phones,�as�strings�of�text�messages,�and� uploading�them�to�a�Web�site,�Maho�no�i-rando,�where�other�people�read�and� commented�on�them.�The�stories�expanded�into�serialized�“cell�phone�novels,”�and� their�popularity�grew.�Some�of�the�novels�found�millions�of�readers�online.� Publishers�took�no�ce,�and�began�to�bring�out�the�novels�as�printed�books.�By�the� end�of�the�decade,�cell�phone�novels�had�come�to�dominate�the�country’s�best- seller�lists.�The�three�top-selling�Japanese�novels�in�2007�were�all�originally�wri�en� on�mobile�phones.

The�form�of�the�novels�re�ects�their�origins.�They�are,�according�to�the�reporter� Norimitsu�Onishi,�“mostly�love�stories�wri�en�in�the�short�sentences�characteris�c� of�text�messaging�but�containing�li�le�of�the�plo�ng�or�character�development� found�in�tradi�onal�novels.”�One�of�the�most�popular�cell�phone�novelists,�a�twenty- one-year-old�who�goes�by�the�name�of�Rin,�explained�to�Onishi�why�young�readers� are�abandoning�tradi�onal�novels:�“They�don’t�read�works�by�professional�writers� because�their�sentences�are�too�di�cult�to�understand,�their�expressions�are� inten�onally�wordy,�and�the�stories�are�not�familiar�to�them.”11�The�popularity�of� cell�phone�novels�may�never�extend�beyond�Japan,�a�country�given�to�peculiar�fads,� but�the�novels�nevertheless�demonstrate�how�changes�in�reading�inevitably�spur� changes�in�wri�ng.

Another�sign�of�how�the�Web�is�beginning�to�in�uence�book�wri�ng�came�in�2009,� when�O’Reilly�Media,�an�American�publisher�of�technology�books,�brought�out�a� book�about�Twi�er�that�had�been�created�with�Microso�’s�PowerPoint�presenta�on� so�ware.�“We’ve�long�been�interested�in�exploring�how�the�online�medium�changes� the�presenta�on,�narra�ve�and�structure�of�the�book,”�said�the��rm’s�chief� execu�ve,�Tim�O’Reilly,�in�introducing�the�volume,�which�is�available�in�both�print� and�electronic�edi�ons.�“Most�books�s�ll�use�the�old�model�of�a�sustained�narra�ve� as�their�organiza�onal�principle.�Here,�we’ve�used�a�web-like�model�of�standalone� pages,�each�of�which�can�be�read�alone�(or�at�most�in�a�group�of�two�or�three).”�The� “modular�architecture”�re�ects�the�way�people’s�reading�prac�ces�have�changed�as� they’ve�adapted�to�online�text,�O’Reilly�explained.�The�Web�“provides�countless� lessons�about�how�books�need�to�change�when�they�move�online.”12

Some�of�the�changes�in�the�way�books�are�wri�en�and�presented�will�be�drama�c.� At�least�one�major�publisher,�Simon�&�Schuster,�has�already�begun�publishing�e- novels�that�have�videos�embedded�in�their�virtual�pages.�The�hybrids�are�known�as� “vooks.”�Other�companies�have�similar�mul�media�experiments�in�the�works.� “Everybody�is�trying�to�think�about�how�books�and�informa�on�will�best�be�put� together�in�the�21st�century,”�said�Simon�&�Schuster�execu�ve�Judith�Curr�in�

explaining�the�impetus�behind�vooks.�“You�can’t�just�be�linear�anymore�with�your� text.”13

Other�changes�in�form�and�content�will�be�subtle,�and�they’ll�develop�slowly.�As� more�readers�come�to�discover�books�through�online�text�searches,�for�example,� authors�will�face�growing�pressures�to�tailor�their�words�to�search�engines,�the�way� bloggers�and�other�Web�writers�rou�nely�do�today.�Steven�Johnson�sketches�out� some�of�the�likely�consequences:�“Writers�and�publishers�will�begin�to�think�about� how�individual�pages�or�chapters�might�rank�in�Google’s�results,�cra�ing�sec�ons� explicitly�in�the�hopes�that�they�will�draw�in�that�steady�stream�of�search�visitors.� Individual�paragraphs�will�be�accompanied�by�descrip�ve�tags�to�orient�poten�al� searchers;�chapter��tles�will�be�tested�to�determine�how�well�they�rank.”14

Many�observers�believe�it’s�only�a�ma�er�of��me�before�social-networking�func�ons� are�incorporated�into�digital�readers,�turning�reading�into�something�like�a�team� sport.�We’ll�chat�and�pass�virtual�notes�while�scanning�electronic�text.�We’ll� subscribe�to�services�that�automa�cally�update�our�e-books�with�comments�and� revisions�added�by�fellow�readers.�“Soon,”�says�Ben�Vershbow�of�the�Ins�tute�for� the�Future�of�the�Book,�an�arm�of�USC’s�Annenberg�Center�for�Communica�on,� “books�will�literally�have�discussions�inside�of�them,�both�live�chats�and� asynchronous�exchanges�through�comments�and�social�annota�on.�You�will�be�able� to�see�who�else�out�there�is�reading�that�book�and�be�able�to�open�up�a�dialog�with� them.”15�In�a�much-discussed�essay,�the�science�writer�Kevin�Kelly�even�suggested� that�we’ll�be�holding�communal�cut-and-paste�par�es�online.�We’ll�cobble�together� new�books�from�bits�and�pieces�li�ed�out�of�old�ones.�“Once�digi�zed,”�he�wrote,� “books�can�be�unraveled�into�single�pages�or�be�reduced�further,�into�snippets�of�a� page.�These�snippets�will�be�remixed�into�reordered�books,”�which�will�then�“be� published�and�swapped�in�the�public�commons.”16

That�par�cular�scenario�may�or�may�not�come�to�pass,�but�it�does�seem�inevitable� that�the�Web’s�tendency�to�turn�all�media�into�social�media�will�have�a�far-reaching� e�ect�on�styles�of�reading�and�wri�ng�and�hence�on�language�itself.�When�the�form� of�the�book�shi�ed�to�accommodate�silent�reading,�one�of�the�most�important� results�was�the�development�of�private�wri�ng.�Authors,�able�to�assume�that�an� a�en�ve�reader,�deeply�engaged�both�intellectually�and�emo�onally,�“would�come� at�last,�and�would�thank�them,”�quickly�jumped�beyond�the�limits�of�social�speech� and�began�to�explore�a�wealth�of�dis�nc�vely�literary�forms,�many�of�which�could� exist�only�on�the�page.�The�new�freedom�of�the�private�writer�led,�as�we’ve�seen,�to� a�burst�of�experimenta�on�that�expanded�vocabulary,�extended�the�boundaries�of� syntax,�and�in�general�increased�the��exibility�and�expressiveness�of�language.�Now� that�the�context�of�reading�is�again�shi�ing,�from�the�private�page�to�the�communal� screen,�authors�will�adapt�once�more.�They�will�increasingly�tailor�their�work�to�a�

milieu�that�the�essayist�Caleb�Crain�describes�as�“groupiness,”�where�people�read� mainly�“for�the�sake�of�a�feeling�of�belonging”�rather�than�for�personal� enlightenment�or�amusement.17�As�social�concerns�override�literary�ones,�writers� seem�fated�to�eschew�virtuosity�and�experimenta�on�in�favor�of�a�bland�but� immediately�accessible�style.�Wri�ng�will�become�a�means�for�recording�cha�er.

The�provisional�nature�of�digital�text�also�promises�to�in�uence�wri�ng�styles.�A� printed�book�is�a��nished�object.�Once�inked�onto�the�page,�its�words�become� indelible.�The��nality�of�the�act�of�publishing�has�long�ins�lled�in�the�best�and�most� conscien�ous�writers�and�editors�a�desire,�even�an�anxiety,�to�perfect�the�works� they�produce—to�write�with�an�eye�and�an�ear�toward�eternity.�Electronic�text�is� impermanent.�In�the�digital�marketplace,�publica�on�becomes�an�ongoing�process� rather�than�a�discrete�event,�and�revision�can�go�on�inde�nitely.�Even�a�er�an�e- book�is�downloaded�into�a�networked�device,�it�can�be�easily�and�automa�cally� updated—just�as�so�ware�programs�rou�nely�are�today.18�It�seems�likely�that� removing�the�sense�of�closure�from�book�wri�ng�will,�in��me,�alter�writers’�a�tudes� toward�their�work.�The�pressure�to�achieve�perfec�on�will�diminish,�along�with�the� ar�s�c�rigor�that�the�pressure�imposed.�To�see�how�small�changes�in�writers’� assump�ons�and�a�tudes�can�eventually�have�large�e�ects�on�what�they�write,�one� need�only�glance�at�the�history�of�correspondence.�A�personal�le�er�wri�en�in,�say,� the�nineteenth�century�bears�li�le�resemblance�to�a�personal�e-mail�or�text�message� wri�en�today.�Our�indulgence�in�the�pleasures�of�informality�and�immediacy�has�led� to�a�narrowing�of�expressiveness�and�a�loss�of�eloquence.19

No�doubt�the�connec�vity�and�other�features�of�e-books�will�bring�new�delights�and� diversions.�We�may�even,�as�Kelly�suggests,�come�to�see�digi�za�on�as�a�libera�ng� act,�a�way�of�freeing�text�from�the�page.�But�the�cost�will�be�a�further�weakening,�if� not�a��nal�severing,�of�the�in�mate�intellectual�a�achment�between�the�lone�writer� and�the�lone�reader.�The�prac�ce�of�deep�reading�that�became�popular�in�the�wake� of�Gutenberg’s�inven�on,�in�which�“the�quiet�was�part�of�the�meaning,�part�of�the� mind,”�will�con�nue�to�fade,�in�all�likelihood�becoming�the�province�of�a�small�and� dwindling�elite.�We�will,�in�other�words,�revert�to�the�historical�norm.�As�a�group�of� Northwestern�University�professors�wrote�in�a�2005�ar�cle�in�the�Annual�Review�of� Sociology,�the�recent�changes�in�our�reading�habits�suggest�that�the�“era�of�mass� [book]�reading”�was�a�brief�“anomaly”�in�our�intellectual�history:�“We�are�now� seeing�such�reading�return�to�its�former�social�base:�a�self-perpetua�ng�minority� that�we�shall�call�the�reading�class.”�The�ques�on�that�remains�to�be�answered,�they� went�on,�is�whether�that�reading�class�will�have�the�“power�and�pres�ge�associated� with�an�increasingly�rare�form�of�cultural�capital”�or�will�be�viewed�as�the�eccentric� prac��oners�of�“an�increasingly�arcane�hobby.”20

When�Amazon’s�chief�execu�ve,�Je��Bezos,�introduced�the�Kindle,�he�sounded�a�

self-congratulatory�note:�“It’s�so�ambi�ous�to�take�something�as�highly�evolved�as�a� book�and�improve�on�it.�And�maybe�even�change�the�way�people�read.”21�There’s� no�“maybe”�about�it.�The�way�people�read—and�write—has�already�been�changed� by�the�Net,�and�the�changes�will�con�nue�as,�slowly�but�surely,�the�words�of�books� are�extracted�from�the�printed�page�and�embedded�in�the�computer’s�“ecology�of� interrup�on�technologies.”

PUNDITS�HAVE�BEEN�trying�to�bury�the�book�for�a�long��me.�In�the�early�years�of�the� nineteenth�century,�the�burgeoning�popularity�of�newspapers—well�over�a�hundred� were�being�published�in�London�alone—led�many�observers�to�assume�that�books� were�on�the�verge�of�obsolescence.�How�could�they�compete�with�the�immediacy�of� the�daily�broadsheet?�“Before�this�century�shall�end,�journalism�will�be�the�whole� press—the�whole�human�thought,”�declared�the�French�poet�and�poli�cian� Alphonse�de�Lamar�ne�in�1831.�“Thought�will�spread�across�the�world�with�the� rapidity�of�light,�instantly�conceived,�instantly�wri�en,�instantly�understood.�It�will� blanket�the�earth�from�one�pole�to�the�other—sudden,�instantaneous,�burning�with� the�fervor�of�the�soul�from�which�it�burst�forth.�This�will�be�the�reign�of�the�human� word�in�all�its�plenitude.�Thought�will�not�have��me�to�ripen,�to�accumulate�into�the� form�of�a�book—the�book�will�arrive�too�late.�The�only�book�possible�from�today�is�a� newspaper.”22

Lamar�ne�was�mistaken.�At�the�century’s�end,�books�were�s�ll�around,�living�happily� beside�newspapers.�But�a�new�threat�to�their�existence�had�already�emerged:� Thomas�Edison’s�phonograph.�It�seemed�obvious,�at�least�to�the�intelligentsia,�that� people�would�soon�be�listening�to�literature�rather�than�reading�it.�In�an�1889�essay� in�the�Atlan�c�Monthly,�Philip�Hubert�predicted�that�“many�books�and�stories�may� not�see�the�light�of�print�at�all;�they�will�go�into�the�hands�of�their�readers,�or� hearers�rather,�as�phonograms.”�The�phonograph,�which�at�the��me�could�record� sounds�as�well�as�play�them,�also�“promises�to�far�outstrip�the�typewriter”�as�a�tool� for�composing�prose,�he�wrote.23�That�same�year,�the�futurist�Edward�Bellamy� suggested,�in�a�Harper’s�ar�cle,�that�people�would�come�to�read�“with�the�eyes� shut.”�They�would�carry�around�a��ny�audio�player,�called�an�“indispensable,”�which� would�contain�all�their�books,�newspapers,�and�magazines.�Mothers,�wrote�Bellamy,� would�no�longer�have�“to�make�themselves�hoarse�telling�the�children�stories�on� rainy�days�to�keep�them�out�of�mischief.”�The�kids�would�all�have�their�own� indispensables.24

Five�years�later,�Scribner’s�Magazine�delivered�the�seeming�coup�de�grâce�to�the� codex,�publishing�an�ar�cle��tled�“The�End�of�Books”�by�Octave�Uzanne,�an�eminent� French�author�and�publisher.�“What�is�my�view�of�the�des�ny�of�books,�my�dear� friends?”�he�wrote.�“I�do�not�believe�(and�the�progress�of�electricity�and�modern� mechanism�forbids�me�to�believe)�that�Gutenberg’s�inven�on�can�do�otherwise�than�

sooner�or�later�fall�into�desuetude�as�a�means�of�current�interpreta�on�of�our� mental�products.”�Prin�ng,�a�“somewhat�an�quated�process”�that�for�centuries�“has� reigned�despo�cally�over�the�mind�of�man,”�would�be�replaced�by�“phonography,”� and�libraries�would�be�turned�into�“phonographotecks.”�We�would�see�a�return�of� “the�art�of�u�erance,”�as�narrators�took�the�place�of�writers.�“The�ladies,”�Uzanne� concluded,�“will�no�longer�say�in�speaking�of�a�successful�author,�‘What�a�charming� writer!’�All�shuddering�with�emo�on,�they�will�sigh,�‘Ah,�how�this�“Teller’s”�voice� thrills�you,�charms�you,�moves�you.’”25

The�book�survived�the�phonograph�as�it�had�the�newspaper.�Listening�didn’t�replace� reading.�Edison’s�inven�on�came�to�be�used�mainly�for�playing�music�rather�than� declaiming�poetry�and�prose.�During�the�twen�eth�century,�book�reading�would� withstand�a�fresh�onslaught�of�seemingly�mortal�threats:�moviegoing,�radio� listening,�TV�viewing.�Today,�books�remain�as�commonplace�as�ever,�and�there’s� every�reason�to�believe�that�printed�works�will�con�nue�to�be�produced�and�read,�in� some�sizable�quan�ty,�for�years�to�come.�While�physical�books�may�be�on�the�road� to�obsolescence,�the�road�will�almost�certainly�be�a�long�and�winding�one.�Yet�the� con�nued�existence�of�the�codex,�though�it�may�provide�some�cheer�to�bibliophiles,� doesn’t�change�the�fact�that�books�and�book�reading,�at�least�as�we’ve�de�ned� those�things�in�the�past,�are�in�their�cultural�twilight.�As�a�society,�we�devote�ever� less��me�to�reading�printed�words,�and�even�when�we�do�read�them,�we�do�so�in� the�busy�shadow�of�the�Internet.�“Already,”�the�literary�cri�c�George�Steiner�wrote� in�1997,�“the�silences,�the�arts�of�concentra�on�and�memoriza�on,�the�luxuries�of� �me�on�which�‘high�reading’�depended�are�largely�disposed.”�But�“these�erosions,”� he�con�nued,�“are�nearly�insigni�cant�compared�with�the�brave�new�world�of�the� electronic.”26�Fi�y�years�ago,�it�would�have�been�possible�to�make�the�case�that�we� were�s�ll�in�the�age�of�print.�Today,�it�is�not.

Some�thinkers�welcome�the�eclipse�of�the�book�and�the�literary�mind�it�fostered.�In� a�recent�address�to�a�group�of�teachers,�Mark�Federman,�an�educa�on�researcher�at� the�University�of�Toronto,�argued�that�literacy,�as�we’ve�tradi�onally�understood�it,� “is�now�nothing�but�a�quaint�no�on,�an�aesthe�c�form�that�is�as�irrelevant�to�the� real�ques�ons�and�issues�of�pedagogy�today�as�is�recited�poetry—clearly�not�devoid� of�value,�but�equally�no�longer�the�structuring�force�of�society.”�The��me�has�come,� he�said,�for�teachers�and�students�alike�to�abandon�the�“linear,�hierarchical”�world� of�the�book�and�enter�the�Web’s�“world�of�ubiquitous�connec�vity�and�pervasive� proximity”—a�world�in�which�“the�greatest�skill”�involves�“discovering�emergent� meaning�among�contexts�that�are�con�nually�in��ux.”27

Clay�Shirky,�a�digital-media�scholar�at�New�York�University,�suggested�in�a�2008�blog� post�that�we�shouldn’t�waste�our��me�mourning�the�death�of�deep�reading—it�was� overrated�all�along.�“No�one�reads�War�and�Peace,”�he�wrote,�singling�out�Tolstoy’s�

epic�as�the�quintessence�of�high�literary�achievement.�“It’s�too�long,�and�not�so� interes�ng.”�People�have�“increasingly�decided�that�Tolstoy’s�sacred�work�isn’t� actually�worth�the��me�it�takes�to�read�it.”�The�same�goes�for�Proust’s�In�Search�of� Lost�Time�and�other�novels�that�un�l�recently�were�considered,�in�Shirky’s�cu�ng� phrase,�“Very�Important�in�some�vague�way.”�Indeed,�we’ve�“been�emp�ly�praising”� writers�like�Tolstoy�and�Proust�“all�these�years.”�Our�old�literary�habits�“were�just�a� side-e�ect�of�living�in�an�environment�of�impoverished�access.”28�Now�that�the�Net� has�granted�us�abundant�“access,”�Shirky�concluded,�we�can�at�last�lay�those��red� habits�aside.

Such�proclama�ons�seem�a�li�le�too�staged�to�take�seriously.�They�come�o��as�the� latest�manifesta�on�of�the�outré�posturing�that�has�always�characterized�the�an�- intellectual�wing�of�academia.�But,�then�again,�there�may�be�a�more�charitable� explana�on.�Federman,�Shirky,�and�others�like�them�may�be�early�exemplars�of�the� postliterary�mind,�intellectuals�for�whom�the�screen�rather�than�the�page�has�always� been�the�primary�conduit�of�informa�on.�As�Alberto�Manguel�has�wri�en,�“There�is� an�unbridgeable�chasm�between�the�book�that�tradi�on�has�declared�a�classic�and� the�book�(the�same�book)�that�we�have�made�ours�through�ins�nct,�emo�on�and� understanding:�su�ered�through�it,�rejoiced�in�it,�translated�it�into�our�experience� and�(notwithstanding�the�layers�of�readings�with�which�a�book�comes�into�our� hands)�essen�ally�become�its��rst�readers.”29�If�you�lack�the��me,�the�interest,�or� the�facility�to�inhabit�a�literary�work—to�make�it�your�own�in�the�way�Manguel� describes—then�of�course�you’d�consider�Tolstoy’s�masterpiece�to�be�“too�long,�and� not�so�interes�ng.”

Although�it�may�be�temp�ng�to�ignore�those�who�suggest�the�value�of�the�literary� mind�has�always�been�exaggerated,�that�would�be�a�mistake.�Their�arguments�are� another�important�sign�of�the�fundamental�shi��taking�place�in�society’s�a�tude� toward�intellectual�achievement.�Their�words�also�make�it�a�lot�easier�for�people�to� jus�fy�that�shi�—to�convince�themselves�that�sur�ng�the�Web�is�a�suitable,�even� superior,�subs�tute�for�deep�reading�and�other�forms�of�calm�and�a�en�ve�thought.� In�arguing�that�books�are�archaic�and�dispensable,�Federman�and�Shirky�provide�the� intellectual�cover�that�allows�though�ul�people�to�slip�comfortably�into�the� permanent�state�of�distractedness�that�de�nes�the�online�life.

OUR�DESIRE�FOR�fast-moving,�kaleidoscopic�diversions�didn’t�originate�with�the� inven�on�of�the�World�Wide�Web.�It�has�been�present�and�growing�for�many� decades,�as�the�pace�of�our�work�and�home�lives�has�quickened�and�as�broadcast� media�like�radio�and�television�have�presented�us�with�a�welter�of�programs,� messages,�and�adver�sements.�The�Internet,�though�it�marks�a�radical�departure� from�tradi�onal�media�in�many�ways,�also�represents�a�con�nua�on�of�the� intellectual�and�social�trends�that�emerged�from�people’s�embrace�of�the�electric�

media�of�the�twen�eth�century�and�that�have�been�shaping�our�lives�and�thoughts� ever�since.�The�distrac�ons�in�our�lives�have�been�prolifera�ng�for�a�long��me,�but� never�has�there�been�a�medium�that,�like�the�Net,�has�been�programmed�to�so� widely�sca�er�our�a�en�on�and�to�do�it�so�insistently.

David�Levy,�in�Scrolling�Forward,�describes�a�mee�ng�he�a�ended�at�Xerox’s�famed� Palo�Alto�Research�Center�in�the�mid-1970s,�a��me�when�the�high-tech�lab’s� engineers�and�programmers�were�devising�many�of�the�features�we�now�take�for� granted�in�our�personal�computers.�A�group�of�prominent�computer�scien�sts�had� been�invited�to�PARC�to�see�a�demonstra�on�of�a�new�opera�ng�system�that�made� “mul�tasking”�easy.�Unlike�tradi�onal�opera�ng�systems,�which�could�display�only� one�job�at�a��me,�the�new�system�divided�a�screen�into�many�“windows,”�each�of� which�could�run�a�di�erent�program�or�display�a�di�erent�document.�To�illustrate� the��exibility�of�the�system,�the�Xerox�presenter�clicked�from�a�window�in�which�he� had�been�composing�so�ware�code�to�another�window�that�displayed�a�newly� arrived�e-mail�message.�He�quickly�read�and�replied�to�the�message,�then�hopped� back�to�the�programming�window�and�con�nued�coding.�Some�in�the�audience� applauded�the�new�system.�They�saw�that�it�would�enable�people�to�use�their� computers�much�more�e�ciently.�Others�recoiled�from�it.�“Why�in�the�world�would� you�want�to�be�interrupted—and�distracted—by�e-mail�while�programming?”�one�of� the�a�ending�scien�sts�angrily�demanded.

The�ques�on�seems�quaint�today.�The�windows�interface�has�become�the�interface� for�all�PCs�and�for�most�other�compu�ng�devices�as�well.�On�the�Net,�there�are� windows�within�windows�within�windows,�not�to�men�on�long�ranks�of�tabs�primed� to�trigger�the�opening�of�even�more�windows.�Mul�tasking�has�become�so�rou�ne� that�most�of�us�would��nd�it�intolerable�if�we�had�to�go�back�to�computers�that� could�run�only�one�program�or�open�only�one��le�at�a��me.�And�yet,�even�though� the�ques�on�may�have�been�rendered�moot,�it�remains�as�vital�today�as�it�was� thirty-�ve�years�ago.�It�points,�as�Levy�says,�to�“a�con�ict�between�two�di�erent� ways�of�working�and�two�di�erent�understandings�of�how�technology�should�be� used�to�support�that�work.”�Whereas�the�Xerox�researcher�“was�eager�to�juggle� mul�ple�threads�of�work�simultaneously,”�the�skep�cal�ques�oner�viewed�his�own� work�“as�an�exercise�in�solitary,�singleminded�concentra�on.”30�In�the�choices�we� have�made,�consciously�or�not,�about�how�we�use�our�computers,�we�have�rejected� the�intellectual�tradi�on�of�solitary,�single-minded�concentra�on,�the�ethic�that�the� book�bestowed�on�us.�We�have�cast�our�lot�with�the�juggler.

Seven

THE�JUGGLER’S�BRAIN

It’s�been�a�while�since�the��rst-person�singular�was�heard�in�these�pages.�This�seems� like�a�good��me�for�me,�your�word-processing�scribe,�to�make�a�brief�reappearance.� I�realize�that�I’ve�dragged�you�through�a�lot�of�space�and��me�over�the�last�few� chapters,�and�I�appreciate�your�for�tude�in�s�cking�with�me.�The�journey�you’ve� been�on�is�the�same�one�I�took�in�trying�to��gure�out�what’s�been�going�on�inside�my� head.�The�deeper�I�dug�into�the�science�of�neuroplas�city�and�the�progress�of� intellectual�technology,�the�clearer�it�became�that�the�Internet’s�import�and� in�uence�can�be�judged�only�when�viewed�in�the�fuller�context�of�intellectual� history.�As�revolu�onary�as�it�may�be,�the�Net�is�best�understood�as�the�latest�in�a� long�series�of�tools�that�have�helped�mold�the�human�mind.

Now�comes�the�crucial�ques�on:�What�can�science�tell�us�about�the�actual�e�ects� that�Internet�use�is�having�on�the�way�our�minds�work?�No�doubt,�this�ques�on�will� be�the�subject�of�a�great�deal�of�research�in�the�years�ahead.�Already,�though,�there� is�much�we�know�or�can�surmise.�The�news�is�even�more�disturbing�than�I�had� suspected.�Dozens�of�studies�by�psychologists,�neurobiologists,�educators,�and�Web� designers�point�to�the�same�conclusion:�when�we�go�online,�we�enter�an� environment�that�promotes�cursory�reading,�hurried�and�distracted�thinking,�and� super�cial�learning.�It’s�possible�to�think�deeply�while�sur�ng�the�Net,�just�as�it’s� possible�to�think�shallowly�while�reading�a�book,�but�that’s�not�the�type�of�thinking� the�technology�encourages�and�rewards.

One�thing�is�very�clear:�if,�knowing�what�we�know�today�about�the�brain’s�plas�city,� you�were�to�set�out�to�invent�a�medium�that�would�rewire�our�mental�circuits�as� quickly�and�thoroughly�as�possible,�you�would�probably�end�up�designing�something� that�looks�and�works�a�lot�like�the�Internet.�It’s�not�just�that�we�tend�to�use�the�Net� regularly,�even�obsessively.�It’s�that�the�Net�delivers�precisely�the�kind�of�sensory� and�cogni�ve�s�muli—repe��ve,�intensive,�interac�ve,�addic�ve—that�have�been� shown�to�result�in�strong�and�rapid�altera�ons�in�brain�circuits�and�func�ons.�With� the�excep�on�of�alphabets�and�number�systems,�the�Net�may�well�be�the�single� most�powerful�mind-altering�technology�that�has�ever�come�into�general�use.�At�the� very�least,�it’s�the�most�powerful�that�has�come�along�since�the�book.

During�the�course�of�a�day,�most�of�us�with�access�to�the�Web�spend�at�least�a� couple�of�hours�online—some�mes�much�more—and�during�that��me,�we�tend�to� repeat�the�same�or�similar�ac�ons�over�and�over�again,�usually�at�a�high�rate�of� speed�and�o�en�in�response�to�cues�delivered�through�a�screen�or�a�speaker.�Some� of�the�ac�ons�are�physical�ones.�We�tap�the�keys�on�our�PC�keyboard.�We�drag�a� mouse�and�click�its�le��and�right�bu�ons�and�spin�its�scroll�wheel.�We�draw�the��ps� of�our��ngers�across�a�trackpad.�We�use�our�thumbs�to�punch�out�text�on�the�real�or� simulated�keypads�of�our�BlackBerrys�or�mobile�phones.�We�rotate�our�iPhones,� iPods,�and�iPads�to�shi��between�“landscape”�and�“portrait”�modes�while�

manipula�ng�the�icons�on�their�touch-sensi�ve�screens.

As�we�go�through�these�mo�ons,�the�Net�delivers�a�steady�stream�of�inputs�to�our� visual,�somatosensory,�and�auditory�cor�ces.�There�are�the�sensa�ons�that�come� through�our�hands�and��ngers�as�we�click�and�scroll,�type�and�touch.�There�are�the� many�audio�signals�delivered�through�our�ears,�such�as�the�chime�that�announces� the�arrival�of�a�new�e-mail�or�instant�message�and�the�various�ringtones�that�our� mobile�phones�use�to�alert�us�to�di�erent�events.�And,�of�course,�there�are�the� myriad�visual�cues�that��ash�across�our�re�nas�as�we�navigate�the�online�world:�not� just�the�ever-changing�arrays�of�text�and�pictures�and�videos�but�also�the�hyperlinks� dis�nguished�by�underlining�or�colored�text,�the�cursors�that�change�shape� depending�on�their�func�on,�the�new�e-mail�subject�lines�highlighted�in�bold�type,� the�virtual�bu�ons�that�call�out�to�be�clicked,�the�icons�and�other�screen�elements� that�beg�to�be�dragged�and�dropped,�the�forms�that�require��lling�out,�the�pop-up� ads�and�windows�that�need�to�be�read�or�dismissed.�The�Net�engages�all�of�our� senses—except,�so�far,�those�of�smell�and�taste—and�it�engages�them� simultaneously.

The�Net�also�provides�a�high-speed�system�for�delivering�responses�and�rewards —“posi�ve�reinforcements,”�in�psychological�terms—which�encourage�the� repe��on�of�both�physical�and�mental�ac�ons.�When�we�click�a�link,�we�get� something�new�to�look�at�and�evaluate.�When�we�Google�a�keyword,�we�receive,�in� the�blink�of�an�eye,�a�list�of�interes�ng�informa�on�to�appraise.�When�we�send�a� text�or�an�instant�message�or�an�e-mail,�we�o�en�get�a�reply�in�a�ma�er�of�seconds� or�minutes.�When�we�use�Facebook,�we�a�ract�new�friends�or�form�closer�bonds� with�old�ones.�When�we�send�a�tweet�through�Twi�er,�we�gain�new�followers.� When�we�write�a�blog�post,�we�get�comments�from�readers�or�links�from�other� bloggers.�The�Net’s�interac�vity�gives�us�powerful�new�tools�for��nding�informa�on,� expressing�ourselves,�and�conversing�with�others.�It�also�turns�us�into�lab�rats� constantly�pressing�levers�to�get��ny�pellets�of�social�or�intellectual�nourishment.

The�Net�commands�our�a�en�on�with�far�greater�insistency�than�our�television�or� radio�or�morning�newspaper�ever�did.�Watch�a�kid�tex�ng�his�friends�or�a�college� student�looking�over�the�roll�of�new�messages�and�requests�on�her�Facebook�page� or�a�businessman�scrolling�through�his�e-mails�on�his�BlackBerry—or�consider� yourself�as�you�enter�keywords�into�Google’s�search�box�and�begin�following�a�trail� of�links.�What�you�see�is�a�mind�consumed�with�a�medium.�When�we’re�online,� we’re�o�en�oblivious�to�everything�else�going�on�around�us.�The�real�world�recedes� as�we�process�the��ood�of�symbols�and�s�muli�coming�through�our�devices.

The�interac�vity�of�the�Net�ampli�es�this�e�ect�as�well.�Because�we’re�o�en�using� our�computers�in�a�social�context,�to�converse�with�friends�or�colleagues,�to�create�

“pro�les”�of�ourselves,�to�broadcast�our�thoughts�through�blog�posts�or�Facebook� updates,�our�social�standing�is,�in�one�way�or�another,�always�in�play,�always�at�risk.� The�resul�ng�self-consciousness—even,�at��mes,�fear—magni�es�the�intensity�of� our�involvement�with�the�medium.�That’s�true�for�everyone,�but�it’s�par�cularly�true� for�the�young,�who�tend�to�be�compulsive�in�using�their�phones�and�computers�for� tex�ng�and�instant�messaging.�Today’s�teenagers�typically�send�or�receive�a� message�every�few�minutes�throughout�their�waking�hours.�As�the�psychotherapist� Michael�Hausauer�notes,�teens�and�other�young�adults�have�a�“terri�c�interest�in� knowing�what’s�going�on�in�the�lives�of�their�peers,�coupled�with�a�terri�c�anxiety� about�being�out�of�the�loop.”1�If�they�stop�sending�messages,�they�risk�becoming� invisible.

Our�use�of�the�Internet�involves�many�paradoxes,�but�the�one�that�promises�to�have� the�greatest�long-term�in�uence�over�how�we�think�is�this�one:�the�Net�seizes�our� a�en�on�only�to�sca�er�it.�We�focus�intensively�on�the�medium�itself,�on�the� �ickering�screen,�but�we’re�distracted�by�the�medium’s�rapid-�re�delivery�of� compe�ng�messages�and�s�muli.�Whenever�and�wherever�we�log�on,�the�Net� presents�us�with�an�incredibly�seduc�ve�blur.�Human�beings�“want�more� informa�on,�more�impressions,�and�more�complexity,”�writes�Torkel�Klingberg,�the� Swedish�neuroscien�st.�We�tend�to�“seek�out�situa�ons�that�demand�concurrent� performance�or�situa�ons�in�which�[we]�are�overwhelmed�with�informa�on.”2�If�the� slow�progression�of�words�across�printed�pages�dampened�our�craving�to�be� inundated�by�mental�s�mula�on,�the�Net�indulges�it.�It�returns�us�to�our�na�ve�state� of�bo�om-up�distractedness,�while�presen�ng�us�with�far�more�distrac�ons�than�our� ancestors�ever�had�to�contend�with.

Not�all�distrac�ons�are�bad.�As�most�of�us�know�from�experience,�if�we�concentrate� too�intensively�on�a�tough�problem,�we�can�get�stuck�in�a�mental�rut.�Our�thinking� narrows,�and�we�struggle�vainly�to�come�up�with�new�ideas.�But�if�we�let�the� problem�sit�una�ended�for�a��me—if�we�“sleep�on�it”—we�o�en�return�to�it�with�a� fresh�perspec�ve�and�a�burst�of�crea�vity.�Research�by�Ap�Dijksterhuis,�a�Dutch� psychologist�who�heads�the�Unconscious�Lab�at�Radboud�University�in�Nijmegen,� indicates�that�such�breaks�in�our�a�en�on�give�our�unconscious�mind��me�to� grapple�with�a�problem,�bringing�to�bear�informa�on�and�cogni�ve�processes� unavailable�to�conscious�delibera�on.�We�usually�make�be�er�decisions,�his� experiments�reveal,�if�we�shi��our�a�en�on�away�from�a�di�cult�mental�challenge� for�a��me.�But�Dijksterhuis’s�work�also�shows�that�our�unconscious�thought� processes�don’t�engage�with�a�problem�un�l�we’ve�clearly�and�consciously�de�ned� the�problem.3�If�we�don’t�have�a�par�cular�intellectual�goal�in�mind,�Dijksterhuis� writes,�“unconscious�thought�does�not�occur.”4

The�constant�distractedness�that�the�Net�encourages—the�state�of�being,�to�borrow�

another�phrase�from�Eliot’s�Four�Quartets,�“distracted�from�distrac�on�by� distrac�on”—is�very�di�erent�from�the�kind�of�temporary,�purposeful�diversion�of� our�mind�that�refreshes�our�thinking�when�we’re�weighing�a�decision.�The�Net’s� cacophony�of�s�muli�short-circuits�both�conscious�and�unconscious�thought,� preven�ng�our�minds�from�thinking�either�deeply�or�crea�vely.�Our�brains�turn�into� simple�signal-processing�units,�quickly�shepherding�informa�on�into�consciousness� and�then�back�out�again.

In�a�2005�interview,�Michael�Merzenich�ruminated�on�the�Internet’s�power�to�cause� not�just�modest�altera�ons�but�fundamental�changes�in�our�mental�makeup.�No�ng� that�“our�brain�is�modi�ed�on�a�substan�al�scale,�physically�and�func�onally,�each� �me�we�learn�a�new�skill�or�develop�a�new�ability,”�he�described�the�Net�as�the� latest�in�a�series�of�“modern�cultural�specializa�ons”�that�“contemporary�humans� can�spend�millions�of�‘prac�ce’�events�at�[and�that]�the�average�human�a�thousand� years�ago�had�absolutely�no�exposure�to.”�He�concluded�that�“our�brains�are� massively�remodeled�by�this�exposure.”5�He�returned�to�this�theme�in�a�post�on�his� blog�in�2008,�resor�ng�to�capital�le�ers�to�emphasize�his�points.�“When�culture� drives�changes�in�the�ways�that�we�engage�our�brains,�it�creates�DIFFERENT�brains,”� he�wrote,�no�ng�that�our�minds�“strengthen�speci�c�heavily-exercised�processes.”� While�acknowledging�that�it’s�now�hard�to�imagine�living�without�the�Internet�and� online�tools�like�the�Google�search�engine,�he�stressed�that�“THEIR�HEAVY�USE�HAS� NEUROLOGICAL�CONSEQUENCES.”6

What�we’re�not�doing�when�we’re�online�also�has�neurological�consequences.�Just� as�neurons�that��re�together�wire�together,�neurons�that�don’t��re�together�don’t� wire�together.�As�the��me�we�spend�scanning�Web�pages�crowds�out�the��me�we� spend�reading�books,�as�the��me�we�spend�exchanging�bite-sized�text�messages� crowds�out�the��me�we�spend�composing�sentences�and�paragraphs,�as�the��me�we� spend�hopping�across�links�crowds�out�the��me�we�devote�to�quiet�re�ec�on�and� contempla�on,�the�circuits�that�support�those�old�intellectual�func�ons�and�pursuits� weaken�and�begin�to�break�apart.�The�brain�recycles�the�disused�neurons�and� synapses�for�other,�more�pressing�work.�We�gain�new�skills�and�perspec�ves�but� lose�old�ones.

GARY�SMALL,�A�professor�of�psychiatry�at�UCLA�and�the�director�of�its�Memory�and� Aging�Center,�has�been�studying�the�physiological�and�neurological�e�ects�of�the�use� of�digital�media,�and�what�he’s�discovered�backs�up�Merzenich’s�belief�that�the�Net� causes�extensive�brain�changes.�“The�current�explosion�of�digital�technology�not� only�is�changing�the�way�we�live�and�communicate�but�is�rapidly�and�profoundly� altering�our�brains,”�he�says.�The�daily�use�of�computers,�smartphones,�search� engines,�and�other�such�tools�“s�mulates�brain�cell�altera�on�and�neurotransmi�er� release,�gradually�strengthening�new�neural�pathways�in�our�brains�while�weakening�

old�ones.”7

In�2008,�Small�and�two�of�his�colleagues�carried�out�the��rst�experiment�that� actually�showed�people’s�brains�changing�in�response�to�Internet�use.8�The� researchers�recruited�twenty-four�volunteers—a�dozen�experienced�Web�surfers� and�a�dozen�novices—and�scanned�their�brains�as�they�performed�searches�on� Google.�(Since�a�computer�won’t��t�inside�a�magne�c�resonance�imager,�the� subjects�were�equipped�with�goggles�onto�which�were�projected�images�of�Web� pages,�along�with�a�small�handheld�touchpad�to�navigate�the�pages.)�The�scans� revealed�that�the�brain�ac�vity�of�the�experienced�Googlers�was�much�broader�than� that�of�the�novices.�In�par�cular,�“the�computer-savvy�subjects�used�a�speci�c� network�in�the�le��front�part�of�the�brain,�known�as�the�dorsolateral�prefrontal� cortex,�[while]�the�Internet-naïve�subjects�showed�minimal,�if�any,�ac�vity�in�this� area.”�As�a�control�for�the�test,�the�researchers�also�had�the�subjects�read�straight� text�in�a�simula�on�of�book�reading;�in�this�case,�scans�revealed�no�signi�cant� di�erence�in�brain�ac�vity�between�the�two�groups.�Clearly,�the�experienced�Net� users’�dis�nc�ve�neural�pathways�had�developed�through�their�Internet�use.

The�most�remarkable�part�of�the�experiment�came�when�the�tests�were�repeated�six� days�later.�In�the�interim,�the�researchers�had�the�novices�spend�an�hour�a�day� online,�searching�the�Net.�The�new�scans�revealed�that�the�area�in�their�prefrontal� cortex�that�had�been�largely�dormant�now�showed�extensive�ac�vity—just�like�the� ac�vity�in�the�brains�of�the�veteran�surfers.�“A�er�just��ve�days�of�prac�ce,�the� exact�same�neural�circuitry�in�the�front�part�of�the�brain�became�ac�ve�in�the� Internet-naïve�subjects,”�reports�Small.�“Five�hours�on�the�Internet,�and�the�naïve� subjects�had�already�rewired�their�brains.”�He�goes�on�to�ask,�“If�our�brains�are�so� sensi�ve�to�just�an�hour�a�day�of�computer�exposure,�what�happens�when�we�spend� more��me�[online]?”�9

One�other��nding�of�the�study�sheds�light�on�the�di�erences�between�reading�Web� pages�and�reading�books.�The�researchers�found�that�when�people�search�the�Net� they�exhibit�a�very�di�erent�pa�ern�of�brain�ac�vity�than�they�do�when�they�read� book-like�text.�Book�readers�have�a�lot�of�ac�vity�in�regions�associated�with� language,�memory,�and�visual�processing,�but�they�don’t�display�much�ac�vity�in�the� prefrontal�regions�associated�with�decision�making�and�problem�solving.� Experienced�Net�users,�by�contrast,�display�extensive�ac�vity�across�all�those�brain� regions�when�they�scan�and�search�Web�pages.�The�good�news�here�is�that�Web� sur�ng,�because�it�engages�so�many�brain�func�ons,�may�help�keep�older�people’s� minds�sharp.�Searching�and�browsing�seem�to�“exercise”�the�brain�in�a�way�similar� to�solving�crossword�puzzles,�says�Small.

But�the�extensive�ac�vity�in�the�brains�of�surfers�also�points�to�why�deep�reading�

and�other�acts�of�sustained�concentra�on�become�so�di�cult�online.�The�need�to� evaluate�links�and�make�related�naviga�onal�choices,�while�also�processing�a� mul�plicity�of��ee�ng�sensory�s�muli,�requires�constant�mental�coordina�on�and� decision�making,�distrac�ng�the�brain�from�the�work�of�interpre�ng�text�or�other� informa�on.�Whenever�we,�as�readers,�come�upon�a�link,�we�have�to�pause,�for�at� least�a�split�second,�to�allow�our�prefrontal�cortex�to�evaluate�whether�or�not�we� should�click�on�it.�The�redirec�on�of�our�mental�resources,�from�reading�words�to� making�judgments,�may�be�impercep�ble�to�us—our�brains�are�quick—but�it’s�been� shown�to�impede�comprehension�and�reten�on,�par�cularly�when�it’s�repeated� frequently.�As�the�execu�ve�func�ons�of�the�prefrontal�cortex�kick�in,�our�brains� become�not�only�exercised�but�overtaxed.�In�a�very�real�way,�the�Web�returns�us�to� the��me�of�scriptura�con�nua,�when�reading�was�a�cogni�vely�strenuous�act.�In� reading�online,�Maryanne�Wolf�says,�we�sacri�ce�the�facility�that�makes�deep� reading�possible.�We�revert�to�being�“mere�decoders�of�informa�on.”10�Our�ability� to�make�the�rich�mental�connec�ons�that�form�when�we�read�deeply�and�without� distrac�on�remains�largely�disengaged.

Steven�Johnson,�in�his�2005�book�Everything�Bad�Is�Good�for�You,�contrasted�the� widespread,�teeming�neural�ac�vity�seen�in�the�brains�of�computer�users�with�the� much�more�muted�ac�vity�evident�in�the�brains�of�book�readers.�The�comparison�led� him�to�suggest�that�computer�use�provides�more�intense�mental�s�mula�on�than� does�book�reading.�The�neural�evidence�could�even,�he�wrote,�lead�a�person�to� conclude�that�“reading�books�chronically�unders�mulates�the�senses.”11�But�while� Johnson’s�diagnosis�is�correct,�his�interpreta�on�of�the�di�ering�pa�erns�of�brain� ac�vity�is�misleading.�It�is�the�very�fact�that�book�reading�“unders�mulates�the� senses”�that�makes�the�ac�vity�so�intellectually�rewarding.�By�allowing�us�to��lter� out�distrac�ons,�to�quiet�the�problem-solving�func�ons�of�the�frontal�lobes,�deep� reading�becomes�a�form�of�deep�thinking.�The�mind�of�the�experienced�book�reader� is�a�calm�mind,�not�a�buzzing�one.�When�it�comes�to�the��ring�of�our�neurons,�it’s�a� mistake�to�assume�that�more�is�be�er.

John�Sweller,�an�Australian�educa�onal�psychologist,�has�spent�three�decades� studying�how�our�minds�process�informa�on�and,�in�par�cular,�how�we�learn.�His� work�illuminates�how�the�Net�and�other�media�in�uence�the�style�and�the�depth�of� our�thinking.�Our�brains,�he�explains,�incorporate�two�very�di�erent�kinds�of� memory:�short-term�and�long-term.�We�hold�our�immediate�impressions,� sensa�ons,�and�thoughts�as�short-term�memories,�which�tend�to�last�only�a�ma�er� of�seconds.�All�the�things�we’ve�learned�about�the�world,�whether�consciously�or� unconsciously,�are�stored�as�long-term�memories,�which�can�remain�in�our�brains�for� a�few�days,�a�few�years,�or�even�a�life�me.�One�par�cular�type�of�short-term� memory,�called�working�memory,�plays�an�instrumental�role�in�the�transfer�of� informa�on�into�long-term�memory�and�hence�in�the�crea�on�of�our�personal�store�

of�knowledge.�Working�memory�forms,�in�a�very�real�sense,�the�contents�of�our� consciousness�at�any�given�moment.�“We�are�conscious�of�what�is�in�working� memory�and�not�conscious�of�anything�else,”�says�Sweller.12

If�working�memory�is�the�mind’s�scratch�pad,�then�long-term�memory�is�its��ling� system.�The�contents�of�our�long-term�memory�lie�mainly�outside�of�our� consciousness.�In�order�for�us�to�think�about�something�we’ve�previously�learned�or� experienced,�our�brain�has�to�transfer�the�memory�from�long-term�memory�back� into�working�memory.�“We�are�only�aware�that�something�was�stored�in�long-term� memory�when�it�is�brought�down�into�working�memory,”�explains�Sweller.13�It�was� once�assumed�that�long-term�memory�served�merely�as�a�big�warehouse�of�facts,� impressions,�and�events,�that�it�“played�li�le�part�in�complex�cogni�ve�processes� such�as�thinking�and�problem-solving.”14�But�brain�scien�sts�have�come�to�realize� that�long-term�memory�is�actually�the�seat�of�understanding.�It�stores�not�just�facts� but�complex�concepts,�or�“schemas.”�By�organizing�sca�ered�bits�of�informa�on� into�pa�erns�of�knowledge,�schemas�give�depth�and�richness�to�our�thinking.�“Our� intellectual�prowess�is�derived�largely�from�the�schemas�we�have�acquired�over�long� periods�of��me,”�says�Sweller.�“We�are�able�to�understand�concepts�in�our�areas�of� exper�se�because�we�have�schemas�associated�with�those�concepts.”15

The�depth�of�our�intelligence�hinges�on�our�ability�to�transfer�informa�on�from� working�memory�to�long-term�memory�and�weave�it�into�conceptual�schemas.�But� the�passage�from�working�memory�to�long-term�memory�also�forms�the�major� bo�leneck�in�our�brain.�Unlike�long-term�memory,�which�has�a�vast�capacity,� working�memory�is�able�to�hold�only�a�very�small�amount�of�informa�on.�In�a� renowned�1956�paper,�“The�Magical�Number�Seven,�Plus�or�Minus�Two,”�Princeton� psychologist�George�Miller�observed�that�working�memory�could�typically�hold�just� seven�pieces,�or�“elements,”�of�informa�on.�Even�that�is�now�considered�an� overstatement.�According�to�Sweller,�current�evidence�suggests�that�“we�can� process�no�more�than�about�two�to�four�elements�at�any�given��me�with�the�actual� number�probably�being�at�the�lower�[rather]�than�the�higher�end�of�this�scale.”� Those�elements�that�we�are�able�to�hold�in�working�memory�will,�moreover,�quickly� vanish�“unless�we�are�able�to�refresh�them�by�rehearsal.”16

Imagine��lling�a�bathtub�with�a�thimble;�that’s�the�challenge�involved�in�transferring� informa�on�from�working�memory�into�long-term�memory.�By�regula�ng�the� velocity�and�intensity�of�informa�on��ow,�media�exert�a�strong�in�uence�on�this� process.�When�we�read�a�book,�the�informa�on�faucet�provides�a�steady�drip,�which� we�can�control�by�the�pace�of�our�reading.�Through�our�single-minded�concentra�on� on�the�text,�we�can�transfer�all�or�most�of�the�informa�on,�thimbleful�by�thimbleful,� into�long-term�memory�and�forge�the�rich�associa�ons�essen�al�to�the�crea�on�of� schemas.�With�the�Net,�we�face�many�informa�on�faucets,�all�going�full�blast.�Our�

li�le�thimble�over�ows�as�we�rush�from�one�faucet�to�the�next.�We’re�able�to� transfer�only�a�small�por�on�of�the�informa�on�to�long-term�memory,�and�what�we� do�transfer�is�a�jumble�of�drops�from�di�erent�faucets,�not�a�con�nuous,�coherent� stream�from�one�source.

The�informa�on��owing�into�our�working�memory�at�any�given�moment�is�called�our� “cogni�ve�load.”�When�the�load�exceeds�our�mind’s�ability�to�store�and�process�the� informa�on—when�the�water�over�ows�the�thimble—we’re�unable�to�retain�the� informa�on�or�to�draw�connec�ons�with�the�informa�on�already�stored�in�our�long- term�memory.�We�can’t�translate�the�new�informa�on�into�schemas.�Our�ability�to� learn�su�ers,�and�our�understanding�remains�shallow.�Because�our�ability�to� maintain�our�a�en�on�also�depends�on�our�working�memory—“we�have�to� remember�what�it�is�we�are�to�concentrate�on,”�as�Torkel�Klingberg�says—a�high� cogni�ve�load�ampli�es�the�distractedness�we�experience.�When�our�brain�is� overtaxed,�we��nd�“distrac�ons�more�distrac�ng.”17�(Some�studies�link�a�en�on� de�cit�disorder,�or�ADD,�to�the�overloading�of�working�memory.)�Experiments� indicate�that�as�we�reach�the�limits�of�our�working�memory,�it�becomes�harder�to� dis�nguish�relevant�informa�on�from�irrelevant�informa�on,�signal�from�noise.�We� become�mindless�consumers�of�data.

Di�cul�es�in�developing�an�understanding�of�a�subject�or�a�concept�appear�to�be� “heavily�determined�by�working�memory�load,”�writes�Sweller,�and�the�more� complex�the�material�we’re�trying�to�learn,�the�greater�the�penalty�exacted�by�an� overloaded�mind.18�There�are�many�possible�sources�of�cogni�ve�overload,�but�two� of�the�most�important,�according�to�Sweller,�are�“extraneous�problem-solving”�and� “divided�a�en�on.”�Those�also�happen�to�be�two�of�the�central�features�of�the�Net� as�an�informa�onal�medium.�Using�the�Net�may,�as�Gary�Small�suggests,�exercise� the�brain�the�way�solving�crossword�puzzles�does.�But�such�intensive�exercise,�when� it�becomes�our�primary�mode�of�thought,�can�impede�deep�learning�and�thinking.� Try�reading�a�book�while�doing�a�crossword�puzzle;�that’s�the�intellectual� environment�of�the�Internet.

BACK�IN�THE�1980s,�when�schools�began�inves�ng�heavily�in�computers,�there�was� much�enthusiasm�about�the�apparent�advantages�of�digital�documents�over�paper� ones.�Many�educators�were�convinced�that�introducing�hyperlinks�into�text� displayed�on�computer�screens�would�be�a�boon�to�learning.�Hypertext�would,�they� argued,�strengthen�students’�cri�cal�thinking�by�enabling�them�to�switch�easily� between�di�erent�viewpoints.�Freed�from�the�lockstep�reading�demanded�by� printed�pages,�readers�would�make�all�sorts�of�new�intellectual�connec�ons�among� diverse�texts.�The�academic�enthusiasm�for�hypertext�was�further�kindled�by�the� belief,�in�line�with�the�fashionable�postmodern�theories�of�the�day,�that�hypertext� would�overthrow�the�patriarchal�authority�of�the�author�and�shi��power�to�the�

reader.�It�would�be�a�technology�of�libera�on.�Hypertext,�wrote�the�literary�theorists� George�Landow�and�Paul�Delany,�can�“provide�a�revela�on”�by�freeing�readers�from� the�“stubborn�materiality”�of�printed�text.�By�“moving�away�from�the�constric�ons� of�page-bound�technology,”�it�“provides�a�be�er�model�for�the�mind’s�ability�to� reorder�the�elements�of�experience�by�changing�the�links�of�associa�on�or� determina�on�between�them.”19

By�the�end�of�the�decade,�the�enthusiasm�had�begun�to�subside.�Research�was� pain�ng�a�fuller,�and�very�di�erent,�picture�of�the�cogni�ve�e�ects�of�hypertext.� Evalua�ng�links�and�naviga�ng�a�path�through�them,�it�turned�out,�involves�mentally� demanding�problem-solving�tasks�that�are�extraneous�to�the�act�of�reading�itself.� Deciphering�hypertext�substan�ally�increases�readers’�cogni�ve�load�and�hence� weakens�their�ability�to�comprehend�and�retain�what�they’re�reading.�A�1989�study� showed�that�readers�of�hypertext�o�en�ended�up�clicking�distractedly�“through� pages�instead�of�reading�them�carefully.”�A�1990�experiment�revealed�that� hypertext�readers�o�en�“could�not�remember�what�they�had�and�had�not�read.”�In� another�study�that�same�year,�researchers�had�two�groups�of�people�answer�a�series� of�ques�ons�by�searching�through�a�set�of�documents.�One�group�searched�through� electronic�hypertext�documents,�while�the�other�searched�through�tradi�onal�paper� documents.�The�group�that�used�the�paper�documents�outperformed�the�hypertext� group�in�comple�ng�the�assignment.�In�reviewing�the�results�of�these�and�other� experiments,�the�editors�of�a�1996�book�on�hypertext�and�cogni�on�wrote�that,� since�hypertext�“imposes�a�higher�cogni�ve�load�on�the�reader,”�it’s�no�surprise� “that�empirical�comparisons�between�paper�presenta�on�(a�familiar�situa�on)�and� hypertext�(a�new,�cogni�vely�demanding�situa�on)�do�not�always�favor�hypertext.”� But�they�predicted�that,�as�readers�gained�greater�“hypertext�literacy,”�the�cogni�on� problems�would�likely�diminish.20

That�hasn’t�happened.�Even�though�the�World�Wide�Web�has�made�hypertext� commonplace,�indeed�ubiquitous,�research�con�nues�to�show�that�people�who�read� linear�text�comprehend�more,�remember�more,�and�learn�more�than�those�who� read�text�peppered�with�links.�In�a�2001�study,�two�Canadian�scholars�asked�seventy� people�to�read�“The�Demon�Lover,”�a�short�story�by�the�modernist�writer�Elizabeth� Bowen.�One�group�read�the�story�in�a�tradi�onal�linear-text�format;�a�second�group� read�a�version�with�links,�as�you’d��nd�on�a�Web�page.�The�hypertext�readers�took� longer�to�read�the�story,�yet�in�subsequent�interviews�they�also�reported�more� confusion�and�uncertainty�about�what�they�had�read.�Three-quarters�of�them�said� that�they�had�di�culty�following�the�text,�while�only�one�in�ten�of�the�linear-text� readers�reported�such�problems.�One�hypertext�reader�complained,�“The�story�was� very�jumpy.�I�don’t�know�if�that�was�caused�by�the�hypertext,�but�I�made�choices� and�all�of�a�sudden�it�wasn’t��owing�properly,�it�just�kind�of�jumped�to�a�new�idea�I� didn’t�really�follow.”

A�second�test�by�the�same�researchers,�using�a�shorter�and�more�simply�wri�en� story,�Sean�O’Faolain’s�“The�Trout,”�produced�the�same�results.�Hypertext�readers� again�reported�greater�confusion�following�the�text,�and�their�comments�about�the� story’s�plot�and�imagery�were�less�detailed�and�less�precise�than�those�of�the�linear- text�readers.�With�hypertext,�the�researchers�concluded,�“the�absorbed�and� personal�mode�of�reading�seems�to�be�discouraged.”�The�readers’�a�en�on�“was� directed�toward�the�machinery�of�the�hypertext�and�its�func�ons�rather�than�to�the� experience�o�ered�by�the�story.”21�The�medium�used�to�present�the�words� obscured�the�meaning�of�the�words.

In�another�experiment,�researchers�had�people�sit�at�computers�and�review�two� online�ar�cles�describing�opposing�theories�of�learning.�One�ar�cle�laid�out�an� argument�that�“knowledge�is�objec�ve”�the�other�made�the�case�that�“knowledge�is� rela�ve.”�Each�ar�cle�was�set�up�in�the�same�way,�with�similar�headings,�and�each� had�links�to�the�other�ar�cle,�allowing�a�reader�to�jump�quickly�between�the�two�to� compare�the�theories.�The�researchers�hypothesized�that�people�who�used�the�links� would�gain�a�richer�understanding�of�the�two�theories�and�their�di�erences�than� would�people�who�read�the�pages�sequen�ally,�comple�ng�one�before�going�on�to� the�other.�They�were�wrong.�The�test�subjects�who�read�the�pages�linearly�actually� scored�considerably�higher�on�a�subsequent�comprehension�test�than�those�who� clicked�back�and�forth�between�the�pages.�The�links�got�in�the�way�of�learning,�the� researchers�concluded.22

Another�researcher,�Erping�Zhu,�conducted�a�di�erent�kind�of�experiment�that�was� also�aimed�at�discerning�the�in�uence�of�hypertext�on�comprehension.�She�had� groups�of�people�read�the�same�piece�of�online�wri�ng,�but�she�varied�the�number� of�links�included�in�the�passage.�She�then�tested�the�readers’�comprehension�by� asking�them�to�write�a�summary�of�what�they�had�read�and�complete�a�mul�ple- choice�test.�She�found�that�comprehension�declined�as�the�number�of�links� increased.�Readers�were�forced�to�devote�more�and�more�of�their�a�en�on�and� brain�power�to�evalua�ng�the�links�and�deciding�whether�to�click�on�them.�That�le�� less�a�en�on�and�fewer�cogni�ve�resources�to�devote�to�understanding�what�they� were�reading.�The�experiment�suggested�a�strong�correla�on�“between�the�number� of�links�and�disorienta�on�or�cogni�ve�overload,”�wrote�Zhu.�“Reading�and� comprehension�require�establishing�rela�onships�between�concepts,�drawing� inferences,�ac�va�ng�prior�knowledge,�and�synthesizing�main�ideas.�Disorienta�on� or�cogni�ve�overload�may�thus�interfere�with�cogni�ve�ac�vi�es�of�reading�and� comprehension.”23

In�2005,�Diana�DeStefano�and�Jo-Anne�LeFevre,�psychologists�with�the�Centre�for� Applied�Cogni�ve�Research�at�Canada’s�Carleton�University,�undertook�a�

comprehensive�review�of�thirty-eight�past�experiments�involving�the�reading�of� hypertext.�Although�not�all�the�studies�showed�that�hypertext�diminished� comprehension,�they�found�“very�li�le�support”�for�the�once-popular�theory�“that� hypertext�will�lead�to�an�enriched�experience�of�the�text.”�To�the�contrary,�the� preponderance�of�evidence�indicated�that�“the�increased�demands�of�decision- making�and�visual�processing�in�hypertext�impaired�reading�performance,”� par�cularly�when�compared�to�“tradi�onal�linear�presenta�on.”�They�concluded� that�“many�features�of�hypertext�resulted�in�increased�cogni�ve�load�and�thus�may� have�required�working�memory�capacity�that�exceeded�readers’�capabili�es.”24

THE�WEB�COMBINES�the�technology�of�hypertext�with�the�technology�of�mul�media� to�deliver�what’s�called�“hypermedia.”�It’s�not�just�words�that�are�served�up�and� electronically�linked,�but�also�images,�sounds,�and�moving�pictures.�Just�as�the� pioneers�of�hypertext�once�believed�that�links�would�provide�a�richer�learning� experience�for�readers,�many�educators�also�assumed�that�mul�media,�or�“rich� media,”�as�it’s�some�mes�called,�would�deepen�comprehension�and�strengthen� learning.�The�more�inputs,�the�be�er.�But�this�assump�on,�long�accepted�without� much�evidence,�has�also�been�contradicted�by�research.�The�division�of�a�en�on� demanded�by�mul�media�further�strains�our�cogni�ve�abili�es,�diminishing�our� learning�and�weakening�our�understanding.�When�it�comes�to�supplying�the�mind� with�the�stu��of�thought,�more�can�be�less.

In�a�study�published�in�the�journal�Media�Psychology�in�2007,�researchers�recruited� more�than�a�hundred�volunteers�to�watch�a�presenta�on�about�the�country�of�Mali� played�through�a�Web�browser�on�a�computer.�Some�of�the�subjects�watched�a� version�of�the�presenta�on�that�included�only�a�series�of�text�pages.�Another�group� watched�a�version�that�included,�along�with�the�pages�of�text,�a�window�in�which�an� audiovisual�presenta�on�of�related�material�was�streamed.�The�test�subjects�were� able�to�stop�and�start�the�stream�as�they�wished.

A�er�viewing�the�presenta�on,�the�subjects�took�a�ten-ques�on�quiz�on�the� material.�The�text-only�viewers�answered�an�average�of�7.04�of�the�ques�ons� correctly,�while�the�mul�media�viewers�answered�just�5.98�correctly—a�signi�cant� di�erence,�according�to�the�researchers.�The�subjects�were�also�asked�a�series�of� ques�ons�about�their�percep�ons�of�the�presenta�on.�The�text-only�readers�found� it�to�be�more�interes�ng,�more�educa�onal,�more�understandable,�and�more� enjoyable�than�did�the�mul�media�viewers,�and�the�mul�media�viewers�were�much� more�likely�to�agree�with�the�statement�“I�did�not�learn�anything�from�this� presenta�on”�than�were�the�text-only�readers.�The�mul�media�technologies�so� common�to�the�Web,�the�researchers�concluded,�“would�seem�to�limit,�rather�than� enhance,�informa�on�acquisi�on.”25

In�another�experiment,�a�pair�of�Cornell�researchers�divided�a�class�of�students�into� two�groups.�One�group�was�allowed�to�surf�the�Web�while�listening�to�a�lecture.�A� log�of�their�ac�vity�showed�that�they�looked�at�sites�related�to�the�lecture’s�content� but�also�visited�unrelated�sites,�checked�their�e-mail,�went�shopping,�watched� videos,�and�did�all�the�other�things�that�people�do�online.�The�second�group�heard� the�iden�cal�lecture�but�had�to�keep�their�laptops�shut.�Immediately�a�erward,�both� groups�took�a�test�measuring�how�well�they�could�recall�the�informa�on�from�the� lecture.�The�surfers,�the�researchers�report,�“performed�signi�cantly�poorer�on� immediate�measures�of�memory�for�the�to-be-learned�content.”�It�didn’t�ma�er,� moreover,�whether�they�surfed�informa�on�related�to�the�lecture�or�completely� unrelated�content—they�all�performed�poorly.�When�the�researchers�repeated�the� experiment�with�another�class,�the�results�were�the�same.26

Kansas�State�University�scholars�conducted�a�similarly�realis�c�study.�They�had�a� group�of�college�students�watch�a�typical�CNN�broadcast�in�which�an�anchor� reported�four�news�stories�while�various�info-graphics��ashed�on�the�screen�and�a� textual�news�crawl�ran�along�the�bo�om.�They�had�a�second�group�watch�the�same� programming�but�with�the�graphics�and�the�news�crawl�stripped�out.�Subsequent� tests�found�that�the�students�who�had�watched�the�mul�media�version� remembered�signi�cantly�fewer�facts�from�the�stories�than�those�who�had�watched� the�simpler�version.�“It�appears,”�wrote�the�researchers,�“that�this�mul�message� format�exceeded�viewers’�a�en�onal�capacity.”27

Supplying�informa�on�in�more�than�one�form�doesn’t�always�take�a�toll�on� understanding.�As�we�all�know�from�reading�illustrated�textbooks�and�manuals,� pictures�can�help�clarify�and�reinforce�wri�en�explana�ons.�Educa�on�researchers� have�also�found�that�carefully�designed�presenta�ons�that�combine�audio�and�visual� explana�ons�or�instruc�ons�can�enhance�students’�learning.�The�reason,�current� theories�suggest,�is�that�our�brains�use�di�erent�channels�for�processing�what�we� see�and�what�we�hear.�As�Sweller�explains,�“Auditory�and�visual�working�memory� are�separate,�at�least�to�some�extent,�and�because�they�are�separate,�e�ec�ve� working�memory�may�be�increased�by�using�both�processors�rather�than�one.”�As�a� result,�in�some�cases�“the�nega�ve�e�ects�of�split�a�en�on�might�be�ameliorated�by� using�both�auditory�and�visual�modali�es”—sounds�and�pictures,�in�other�words.28� The�Internet,�however,�wasn’t�built�by�educators�to�op�mize�learning.�It�presents� informa�on�not�in�a�carefully�balanced�way�but�as�a�concentra�on-fragmen�ng� mishmash.

The�Net�is,�by�design,�an�interrup�on�system,�a�machine�geared�for�dividing� a�en�on.�That’s�not�only�a�result�of�its�ability�to�display�many�di�erent�kinds�of� media�simultaneously.�It’s�also�a�result�of�the�ease�with�which�it�can�be�programmed� to�send�and�receive�messages.�Most�e-mail�applica�ons,�to�take�an�obvious�

example,�are�set�up�to�check�automa�cally�for�new�messages�every��ve�or�ten� minutes,�and�people�rou�nely�click�the�“check�for�new�mail”�bu�on�even�more� frequently�than�that.�Studies�of�o�ce�workers�who�use�computers�reveal�that�they� constantly�stop�what�they’re�doing�to�read�and�respond�to�incoming�e-mails.�It’s�not� unusual�for�them�to�glance�at�their�in-box�thirty�or�forty��mes�an�hour�(though� when�asked�how�frequently�they�look,�they’ll�o�en�give�a�much�lower��gure).29� Since�each�glance�represents�a�small�interrup�on�of�thought,�a�momentary� redeployment�of�mental�resources,�the�cogni�ve�cost�can�be�high.�Psychological� research�long�ago�proved�what�most�of�us�know�from�experience:�frequent� interrup�ons�sca�er�our�thoughts,�weaken�our�memory,�and�make�us�tense�and� anxious.�The�more�complex�the�train�of�thought�we’re�involved�in,�the�greater�the� impairment�the�distrac�ons�cause.30

Beyond�the�in�ux�of�personal�messages—not�only�e-mail�but�also�instant�messages� and�text�messages—the�Web�increasingly�supplies�us�with�all�manner�of�other� automated�no��ca�ons.�Feed�readers�and�news�aggregators�let�us�know�whenever� a�new�story�appears�at�a�favorite�publica�on�or�blog.�Social�networks�alert�us�to� what�our�friends�are�doing,�o�en�moment�by�moment.�Twi�er�and�other� microblogging�services�tell�us�whenever�one�of�the�people�we�“follow”�broadcasts�a� new�message.�We�can�also�set�up�alerts�to�monitor�shi�s�in�the�value�of�our� investments,�news�reports�about�par�cular�people�or�events,�updates�to�the� so�ware�we�use,�new�videos�uploaded�to�YouTube,�and�so�forth.�Depending�on�how� many�informa�on�streams�we�subscribe�to�and�the�frequency�with�which�they�send� out�updates,�we�may��eld�a�dozen�alerts�an�hour,�and�for�the�most�connected� among�us,�the�number�can�be�much�higher.�Each�of�them�is�a�distrac�on,�another� intrusion�on�our�thoughts,�another�bit�of�informa�on�that�takes�up�precious�space�in� our�working�memory.

Naviga�ng�the�Web�requires�a�par�cularly�intensive�form�of�mental�mul�tasking.�In� addi�on�to��ooding�our�working�memory�with�informa�on,�the�juggling�imposes� what�brain�scien�sts�call�“switching�costs”�on�our�cogni�on.�Every��me�we�shi��our� a�en�on,�our�brain�has�to�reorient�itself,�further�taxing�our�mental�resources.�As� Maggie�Jackson�explains�in�Distracted,�her�book�on�mul�tasking,�“the�brain�takes� �me�to�change�goals,�remember�the�rules�needed�for�the�new�task,�and�block�out� cogni�ve�interference�from�the�previous,�s�ll-vivid�ac�vity.”31�Many�studies�have� shown�that�switching�between�just�two�tasks�can�add�substan�ally�to�our�cogni�ve� load,�impeding�our�thinking�and�increasing�the�likelihood�that�we’ll�overlook�or� misinterpret�important�informa�on.�In�one�simple�experiment,�a�group�of�adults� was�shown�a�series�of�colored�shapes�and�asked�to�make�predic�ons�based�on�what� they�saw.�They�had�to�perform�the�task�while�wearing�headphones�that�played�a� series�of�beeps.�In�one�trial,�they�were�told�to�ignore�the�beeps�and�just�concentrate� on�the�shapes.�In�a�second�trial,�using�a�di�erent�set�of�visual�cues,�they�were�told�to�

keep�track�of�the�number�of�beeps.�A�er�each�go-through,�they�completed�a�test� that�required�them�to�interpret�what�they�had�just�done.�In�both�trials,�the�subjects� made�predic�ons�with�equal�success.�But�a�er�the�mul�tasking�trial,�they�had�a� much�harder��me�drawing�conclusions�about�their�experience.�Switching�between� the�two�tasks�short-circuited�their�understanding;�they�got�the�job�done,�but�they� lost�its�meaning.�“Our�results�suggest�that�learning�facts�and�concepts�will�be�worse� if�you�learn�them�while�you’re�distracted,”�said�the�lead�researcher,�UCLA� psychologist�Russell�Poldrack.32�On�the�Net,�where�we�rou�nely�juggle�not�just�two� but�several�mental�tasks,�the�switching�costs�are�all�the�higher.

It’s�important�to�emphasize�that�the�Net’s�ability�to�monitor�events�and� automa�cally�send�out�messages�and�no��ca�ons�is�one�of�its�great�strengths�as�a� communica�on�technology.�We�rely�on�that�capability�to�personalize�the�workings� of�the�system,�to�program�the�vast�database�to�respond�to�our�par�cular�needs,� interests,�and�desires.�We�want�to�be�interrupted,�because�each�interrup�on�brings� us�a�valuable�piece�of�informa�on.�To�turn�o��these�alerts�is�to�risk�feeling�out�of� touch,�or�even�socially�isolated.�The�near-con�nuous�stream�of�new�informa�on� pumped�out�by�the�Web�also�plays�to�our�natural�tendency�to�“vastly�overvalue� what�happens�to�us�right�now,”�as�Union�College�psychologist�Christopher�Chabris� explains.�We�crave�the�new�even�when�we�know�that�“the�new�is�more�o�en�trivial� than�essen�al.”33

And�so�we�ask�the�Internet�to�keep�interrup�ng�us,�in�ever�more�and�di�erent�ways.� We�willingly�accept�the�loss�of�concentra�on�and�focus,�the�division�of�our�a�en�on� and�the�fragmenta�on�of�our�thoughts,�in�return�for�the�wealth�of�compelling�or�at� least�diver�ng�informa�on�we�receive.�Tuning�out�is�not�an�op�on�many�of�us�would� consider.

IN�1879,�A�French�ophthalmologist�named�Louis�Émile�Javal�discovered�that�when� people�read,�their�eyes�don’t�sweep�across�the�words�in�a�perfectly��uid�way.�Their� visual�focus�advances�in�li�le�jumps,�called�saccades,�pausing�brie�y�at�di�erent� points�along�each�line.�One�of�Javal’s�colleagues�at�the�University�of�Paris�soon�made� another�discovery:�that�the�pa�ern�of�pauses,�or�“eye��xa�ons,”�can�vary�greatly� depending�on�what’s�being�read�and�who’s�doing�the�reading.�In�the�wake�of�these� discoveries,�brain�researchers�began�to�use�eye-tracking�experiments�to�learn�more� about�how�we�read�and�how�our�minds�work.�Such�studies�have�also�proven� valuable�in�providing�further�insights�into�the�Net’s�e�ects�on�a�en�on�and� cogni�on.

In�2006,�Jakob�Nielsen,�a�long�me�consultant�on�the�design�of�Web�pages�who�has� been�studying�online�reading�since�the�1990s,�conducted�an�eye-tracking�study�of� Web�users.�He�had�232�people�wear�a�small�camera�that�tracked�their�eye�

movements�as�they�read�pages�of�text�and�browsed�other�content.�Nielsen�found� that�hardly�any�of�the�par�cipants�read�online�text�in�a�methodical,�line-by-line�way,� as�they’d�typically�read�a�page�of�text�in�a�book.�The�vast�majority�skimmed�the�text� quickly,�their�eyes�skipping�down�the�page�in�a�pa�ern�that�resembled,�roughly,�the� le�er�F.�They’d�start�by�glancing�all�the�way�across�the��rst�two�or�three�lines�of�text.� Then�their�eyes�would�drop�down�a�bit,�and�they’d�scan�about�halfway�across�a�few� more�lines.�Finally,�they’d�let�their�eyes�cursorily�dri��a�li�le�farther�down�the�le�- hand�side�of�the�page.�This�pa�ern�of�online�reading�was�con�rmed�by�a�subsequent� eye-tracking�study�carried�out�at�the�So�ware�Usability�Research�Laboratory�at� Wichita�State�University.34

“F,”�wrote�Nielsen,�in�summing�up�the��ndings�for�his�clients,�is�“for�fast.�That’s�how� users�read�your�precious�content.�In�a�few�seconds,�their�eyes�move�at�amazing� speeds�across�your�website’s�words�in�a�pa�ern�that’s�very�di�erent�from�what�you� learned�in�school.”35�As�a�complement�to�his�eye-tracking�study,�Nielsen�analyzed� an�extensive�database�on�the�behavior�of�Web�users�that�had�been�compiled�by�a� team�of�German�researchers.�They�had�monitored�the�computers�of�twenty-�ve� people�for�an�average�of�about�a�hundred�days�each,�tracking�the��me�the�subjects� spent�looking�at�some���y�thousand�Web�pages.�Parsing�the�data,�Nielsen�found� that�as�the�number�of�words�on�a�page�increases,�the��me�a�visitor�spends�looking� at�the�page�goes�up,�but�only�slightly.�For�every�hundred�addi�onal�words,�the� average�viewer�will�spend�just�4.4�more�seconds�perusing�the�page.�Since�even�the� most�accomplished�reader�can�read�only�about�eighteen�words�in�4.4�seconds,� Nielsen�told�his�clients,�“when�you�add�verbiage�to�a�page,�you�can�assume�that� customers�will�read�18%�of�it.”�And�that,�he�cau�oned,�is�almost�certainly�an� overstatement.�It’s�unlikely�that�the�people�in�the�study�were�spending�all�their��me� reading;�they�were�also�probably�glancing�at�pictures,�videos,�adver�sements,�and� other�types�of�content.36

Nielsen’s�analysis�backed�up�the�conclusions�of�the�German�researchers�themselves.� They�had�reported�that�most�Web�pages�are�viewed�for�ten�seconds�or�less.�Fewer� than�one�in�ten�page�views�extend�beyond�two�minutes,�and�a�signi�cant�por�on�of� those�seem�to�involve�“una�ended�browser�windows…le��open�in�the�background� of�the�desktop.”�The�researchers�observed�that�“even�new�pages�with�plen�ful� informa�on�and�many�links�are�regularly�viewed�only�for�a�brief�period.”�The�results,� they�said,�“con�rm�that�browsing�is�a�rapidly�interac�ve�ac�vity.”37�The�results�also� reinforce�something�that�Nielsen�wrote�in�1997�a�er�his��rst�study�of�online� reading.�“How�do�users�read�on�the�web?”�he�asked�then.�His�succinct�answer:� “They�don’t.”38

Web�sites�rou�nely�collect�detailed�data�on�visitor�behavior,�and�those�sta�s�cs� underscore�just�how�quickly�we�leap�between�pages�when�we’re�online.�Over�a�

period�of�two�months�in�2008,�an�Israeli�company�named�ClickTale,�which�supplies� so�ware�for�analyzing�how�people�use�corporate�Web�pages,�collected�data�on�the� behavior�of�a�million�visitors�to�sites�maintained�by�its�clients�around�the�world.�It� found�that�in�most�countries�people�spend,�on�average,�between�nineteen�and� twenty-seven�seconds�looking�at�a�page�before�moving�on�to�the�next�one,�including� the��me�required�for�the�page�to�load�into�their�browser’s�window.�German�and� Canadian�surfers�spend�about�twenty�seconds�on�each�page,�U.S.�and�U.K.�surfers� spend�about�twenty-one�seconds,�Indians�and�Australians�spend�about�twenty-four� seconds,�and�the�French�spend�about�twenty-�ve�seconds.39�On�the�Web,�there�is� no�such�thing�as�leisurely�browsing.�We�want�to�gather�as�much�informa�on�as� quickly�as�our�eyes�and��ngers�can�move.

That’s�true�even�when�it�comes�to�academic�research.�As�part�of�a��ve-year�study� that�ended�in�early�2008,�a�group�from�University�College�London�examined� computer�logs�documen�ng�the�behavior�of�visitors�to�two�popular�research�sites,� one�operated�by�the�Bri�sh�Library�and�one�by�a�U.K.�educa�onal�consor�um.�Both� sites�provided�users�with�access�to�journal�ar�cles,�e-books,�and�other�sources�of� wri�en�informa�on.�The�scholars�found�that�people�using�the�sites�exhibited�a� dis�nc�ve�“form�of�skimming�ac�vity”�in�which�they’d�hop�quickly�from�one�source� to�another,�rarely�returning�to�any�source�they�had�already�visited.�They’d�typically� read,�at�most,�one�or�two�pages�of�an�ar�cle�or�book�before�“bouncing�out”�to� another�site.�“It�is�clear�that�users�are�not�reading�online�in�the�tradi�onal�sense,”� the�authors�of�the�study�reported;�“indeed�there�are�signs�that�new�forms�of� ‘reading’�are�emerging�as�users�‘power�browse’�horizontally�through��tles,�contents� pages�and�abstracts�going�for�quick�wins.�It�almost�seems�that�they�go�online�to� avoid�reading�in�the�tradi�onal�sense.”�40

The�shi��in�our�approach�to�reading�and�research�seems�to�be�an�inevitable� consequence�of�our�reliance�on�the�technology�of�the�Net,�argues�Merzenich,�and�it� bespeaks�a�deeper�change�in�our�thinking.�“There�is�absolutely�no�ques�on�that� modern�search�engines�and�cross-referenced�websites�have�powerfully�enabled� research�and�communica�on�e�ciencies,”�he�says.�“There�is�also�absolutely�no� ques�on�that�our�brains�are�engaged�less�directly�and�more�shallowly�in�the� synthesis�of�informa�on�when�we�use�research�strategies�that�are�all�about� ‘e�ciency,’�‘secondary�(and�out-of-context)�referencing,’�and�‘once�over,�lightly.’”41

The�switch�from�reading�to�power-browsing�is�happening�very�quickly.�Already,� reports�Ziming�Liu,�a�library�science�professor�at�San�José�State�University,�“the� advent�of�digital�media�and�the�growing�collec�on�of�digital�documents�have�had�a� profound�impact�on�reading.”�In�2003,�Liu�surveyed�113�well-educated�people— engineers,�scien�sts,�accountants,�teachers,�business�managers,�and�graduate� students,�mainly�between�thirty�and�forty-�ve�years�old—to�gauge�how�their�

reading�habits�had�changed�over�the�preceding�ten�years.�Nearly�eighty-�ve�percent� of�the�people�reported�that�they�were�spending�more��me�reading�electronic� documents.�When�asked�to�characterize�how�their�reading�prac�ces�have�changed,� eighty-one�percent�said�that�they�were�spending�more��me�“browsing�and� scanning,”�and�eighty-two�percent�reported�that�they�were�doing�more�“non-linear� reading.”�Only�twenty-seven�percent�said�that�the��me�they�devoted�to�“in-depth� reading”�was�on�the�rise,�while�forty-�ve�percent�said�it�was�declining.�Just�sixteen� percent�said�they�were�giving�more�“sustained�a�en�on”�to�reading;���y�percent� said�they�were�giving�it�less�“sustained�a�en�on.”

The��ndings,�said�Liu,�indicate�that�“the�digital�environment�tends�to�encourage� people�to�explore�many�topics�extensively,�but�at�a�more�super�cial�level,”�and�that� “hyperlinks�distract�people�from�reading�and�thinking�deeply.”�One�of�the� par�cipants�in�the�study�told�Liu,�“I��nd�that�my�pa�ence�with�reading�long� documents�is�decreasing.�I�want�to�skip�ahead�to�the�end�of�long�ar�cles.”�Another� said,�“I�skim�much�more�[when�reading]�html�pages�than�I�do�with�printed� materials.”�It’s�quite�clear,�Liu�concluded,�that�with�the��ood�of�digital�text�pouring� through�our�computers�and�phones,�“people�are�spending�more��me�on�reading”� than�they�used�to.�But�it’s�equally�clear�that�it’s�a�very�di�erent�kind�of�reading.�A� “screen-based�reading�behavior�is�emerging,”�he�wrote,�which�is�characterized�by� “browsing�and�scanning,�keyword�spo�ng,�one-�me�reading,�[and]�non-linear� reading.”�The��me�“spent�on�in-depth�reading�and�concentrated�reading”�is,�on�the� other�hand,�falling�steadily.42

There’s�nothing�wrong�with�browsing�and�scanning,�or�even�power-browsing�and� power-scanning.�We’ve�always�skimmed�newspapers�more�than�we’ve�read�them,� and�we�rou�nely�run�our�eyes�over�books�and�magazines�in�order�to�get�the�gist�of�a� piece�of�wri�ng�and�decide�whether�it�warrants�more�thorough�reading.�The�ability� to�skim�text�is�every�bit�as�important�as�the�ability�to�read�deeply.�What�is�di�erent,� and�troubling,�is�that�skimming�is�becoming�our�dominant�mode�of�reading.�Once�a� means�to�an�end,�a�way�to�iden�fy�informa�on�for�deeper�study,�scanning�is� becoming�an�end�in�itself—our�preferred�way�of�gathering�and�making�sense�of� informa�on�of�all�sorts.�We’ve�reached�the�point�where�a�Rhodes�Scholar�like� Florida�State’s�Joe�O’Shea—a�philosophy�major,�no�less—is�comfortable�admi�ng� not�only�that�he�doesn’t�read�books�but�that�he�doesn’t�see�any�par�cular�need�to� read�them.�Why�bother,�when�you�can�Google�the�bits�and�pieces�you�need�in�a� frac�on�of�a�second?�What�we’re�experiencing�is,�in�a�metaphorical�sense,�a�reversal� of�the�early�trajectory�of�civiliza�on:�we�are�evolving�from�being�cul�vators�of� personal�knowledge�to�being�hunters�and�gatherers�in�the�electronic�data�forest.

THERE�ARE�COMPENSATIONS.�Research�shows�that�certain�cogni�ve�skills�are� strengthened,�some�mes�substan�ally,�by�our�use�of�computers�and�the�Net.�These�

tend�to�involve�lower-level,�or�more�primi�ve,�mental�func�ons�such�as�hand-eye� coordina�on,�re�ex�response,�and�the�processing�of�visual�cues.�One�much-cited� study�of�video�gaming,�published�in�Nature�in�2003,�revealed�that�a�er�just�ten�days� of�playing�ac�on�games�on�computers,�a�group�of�young�people�had�signi�cantly� increased�the�speed�with�which�they�could�shi��their�visual�focus�among�di�erent� images�and�tasks.�Veteran�game�players�were�also�found�to�be�able�to�iden�fy�more� items�in�their�visual��eld�than�novices�could.�The�authors�of�the�study�concluded� that�“although�video-game�playing�may�seem�to�be�rather�mindless,�it�is�capable�of� radically�altering�visual�a�en�onal�processing.”43

While�experimental�evidence�is�sparse,�it�seems�only�logical�that�Web�searching�and� browsing�would�also�strengthen�brain�func�ons�related�to�certain�kinds�of�fast- paced�problem�solving,�par�cularly�those�involving�the�recogni�on�of�pa�erns�in�a� welter�of�data.�Through�the�repe��ve�evalua�on�of�links,�headlines,�text�snippets,� and�images,�we�should�become�more�adept�at�quickly�dis�nguishing�among� compe�ng�informa�onal�cues,�analyzing�their�salient�characteris�cs,�and�judging� whether�they’ll�have�prac�cal�bene�t�for�whatever�task�we’re�engaged�in�or�goal� we’re�pursuing.�One�Bri�sh�study�of�the�way�women�search�for�medical�informa�on� online�indicated�that�the�speed�with�which�they�were�able�to�assess�the�probable� value�of�a�Web�page�increased�as�they�gained�familiarity�with�the�Net.44�It�took�an� experienced�browser�only�a�few�seconds�to�make�an�accurate�judgment�about� whether�a�page�was�likely�to�have�trustworthy�informa�on.

Other�studies�suggest�that�the�kind�of�mental�calisthenics�we�engage�in�online�may� lead�to�a�small�expansion�in�the�capacity�of�our�working�memory.45�That,�too,�would� help�us�to�become�more�adept�at�juggling�data.�Such�research�“indicates�that�our� brains�learn�to�swi�ly�focus�a�en�on,�analyze�informa�on,�and�almost� instantaneously�decide�on�a�go�or�no-go�decision,”�says�Gary�Small.�He�believes�that� as�we�spend�more��me�naviga�ng�the�vast�quan�ty�of�informa�on�available�online,� “many�of�us�are�developing�neural�circuitry�that�is�customized�for�rapid�and�incisive� spurts�of�directed�a�en�on.”46�As�we�prac�ce�browsing,�sur�ng,�scanning,�and� mul�tasking,�our�plas�c�brains�may�well�become�more�facile�at�those�tasks.

The�importance�of�such�skills�shouldn’t�be�taken�lightly.�As�our�work�and�social�lives� come�to�center�on�the�use�of�electronic�media,�the�faster�we’re�able�to�navigate� those�media�and�the�more�adroitly�we’re�able�to�shi��our�a�en�on�among�online� tasks,�the�more�valuable�we’re�likely�to�become�as�employees�and�even�as�friends� and�colleagues.�As�the�writer�Sam�Anderson�put�it�in�“In�Defense�of�Distrac�on,”�a� 2009�ar�cle�in�New�York�magazine,�“Our�jobs�depend�on�connec�vity”�and�“our� pleasure-cycles—no�trivial�ma�er—are�increasingly��ed�to�it.”�The�prac�cal�bene�ts� of�Web�use�are�many,�which�is�one�of�the�main�reasons�we�spend�so�much��me� online.�“It’s�too�late,”�argues�Anderson,�“to�just�retreat�to�a�quieter��me.”�47

He’s�right,�but�it�would�be�a�serious�mistake�to�look�narrowly�at�the�Net’s�bene�ts� and�conclude�that�the�technology�is�making�us�more�intelligent.�Jordan�Grafman,� head�of�the�cogni�ve�neuroscience�unit�at�the�Na�onal�Ins�tute�of�Neurological� Disorders�and�Stroke,�explains�that�the�constant�shi�ing�of�our�a�en�on�when�we’re� online�may�make�our�brains�more�nimble�when�it�comes�to�mul�tasking,�but� improving�our�ability�to�mul�task�actually�hampers�our�ability�to�think�deeply�and� crea�vely.�“Does�op�mizing�for�mul�tasking�result�in�be�er�func�oning—that�is,� crea�vity,�inven�veness,�produc�veness?�The�answer�is,�in�more�cases�than�not,� no,”�says�Grafman.�“The�more�you�mul�task,�the�less�delibera�ve�you�become;�the� less�able�to�think�and�reason�out�a�problem.”�You�become,�he�argues,�more�likely�to� rely�on�conven�onal�ideas�and�solu�ons�rather�than�challenging�them�with�original� lines�of�thought.48�David�Meyer,�a�University�of�Michigan�neuroscien�st�and�one�of� the�leading�experts�on�mul�tasking,�makes�a�similar�point.�As�we�gain�more� experience�in�rapidly�shi�ing�our�a�en�on,�we�may�“overcome�some�of�the� ine�ciencies”�inherent�in�mul�tasking,�he�says,�“but�except�in�rare�circumstances,� you�can�train�un�l�you’re�blue�in�the�face�and�you’d�never�be�as�good�as�if�you�just� focused�on�one�thing�at�a��me.”�49�What�we’re�doing�when�we�mul�task�“is� learning�to�be�skillful�at�a�super�cial�level.”50�The�Roman�philosopher�Seneca�may� have�put�it�best�two�thousand�years�ago:�“To�be�everywhere�is�to�be�nowhere.”51

In�an�ar�cle�published�in�Science�in�early�2009,�Patricia�Green�eld,�a�prominent� developmental�psychologist�who�teaches�at�UCLA,�reviewed�more�than���y�studies� of�the�e�ects�of�di�erent�types�of�media�on�people’s�intelligence�and�learning� ability.�She�concluded�that�“every�medium�develops�some�cogni�ve�skills�at�the� expense�of�others.”�Our�growing�use�of�the�Net�and�other�screen-based� technologies�has�led�to�the�“widespread�and�sophis�cated�development�of�visual- spa�al�skills.”�We�can,�for�example,�rotate�objects�in�our�minds�be�er�than�we�used� to�be�able�to.�But�our�“new�strengths�in�visual-spa�al�intelligence”�go�hand�in�hand� with�a�weakening�of�our�capaci�es�for�the�kind�of�“deep�processing”�that�underpins� “mindful�knowledge�acquisi�on,�induc�ve�analysis,�cri�cal�thinking,�imagina�on,� and�re�ec�on.”52�The�Net�is�making�us�smarter,�in�other�words,�only�if�we�de�ne� intelligence�by�the�Net’s�own�standards.�If�we�take�a�broader�and�more�tradi�onal� view�of�intelligence—if�we�think�about�the�depth�of�our�thought�rather�than�just�its� speed—we�have�to�come�to�a�di�erent�and�considerably�darker�conclusion.

Given�our�brain’s�plas�city,�we�know�that�our�online�habits�con�nue�to�reverberate� in�the�workings�of�our�synapses�when�we’re�not�online.�We�can�assume�that�the� neural�circuits�devoted�to�scanning,�skimming,�and�mul�tasking�are�expanding�and� strengthening,�while�those�used�for�reading�and�thinking�deeply,�with�sustained� concentra�on,�are�weakening�or�eroding.�In�2009,�researchers�from�Stanford� University�found�signs�that�this�shi��may�already�be�well�under�way.�They�gave�a�

ba�ery�of�cogni�ve�tests�to�a�group�of�heavy�media�mul�taskers�as�well�as�a�group� of�rela�vely�light�mul�taskers.�They�found�that�the�heavy�mul�taskers�were�much� more�easily�distracted�by�“irrelevant�environmental�s�muli,”�had�signi�cantly�less� control�over�the�contents�of�their�working�memory,�and�were�in�general�much�less� able�to�maintain�their�concentra�on�on�a�par�cular�task.�Whereas�the�infrequent� mul�taskers�exhibited�rela�vely�strong�“top-down�a�en�onal�control,”�the�habitual� mul�taskers�showed�“a�greater�tendency�for�bo�om-up�a�en�onal�control,”� sugges�ng�that�“they�may�be�sacri�cing�performance�on�the�primary�task�to�let�in� other�sources�of�informa�on.”�Intensive�mul�taskers�are�“suckers�for�irrelevancy,”� commented�Cli�ord�Nass,�the�Stanford�professor�who�led�the�research.�“Everything� distracts�them.”53�Michael�Merzenich�o�ers�an�even�bleaker�assessment.�As�we� mul�task�online,�he�says,�we�are�“training�our�brains�to�pay�a�en�on�to�the�crap.”� The�consequences�for�our�intellectual�lives�may�prove�“deadly.”54

The�mental�func�ons�that�are�losing�the�“survival�of�the�busiest”�brain�cell�ba�le�are� those�that�support�calm,�linear�thought—the�ones�we�use�in�traversing�a�lengthy� narra�ve�or�an�involved�argument,�the�ones�we�draw�on�when�we�re�ect�on�our� experiences�or�contemplate�an�outward�or�inward�phenomenon.�The�winners�are� those�func�ons�that�help�us�speedily�locate,�categorize,�and�assess�disparate�bits�of� informa�on�in�a�variety�of�forms,�that�let�us�maintain�our�mental�bearings�while� being�bombarded�by�s�muli.�These�func�ons�are,�not�coincidentally,�very�similar�to� the�ones�performed�by�computers,�which�are�programmed�for�the�high-speed� transfer�of�data�in�and�out�of�memory.�Once�again,�we�seem�to�be�taking�on�the� characteris�cs�of�a�popular�new�intellectual�technology.

ON�THE�EVENING�of�April�18,�1775,�Samuel�Johnson�accompanied�his�friends�James� Boswell�and�Joshua�Reynolds�on�a�visit�to�Richard�Owen�Cambridge’s�grand�villa�on� the�banks�of�the�Thames�outside�London.�They�were�shown�into�the�library,�where� Cambridge�was�wai�ng�to�meet�them,�and�a�er�a�brief�gree�ng�Johnson�darted�to� the�shelves�and�began�silently�reading�the�spines�of�the�volumes�arrayed�there.�“Dr.� Johnson,”�said�Cambridge,�“it�seems�odd�that�one�should�have�such�a�desire�to�look� at�the�backs�of�books.”�Johnson,�Boswell�would�later�recall,�“instantly�started�from� his�reverie,�wheeled�about,�and�replied,�‘Sir,�the�reason�is�very�plain.�Knowledge�is� of�two�kinds.�We�know�a�subject�ourselves,�or�we�know�where�we�can��nd� informa�on�upon�it.’”55

The�Net�grants�us�instant�access�to�a�library�of�informa�on�unprecedented�in�its�size� and�scope,�and�it�makes�it�easy�for�us�to�sort�through�that�library—to��nd,�if�not� exactly�what�we�were�looking�for,�at�least�something�su�cient�for�our�immediate� purposes.�What�the�Net�diminishes�is�Johnson’s�primary�kind�of�knowledge:�the� ability�to�know,�in�depth,�a�subject�for�ourselves,�to�construct�within�our�own�minds� the�rich�and�idiosyncra�c�set�of�connec�ons�that�give�rise�to�a�singular�intelligence.

a�digression

on�the�buoyancy�of�IQ�scores

THIRTY�YEARS�AGO,�James�Flynn,�then�the�head�of�the�poli�cal�science�department� at�New�Zealand’s�University�of�Otago,�began�studying�historical�records�of�IQ�tests.� As�he�dug�through�the�numbers,�stripping�out�the�various�scoring�adjustments�that� had�been�made�through�the�years,�he�discovered�something�startling:�IQ�scores�had� been�rising�steadily—and�pre�y�much�everywhere—throughout�the�century.� Controversial�when�originally�reported,�the�Flynn�e�ect,�as�the�phenomenon�came� to�be�called,�has�been�con�rmed�by�many�subsequent�studies.�It’s�real.

Ever�since�Flynn�made�his�discovery,�it�has�provided�a�ready-made�brickbat�to�hurl�at� anyone�who�suggests�that�our�intellectual�powers�may�be�on�the�wane:�If�we’re�so� dumb,�why�do�we�keep�ge�ng�smarter?�The�Flynn�e�ect�has�been�used�to�defend� TV�shows,�video�games,�personal�computers,�and,�most�recently,�the�Internet.�Don� Tapsco�,�in�Grown�Up�Digital,�his�paean�to�the��rst�genera�on�of�“digital�na�ves,”� counters�arguments�that�the�extensive�use�of�digital�media�may�be�dumbing�kids� down�by�poin�ng�out,�with�a�nod�to�Flynn,�that�“raw�IQ�scores�have�been�going�up� three�points�a�decade�since�World�War�II.”1

Tapsco�’s�right�about�the�numbers,�and�we�should�certainly�be�heartened�by�the� rise�in�IQ�scores,�par�cularly�since�the�gains�have�been�sharpest�among�segments�of� the�popula�on�whose�scores�have�lagged�in�the�past.�But�there�are�good�reasons�to� be�skep�cal�of�any�claim�that�the�Flynn�e�ect�proves�that�people�are�“smarter”� today�than�they�used�to�be�or�that�the�Internet�is�boos�ng�the�general�intelligence� of�the�human�race.�For�one�thing,�as�Tapsco��himself�notes,�IQ�scores�have�been� going�up�for�a�very�long��me—since�well�before�World�War�II,�in�fact—and�the�pace� of�increase�has�remained�remarkably�stable,�varying�only�slightly�from�decade�to� decade.�That�pa�ern�suggests�that�the�rise�probably�re�ects�a�deep�and�persistent� change�in�some�aspect�of�society�rather�than�any�par�cular�recent�event�or� technology.�The�fact�that�the�Internet�began�to�come�into�widespread�use�only� about�ten�years�ago�makes�it�all�the�more�unlikely�that�it�has�been�a�signi�cant�force� propelling�IQ�scores�upward.

Other�measures�of�intelligence�don’t�show�anything�like�the�gains�we’ve�seen�in� overall�IQ�scores.�In�fact,�even�IQ�tests�have�been�sending�mixed�signals.�The�tests� have�di�erent�sec�ons,�which�measure�di�erent�aspects�of�intelligence,�and� performance�on�them�has�varied�widely.�Most�of�the�increase�in�overall�scores�can� be�a�ributed�to�strengthening�performance�in�tests�involving�the�mental�rota�on�of� geometric�forms,�the�iden��ca�on�of�similari�es�between�disparate�objects,�and�

the�arrangement�of�shapes�into�logical�sequences.�Tests�of�memoriza�on,� vocabulary,�general�knowledge,�and�even�basic�arithme�c�have�shown�li�le�or�no� improvement.

Scores�on�other�common�tests�designed�to�measure�intellectual�skills�also�seem�to� be�either�stagnant�or�declining.�Scores�on�PSAT�exams,�which�are�given�to�high� school�juniors�throughout�the�United�States,�did�not�increase�at�all�during�the�years� from�1999�to�2008,�a��me�when�Net�use�in�homes�and�schools�was�expanding� drama�cally.�In�fact,�while�the�average�math�scores�held�fairly�steady�during�that� period,�dropping�a�frac�on�of�a�point,�from�49.2�to�48.8,�scores�on�the�verbal� por�ons�of�the�test�declined�signi�cantly.�The�average�cri�cal-reading�score�fell�3.3� percent,�from�48.3�to�46.7,�and�the�average�wri�ng-skills�score�dropped�an�even� steeper�6.9�percent,�from�49.2�to�45.8.2�Scores�on�the�verbal�sec�ons�of�the�SAT� tests�given�to�college-bound�students�have�also�been�dropping.�A�2007�report�from� the�U.S.�Department�of�Educa�on�showed�that�twel�h-graders’�scores�on�tests�of� three�di�erent�kinds�of�reading—for�performing�a�task,�for�gathering�informa�on,� and�for�literary�experience—fell�between�1992�and�2005.�Literary�reading�ap�tude� su�ered�the�largest�decline,�dropping�twelve�percent.3

There�are�signs,�as�well,�that�the�Flynn�e�ect�may�be�star�ng�to�fade�even�as�Web� use�picks�up.�Research�in�Norway�and�Denmark�shows�that�the�rise�in�intelligence� test�scores�began�to�slow�in�those�countries�during�the�1970s�and�’80s�and�that� since�the�mid-1990s�scores�have�either�remained�steady�or�fallen�slightly.4�In�the� United�Kingdom,�a�2009�study�revealed�that�the�IQ�scores�of�teenagers�dropped�by� two�points�between�1980�and�2008,�a�er�decades�of�gains.5�Scandinavians�and� Britons�have�been�among�the�world’s�pace�se�ers�in�adop�ng�high-speed�Internet� service�and�using�mul�purpose�mobile�phones.�If�digital�media�were�boos�ng�IQ� scores,�you’d�expect�to�see�par�cularly�strong�evidence�in�their�results.

So�what�is�behind�the�Flynn�e�ect?�Many�theories�have�been�o�ered,�from�smaller� families�to�be�er�nutri�on�to�the�expansion�of�formal�educa�on,�but�the� explana�on�that�seems�most�credible�comes�from�James�Flynn�himself.�Early�in�his� research,�he�realized�that�his��ndings�presented�a�couple�of�paradoxes.�First,�the� steepness�of�the�rise�in�test�scores�during�the�twen�eth�century�suggests�that�our� forebears�must�have�been�dimwits,�even�though�everything�we�know�about�them� tells�us�otherwise.�As�Flynn�wrote�in�his�book�What�Is�Intelligence?,�“If�IQ�gains�are� in�any�sense�real,�we�are�driven�to�the�absurd�conclusion�that�a�majority�of�our� ancestors�were�mentally�retarded.”6�The�second�paradox�stems�from�the�dispari�es� in�the�scores�on�di�erent�sec�ons�of�IQ�tests:�“How�can�people�get�more�intelligent� and�have�no�larger�vocabularies,�no�larger�stores�of�general�informa�on,�no�greater� ability�to�solve�arithme�cal�problems?”7

A�er�mulling�over�the�paradoxes�for�many�years,�Flynn�came�to�the�conclusion�that� the�gains�in�IQ�scores�have�less�to�do�with�an�increase�in�general�intelligence�than� with�a�transforma�on�in�the�way�people�think�about�intelligence.�Up�un�l�the�end�of� the�nineteenth�century,�the�scien��c�view�of�intelligence,�with�its�stress�on� classi�ca�on,�correla�on,�and�abstract�reasoning,�remained�fairly�rare,�limited�to� those�who�a�ended�or�taught�at�universi�es.�Most�people�con�nued�to�see� intelligence�as�a�ma�er�of�deciphering�the�workings�of�nature�and�solving�prac�cal� problems—on�the�farm,�in�the�factory,�at�home.�Living�in�a�world�of�substance� rather�than�symbol,�they�had�li�le�cause�or�opportunity�to�think�about�abstract� shapes�and�theore�cal�classi�ca�on�schemes.

But,�Flynn�realized,�that�all�changed�over�the�course�of�the�last�century�when,�for� economic,�technological,�and�educa�onal�reasons,�abstract�reasoning�moved�into� the�mainstream.�Everyone�began�to�wear,�as�Flynn�colorfully�puts�it,�the�same� “scien��c�spectacles”�that�were�worn�by�the�original�developers�of�IQ�tests.8�Once� he�had�that�insight,�Flynn�recalled�in�a�2007�interview,�“I�began�to�feel�that�I�was� bridging�the�gulf�between�our�minds�and�the�minds�of�our�ancestors.�We�weren’t� more�intelligent�than�they,�but�we�had�learnt�to�apply�our�intelligence�to�a�new�set� of�problems.�We�had�detached�logic�from�the�concrete,�we�were�willing�to�deal�with� the�hypothe�cal,�and�we�thought�the�world�was�a�place�to�be�classi�ed�and� understood�scien��cally�rather�than�to�be�manipulated.”�9

Patricia�Green�eld,�the�UCLA�psychologist,�came�to�a�similar�conclusion�in�her� Science�ar�cle�on�media�and�intelligence.�No�ng�that�the�rise�in�IQ�scores�“is� concentrated�in�nonverbal�IQ�performance,”�which�is�“mainly�tested�through�visual� tests,”�she�a�ributed�the�Flynn�e�ect�to�an�array�of�factors,�from�urbaniza�on�to�the� growth�in�“societal�complexity,”�all�of�which�“are�part�and�parcel�of�the�worldwide� movement�from�smaller-scale,�low-tech�communi�es�with�subsistence�economies� toward�large-scale,�high-tech�socie�es�with�commercial�economies.”10

We’re�not�smarter�than�our�parents�or�our�parents’�parents.�We’re�just�smart�in� di�erent�ways.�And�that�in�uences�not�only�how�we�see�the�world�but�also�how�we� raise�and�educate�our�children.�This�social�revolu�on�in�how�we�think�about�thinking� explains�why�we’ve�become�ever�more�adept�at�working�out�the�problems�in�the� more�abstract�and�visual�sec�ons�of�IQ�tests�while�making�li�le�or�no�progress�in� expanding�our�personal�knowledge,�bolstering�our�basic�academic�skills,�or� improving�our�ability�to�communicate�complicated�ideas�clearly.�We’re�trained,�from� infancy,�to�put�things�into�categories,�to�solve�puzzles,�to�think�in�terms�of�symbols� in�space.�Our�use�of�personal�computers�and�the�Internet�may�well�be�reinforcing� some�of�those�mental�skills�and�the�corresponding�neural�circuits�by�strengthening� our�visual�acuity,�par�cularly�our�ability�to�speedily�evaluate�objects�and�other� s�muli�as�they�appear�in�the�abstract�realm�of�a�computer�screen.�But,�as�Flynn�

stresses,�that�doesn’t�mean�we�have�“be�er�brains.”�It�just�means�we�have�di�erent� brains.11

Eight

THE�CHURCH�OF�GOOGLE

Not�long�a�er�Nietzsche�bought�his�mechanical�wri�ng�ball,�an�earnest�young�man� named�Frederick�Winslow�Taylor�carried�a�stopwatch�into�the�Midvale�Steel�plant�in� Philadelphia�and�began�a�historic�series�of�experiments�aimed�at�boos�ng�the� e�ciency�of�the�plant’s�machinists.�With�the�grudging�approval�of�Midvale’s�owners,� Taylor�recruited�a�group�of�factory�hands,�set�them�to�work�on�various�metalworking� machines,�and�recorded�and��med�their�every�movement.�By�breaking�down�each� job�into�a�sequence�of�small�steps�and�then�tes�ng�di�erent�ways�of�performing� them,�he�created�a�set�of�precise�instruc�ons—an�“algorithm,”�we�might�say�today —for�how�each�worker�should�work.�Midvale’s�employees�grumbled�about�the�strict� new�regime,�claiming�that�it�turned�them�into�li�le�more�than�automatons,�but�the� factory’s�produc�vity�soared.1

More�than�a�century�a�er�the�inven�on�of�the�steam�engine,�the�Industrial� Revolu�on�had�at�last�found�its�philosophy�and�its�philosopher.�Taylor’s��ght� industrial�choreography—his�“system,”�as�he�liked�to�call�it—was�embraced�by� manufacturers�throughout�the�country�and,�in��me,�around�the�world.�Seeking� maximum�speed,�maximum�e�ciency,�and�maximum�output,�factory�owners�used� �me-and-mo�on�studies�to�organize�their�work�and�con�gure�the�jobs�of�their� workers.�The�goal,�as�Taylor�de�ned�it�in�his�celebrated�1911�trea�se�The�Principles� of�Scien��c�Management,�was�to�iden�fy�and�adopt,�for�every�job,�the�“one�best� method”�of�work�and�thereby�to�e�ect�“the�gradual�subs�tu�on�of�science�for�rule� of�thumb�throughout�the�mechanic�arts.”2�Once�his�system�was�applied�to�all�acts�of� manual�labor,�Taylor�assured�his�many�followers,�it�would�bring�about�a� restructuring�not�only�of�industry�but�of�society,�crea�ng�a�utopia�of�perfect� e�ciency.�“In�the�past�the�man�has�been��rst,”�he�declared;�“in�the�future�the� system�must�be��rst.”3

Taylor’s�system�of�measurement�and�op�miza�on�is�s�ll�very�much�with�us;�it� remains�one�of�the�underpinnings�of�industrial�manufacturing.�And�now,�thanks�to� the�growing�power�that�computer�engineers�and�so�ware�coders�wield�over�our� intellectual�and�social�lives,�Taylor’s�ethic�is�beginning�to�govern�the�realm�of�the� mind�as�well.�The�Internet�is�a�machine�designed�for�the�e�cient,�automated� collec�on,�transmission,�and�manipula�on�of�informa�on,�and�its�legions�of� programmers�are�intent�on��nding�the�“one�best�way”—the�perfect�algorithm—to� carry�out�the�mental�movements�of�what�we’ve�come�to�describe�as�knowledge�

work.

Google’s�Silicon�Valley�headquarters—the�Googleplex—is�the�Internet’s�high�church,� and�the�religion�prac�ced�inside�its�walls�is�Taylorism.�The�company,�says�CEO�Eric� Schmidt,�is�“founded�around�the�science�of�measurement.”�It�is�striving�to� “systema�ze�everything”�it�does.4�“We�try�to�be�very�data-driven,�and�quan�fy� everything,”�adds�another�Google�execu�ve,�Marissa�Mayer.�“We�live�in�a�world�of� numbers.”5�Drawing�on�the�terabytes�of�behavioral�data�it�collects�through�its� search�engine�and�other�sites,�the�company�carries�out�thousands�of�experiments�a� day�and�uses�the�results�to�re�ne�the�algorithms�that�increasingly�guide�how�all�of�us� �nd�informa�on�and�extract�meaning�from�it.6�What�Taylor�did�for�the�work�of�the� hand,�Google�is�doing�for�the�work�of�the�mind.

The�company’s�reliance�on�tes�ng�is�legendary.�Although�the�design�of�its�Web� pages�may�appear�simple,�even�austere,�each�element�has�been�subjected�to� exhaus�ve�sta�s�cal�and�psychological�research.�Using�a�technique�called�“split�A/B� tes�ng,”�Google�con�nually�introduces��ny�permuta�ons�in�the�way�its�sites�look� and�operate,�shows�di�erent�permuta�ons�to�di�erent�sets�of�users,�and�then� compares�how�the�varia�ons�in�uence�the�users’�behavior—how�long�they�stay�on�a� page,�the�way�they�move�their�cursor�about�the�screen,�what�they�click�on,�what� they�don’t�click�on,�where�they�go�next.�In�addi�on�to�the�automated�online�tests,� Google�recruits�volunteers�for�eye-tracking�and�other�psychological�studies�at�its�in- house�“usability�lab.”�Because�Web�surfers�evaluate�the�contents�of�pages�“so� quickly�that�they�make�most�of�their�decisions�unconsciously,”�remarked�two�Google� researchers�in�a�2009�blog�post�about�the�lab,�monitoring�their�eye�movements�“is� the�next�best�thing�to�actually�being�able�to�read�their�minds.”7�Irene�Au,�the� company’s�director�of�user�experience,�says�that�Google�relies�on�“cogni�ve� psychology�research”�to�further�its�goal�of�“making�people�use�their�computers� more�e�ciently.”�8

Subjec�ve�judgments,�including�aesthe�c�ones,�don’t�enter�into�Google’s� calcula�ons.�“On�the�web,”�says�Mayer,�“design�has�become�much�more�of�a�science� than�an�art.�Because�you�can�iterate�so�quickly,�because�you�can�measure�so� precisely,�you�can�actually��nd�small�di�erences�and�mathema�cally�learn�which� one�is�right.”9�In�one�famous�trial,�the�company�tested�forty-one�di�erent�shades�of� blue�on�its�toolbar�to�see�which�shade�drew�the�most�clicks�from�visitors.�It�carries� out�similarly�rigorous�experiments�on�the�text�it�puts�on�its�pages.�“You�have�to�try� and�make�words�less�human�and�more�a�piece�of�the�machinery,”�explains�Mayer.10

In�his�1993�book�Technopoly,�Neil�Postman�dis�lled�the�main�tenets�of�Taylor’s� system�of�scien��c�management.�Taylorism,�he�wrote,�is�founded�on�six� assump�ons:�“that�the�primary,�if�not�the�only,�goal�of�human�labor�and�thought�is�

e�ciency;�that�technical�calcula�on�is�in�all�respects�superior�to�human�judgment;� that�in�fact�human�judgment�cannot�be�trusted,�because�it�is�plagued�by�laxity,� ambiguity,�and�unnecessary�complexity;�that�subjec�vity�is�an�obstacle�to�clear� thinking;�that�what�cannot�be�measured�either�does�not�exist�or�is�of�no�value;�and� that�the�a�airs�of�ci�zens�are�best�guided�and�conducted�by�experts.”11�What’s� remarkable�is�how�well�Postman’s�summary�encapsulates�Google’s�own�intellectual� ethic.�Only�one�tweak�is�required�to�bring�it�up�to�date.�Google�doesn’t�believe�that� the�a�airs�of�ci�zens�are�best�guided�by�experts.�It�believes�that�those�a�airs�are� best�guided�by�so�ware�algorithms—which�is�exactly�what�Taylor�would�have� believed�had�powerful�digital�computers�been�around�in�his�day.

Google�also�resembles�Taylor�in�the�sense�of�righteousness�it�brings�to�its�work.�It� has�a�deep,�even�messianic�faith�in�its�cause.�Google,�says�its�CEO,�is�more�than�a� mere�business;�it�is�a�“moral�force.”12�The�company’s�much-publicized�“mission”�is� “to�organize�the�world’s�informa�on�and�make�it�universally�accessible�and� useful.”13�Ful�lling�that�mission,�Schmidt�told�the�Wall�Street�Journal�in�2005,�“will� take,�current�es�mate,�300�years.”14�The�company’s�more�immediate�goal�is�to� create�“the�perfect�search�engine,”�which�it�de�nes�as�“something�that�understands� exactly�what�you�mean�and�gives�you�back�exactly�what�you�want.”15�In�Google’s� view,�informa�on�is�a�kind�of�commodity,�a�u�litarian�resource�that�can,�and�should,� be�mined�and�processed�with�industrial�e�ciency.�The�more�pieces�of�informa�on� we�can�“access”�and�the�faster�we�can�dis�ll�their�gist,�the�more�produc�ve�we� become�as�thinkers.�Anything�that�stands�in�the�way�of�the�speedy�collec�on,� dissec�on,�and�transmission�of�data�is�a�threat�not�only�to�Google’s�business�but�to� the�new�utopia�of�cogni�ve�e�ciency�it�aims�to�construct�on�the�Internet.

GOOGLE�WAS�BORN�of�an�analogy—Larry�Page’s�analogy.�The�son�of�one�of�the� pioneers�of�ar��cial�intelligence,�Page�was�surrounded�by�computers�from�an�early� age—he�recalls�being�“the��rst�kid�in�my�elementary�school�to�turn�in�a�word- processed�document”16—and�went�on�to�study�engineering�as�an�undergraduate�at� the�University�of�Michigan.�His�friends�remember�him�as�being�ambi�ous,�smart,� and�“nearly�obsessed�with�e�ciency.”17�While�serving�as�president�of�Michigan’s� engineering�honor�society,�he�spearheaded�a�brash,�if�ul�mately�fu�le,�campaign�to� convince�the�school’s�administrators�to�build�a�monorail�through�the�campus.�In�the� fall�of�1995,�Page�headed�to�California�to�take�a�prized�spot�in�Stanford�University’s� doctoral�program�in�computer�science.�Even�as�a�young�boy,�he�had�dreamed�of� crea�ng�a�momentous�inven�on,�something�that�“would�change�the�world.”18�He� knew�there�was�no�be�er�place�than�Stanford,�Silicon�Valley’s�frontal�cortex,�to� make�the�dream�come�true.

It�took�only�a�few�months�for�Page�to�land�on�a�topic�for�his�disserta�on:�the�vast� new�computer�network�called�the�World�Wide�Web.�Launched�on�the�Internet�just�

four�years�earlier,�the�Web�was�growing�explosively—it�had�half�a�million�sites�and� was�adding�more�than�a�hundred�thousand�new�ones�every�month—and�the� network’s�incredibly�complex�and�ever-shi�ing�arrangement�of�nodes�and�links�had� come�to�fascinate�mathema�cians�and�computer�scien�sts.�Page�had�an�idea�that� he�thought�might�unlock�some�of�its�secrets.�He�had�realized�that�the�links�on�Web� pages�are�analogous�to�the�cita�ons�in�academic�papers.�Both�are�signi�ers�of�value.� When�a�scholar,�in�wri�ng�an�ar�cle,�makes�a�reference�to�a�paper�published�by� another�scholar,�she�is�vouching�for�the�importance�of�that�other�paper.�The�more� cita�ons�a�paper�garners,�the�more�pres�ge�it�gains�in�its��eld.�In�the�same�way,� when�a�person�with�a�Web�page�links�to�someone�else’s�page,�she�is�saying�that�she� thinks�the�other�page�is�important.�The�value�of�any�Web�page,�Page�saw,�could�be� gauged�by�the�links�coming�into�it.

Page�had�another�insight,�again�drawing�on�the�cita�ons�analogy:�not�all�links�are� created�equal.�The�authority�of�any�Web�page�can�be�gauged�by�how�many�incoming� links�it�a�racts.�A�page�with�a�lot�of�incoming�links�has�more�authority�than�a�page� with�only�one�or�two.�The�greater�the�authority�of�a�Web�page,�the�greater�the� worth�of�its�own�outgoing�links.�The�same�is�true�in�academia:�earning�a�cita�on� from�a�paper�that�has�itself�been�much�cited�is�more�valuable�than�receiving�one� from�a�less�cited�paper.�Page’s�analogy�led�him�to�realize�that�the�rela�ve�value�of� any�Web�page�could�be�es�mated�through�a�mathema�cal�analysis�of�two�factors:� the�number�of�incoming�links�the�page�a�racted�and�the�authority�of�the�sites�that� were�the�sources�of�those�links.�If�you�could�create�a�database�of�all�the�links�on�the� Web,�you�would�have�the�raw�material�to�feed�into�a�so�ware�algorithm�that�could� evaluate�and�rank�the�value�of�all�the�pages�on�the�Web.�You�would�also�have�the� makings�of�the�world’s�most�powerful�search�engine.

The�disserta�on�never�got�wri�en.�Page�recruited�another�Stanford�graduate� student,�a�math�prodigy�named�Sergey�Brin�who�had�a�deep�interest�in�data�mining,� to�help�him�build�his�search�engine.�In�the�summer�of�1996,�an�early�version�of� Google—then�called�BackRub—debuted�on�Stanford’s�Web�site.�Within�a�year,� BackRub’s�tra�c�had�overwhelmed�the�university’s�network.�If�they�were�going�to� turn�their�search�service�into�a�real�business,�Page�and�Brin�saw,�they�were�going�to� need�a�lot�of�money�to�buy�compu�ng�gear�and�network�bandwidth.�In�the�summer� of�1998,�a�wealthy�Silicon�Valley�investor�came�to�the�rescue,�cu�ng�them�a�check� for�a�hundred�grand.�They�moved�their�budding�company�out�of�their�dorms�and� into�a�couple�of�spare�rooms�in�a�friend-of-a-friend’s�house�in�nearby�Menlo�Park.�In� September�they�incorporated�as�Google�Inc.�They�chose�the�name—a�play�on� googol,�the�word�for�the�number�ten�raised�to�the�hundredth�power—to�highlight� their�goal�of�organizing�“a�seemingly�in�nite�amount�of�informa�on�on�the�web.”�In� December,�an�ar�cle�in�PC�Magazine�praised�the�new�search�engine�with�the�quirky� name,�saying�it�“has�an�uncanny�knack�for�returning�extremely�relevant�results.”19

Thanks�to�that�knack,�Google�was�soon�processing�most�of�the�millions—and�then� billions—of�Internet�searches�being�conducted�every�day.�The�company�became� fabulously�successful,�at�least�as�measured�by�the�tra�c�running�through�its�site.�But� it�faced�the�same�problem�that�had�doomed�many�dot-coms:�it�hadn’t�been�able�to� �gure�out�how�to�turn�a�pro�t�from�all�that�tra�c.�No�one�would�pay�to�search�the� Web,�and�Page�and�Brin�were�averse�to�injec�ng�adver�sements�into�their�search� results,�fearing�it�would�corrupt�Google’s�pris�ne�mathema�cal�objec�vity.�“We� expect,”�they�had�wri�en�in�a�scholarly�paper�early�in�1998,�“that�adver�sing-funded� search�engines�will�be�inherently�biased�towards�the�adver�sers�and�away�from�the� needs�of�the�consumers.”20

But�the�young�entrepreneurs�knew�that�they�would�not�be�able�to�live�o��the� largesse�of�venture�capitalists�forever.�Late�in�2000,�they�came�up�with�a�clever�plan� for�running�small,�textual�adver�sements�alongside�their�search�results—a�plan�that� would�require�only�a�modest�compromise�of�their�ideals.�Rather�than�selling� adver�sing�space�for�a�set�price,�they�decided�to�auc�on�the�space�o�.�It�wasn’t�an� original�idea—another�search�engine,�GoTo,�was�already�auc�oning�ads—but� Google�gave�it�a�new�spin.�Whereas�GoTo�ranked�its�search�ads�according�to�the�size� of�adver�sers’�bids—the�higher�the�bid,�the�more�prominent�the�ad—Google�in� 2002�added�a�second�criterion.�An�ad’s�placement�would�be�determined�not�only�by� the�amount�of�the�bid�but�by�the�frequency�with�which�people�actually�clicked�on� the�ad.�That�innova�on�ensured�that�Google’s�ads�would�remain,�as�the�company� put�it,�“relevant”�to�the�topics�of�searches.�Junk�ads�would�automa�cally�be� screened�from�the�system.�If�searchers�didn’t��nd�an�ad�relevant,�they�wouldn’t�click� on�it,�and�it�would�eventually�disappear�from�Google’s�site.

The�auc�on�system,�named�AdWords,�had�another,�very�important�result:�by�tying� ad�placement�to�clicks,�it�increased�click-through�rates�substan�ally.�The�more�o�en� people�clicked�on�an�ad,�the�more�frequently�and�prominently�the�ad�would�appear� on�search�result�pages,�bringing�even�more�clicks.�Since�adver�sers�paid�Google�by� the�click,�the�company’s�revenues�soared.�The�AdWords�system�proved�so�lucra�ve� that�many�other�Web�publishers�contracted�with�Google�to�place�its�“contextual� ads”�on�their�sites�as�well,�tailoring�the�ads�to�the�content�of�each�page.�By�the�end� of�the�decade,�Google�was�not�just�the�largest�Internet�company�in�the�world;�it�was� one�of�the�largest�media�companies,�taking�in�more�than�$22�billion�in�sales�a�year,� almost�all�of�it�from�adver�sing,�and�turning�a�pro�t�of�about�$8�billion.�Page�and� Brin�were�each�worth,�on�paper,�more�than�$10�billion.

Google’s�innova�ons�have�paid�o��for�its�founders�and�investors.�But�the�biggest� bene�ciaries�have�been�Web�users.�Google�has�succeeded�in�making�the�Internet�a� far�more�e�cient�informa�onal�medium.�Earlier�search�engines�tended�to�get�

clogged�with�data�as�the�Web�expanded—they�couldn’t�index�the�new�content,� much�less�separate�the�wheat�from�the�cha�.�Google’s�engine,�by�contrast,�has�been� engineered�to�produce�be�er�results�as�the�Web�grows.�The�more�sites�and�links� Google�evaluates,�the�more�precisely�it�can�classify�pages�and�rank�their�quality.�And� as�tra�c�increases,�Google�is�able�to�collect�more�behavioral�data,�allowing�it�to� tailor�its�search�results�and�adver�sements�ever�more�precisely�to�users’�needs�and� desires.�The�company�has�also�invested�many�billions�of�dollars�in�building� computer-packed�data�centers�around�the�world,�ensuring�that�it�can�deliver�search� results�to�its�users�in�milliseconds.�Google’s�popularity�and�pro�tability�are�well� deserved.�The�company�plays�an�invaluable�role�in�helping�people�navigate�the� hundreds�of�billions�of�pages�that�now�populate�the�Web.�Without�its�search�engine,� and�the�other�engines�that�have�been�built�on�its�model,�the�Internet�would�have� long�ago�become�a�Tower�of�Digital�Babel.

But�Google,�as�the�supplier�of�the�Web’s�principal�naviga�onal�tools,�also�shapes�our� rela�onship�with�the�content�that�it�serves�up�so�e�ciently�and�in�such�profusion.� The�intellectual�technologies�it�has�pioneered�promote�the�speedy,�super�cial� skimming�of�informa�on�and�discourage�any�deep,�prolonged�engagement�with�a� single�argument,�idea,�or�narra�ve.�“Our�goal,”�says�Irene�Au,�“is�to�get�users�in�and� out�really�quickly.�All�our�design�decisions�are�based�on�that�strategy.”21�Google’s� pro�ts�are��ed�directly�to�the�velocity�of�people’s�informa�on�intake.�The�faster�we� surf�across�the�surface�of�the�Web—the�more�links�we�click�and�pages�we�view—the� more�opportuni�es�Google�gains�to�collect�informa�on�about�us�and�to�feed�us� adver�sements.�Its�adver�sing�system,�moreover,�is�explicitly�designed�to��gure�out� which�messages�are�most�likely�to�grab�our�a�en�on�and�then�to�place�those� messages�in�our��eld�of�view.�Every�click�we�make�on�the�Web�marks�a�break�in�our� concentra�on,�a�bo�om-up�disrup�on�of�our�a�en�on—and�it’s�in�Google’s� economic�interest�to�make�sure�we�click�as�o�en�as�possible.�The�last�thing�the� company�wants�is�to�encourage�leisurely�reading�or�slow,�concentrated�thought.� Google�is,�quite�literally,�in�the�business�of�distrac�on.

GOOGLE�MAY�YET�turn�out�to�be�a��ash�in�the�pan.�The�lives�of�Internet�companies� are�rarely�nasty�or�bru�sh,�but�they�do�tend�to�be�short.�Because�their�businesses� are�ethereal,�constructed�of�invisible�strands�of�so�ware�code,�their�defenses�are� fragile.�All�it�takes�to�render�a�thriving�online�business�obsolete�is�a�sharp� programmer�with�a�fresh�idea.�The�inven�on�of�a�more�precise�search�engine�or�a� be�er�way�to�circulate�ads�through�the�Net�could�spell�ruin�for�Google.�But�no� ma�er�how�long�the�company�is�able�to�maintain�its�dominance�over�the��ow�of� digital�informa�on,�its�intellectual�ethic�will�remain�the�general�ethic�of�the�Internet� as�a�medium.�Web�publishers�and�toolmakers�will�con�nue�to�a�ract�tra�c�and� make�money�by�encouraging�and�feeding�our�hunger�for�small,�rapidly�dispensed� pieces�of�informa�on.

The�history�of�the�Web�suggests�that�the�velocity�of�data�will�only�increase.�During� the�1990s,�most�online�informa�on�was�found�on�so-called�sta�c�pages.�They�didn’t� look�all�that�di�erent�from�the�pages�in�magazines,�and�their�content�remained� rela�vely��xed.�The�trend�since�then�has�been�to�make�pages�ever�more�“dynamic,”� upda�ng�them�regularly�and�o�en�automa�cally�with�new�content.�Specialized� blogging�so�ware,�introduced�in�1999,�made�rapid-�re�publishing�simple�for� everyone,�and�the�most�successful�bloggers�soon�found�that�they�needed�to�post� many�items�a�day�to�keep��ckle�readers�engaged.�News�sites�followed�suit,�serving� up�fresh�stories�around�the�clock.�RSS�readers,�which�became�popular�around�2005,� allowed�sites�to�“push”�headlines�and�other�bits�of�informa�on�to�Web�users,� pu�ng�an�even�greater�premium�on�the�frequency�of�informa�on�delivery.

The�greatest�accelera�on�has�come�recently,�with�the�rise�of�social�networks�like� MySpace,�Facebook,�and�Twi�er.�These�companies�are�dedicated�to�providing�their� millions�of�members�with�a�never-ending�“stream”�of�“real-�me�updates,”�brief� messages�about,�as�a�Twi�er�slogan�puts�it,�“what’s�happening�right�now.”�By� turning�in�mate�messages—once�the�realm�of�the�le�er,�the�phone�call,�the�whisper —into�fodder�for�a�new�form�of�mass�media,�the�social�networks�have�given�people� a�compelling�new�way�to�socialize�and�stay�in�touch.�They’ve�also�placed�a�whole� new�emphasis�on�immediacy.�A�“status�update”�from�a�friend,�co-worker,�or�favorite� celebrity�loses�its�currency�within�moments�of�being�issued.�To�be�up�to�date� requires�the�con�nual�monitoring�of�message�alerts.�The�compe��on�among�the� social�networks�to�deliver�ever-fresher�and�more�plen�ful�messages�is��erce.�When,� in�early�2009,�Facebook�responded�to�Twi�er’s�rapid�growth�by�announcing�that�it� was�revamping�its�site�to,�as�it�put�it,�“increase�the�pace�of�the�stream,”�its�founder� and�chief�execu�ve,�Mark�Zuckerberg,�assured�its�quarter�of�a�billion�members�that� the�company�would�“con�nue�making�the��ow�of�informa�on�even�faster.”22� Unlike�early�book�printers,�who�had�strong�economic�incen�ves�to�promote�the� reading�of�older�works�as�well�as�recent�ones,�online�publishers�ba�le�to�distribute� the�newest�of�the�new.

Google�hasn’t�been�si�ng�s�ll.�To�combat�the�upstarts,�it�has�been�revamping�its� search�engine�to�ratchet�up�its�speed.�The�quality�of�a�page,�as�determined�by�the� links�coming�into�it,�is�no�longer�Google’s�chief�criterion�in�ranking�search�results.�In� fact,�it’s�now�only�one�of�two�hundred�di�erent�“signals”�that�the�company�monitors� and�measures,�according�to�Amit�Singhal,�a�top�Google�engineer.23�One�of�its�major� recent�thrusts�has�been�to�place�a�greater�priority�on�what�it�calls�the�“freshness”�of� the�pages�it�recommends.�Google�not�only�iden��es�new�or�revised�Web�pages� much�more�quickly�than�it�used�to—it�now�checks�the�most�popular�sites�for� updates�every�few�seconds�rather�than�every�few�days—but�for�many�searches�it� skews�its�results�to�favor�newer�pages�over�older�ones.�In�May�2009,�the�company�

introduced�a�new�twist�to�its�search�service,�allowing�users�to�bypass�considera�ons� of�quality�en�rely�and�have�results�ranked�according�to�how�recently�the� informa�on�was�posted�to�the�Web.�A�few�months�later,�it�announced�a�“next- genera�on�architecture”�for�its�search�engine�that�bore�the�telling�code�name� Ca�eine.24�Ci�ng�Twi�er’s�achievements�in�speeding�the��ow�of�data,�Larry�Page� said�that�Google�wouldn’t�be�sa�s�ed�un�l�it�is�able�“to�index�the�Web�every�second� to�allow�real-�me�search.”25

The�company�is�also�striving�to�further�expand�its�hold�on�Web�users�and�their�data.� With�the�billions�in�pro�ts�churned�out�by�AdWords,�it�has�been�able�to�diversify� well�beyond�its�original�focus�on�searching�Web�pages.�It�now�has�specialized�search� services�for,�among�other�things,�images,�videos,�news�stories,�maps,�blogs,�and� academic�journals,�all�of�which�feed�into�the�results�supplied�by�its�main�search� engine.�It�also�o�ers�computer�opera�ng�systems,�such�as�Android�for�smartphones� and�Chrome�for�PCs,�as�well�as�a�slew�of�online�so�ware�programs,�or�“apps,”� including�e-mail,�word�processing,�blogging,�photo�storage,�feed�reading,� spreadsheets,�calendars,�and�Web�hos�ng.�Google�Wave,�an�ambi�ous�social- networking�service�launched�at�the�end�of�2009,�allows�people�to�monitor�and� update�various�mul�media�message�threads�on�a�single�densely�packed�page,�which� refreshes�its�contents�automa�cally�and�almost�instantaneously.�Wave,�says�one� reporter,�“turns�conversa�ons�into�fast-moving�group�streams-of-consciousness.”26

The�company’s�seemingly�boundless�expansiveness�has�been�a�ma�er�of�much� discussion,�par�cularly�among�management�scholars�and�business�reporters.�The� breadth�of�its�in�uence�and�ac�vity�is�o�en�interpreted�as�evidence�that�it�is�an� en�rely�new�species�of�business,�one�that�transcends�and�rede�nes�all�tradi�onal� categories.�But�while�Google�is�an�unusual�company�in�many�ways,�its�business� strategy�is�not�quite�as�mysterious�as�it�seems.�Google’s�protean�appearance�is�not�a� re�ec�on�of�its�main�business:�selling�and�distribu�ng�online�ads.�Rather,�it�stems� from�the�vast�number�of�“complements”�to�that�business.�Complements�are,�in� economic�terms,�any�products�or�services�that�tend�be�purchased�or�consumed� together,�such�as�hot�dogs�and�mustard�or�lamps�and�lightbulbs.�For�Google,� everything�that�happens�on�the�Internet�is�a�complement�to�its�main�business.�As� people�spend�more��me�and�do�more�things�online,�they�see�more�ads�and�they� disclose�more�informa�on�about�themselves—and�Google�rakes�in�more�money.�As� addi�onal�products�and�services�have�come�to�be�delivered�digitally�over�computer� networks—entertainment,�news,�so�ware�applica�ons,��nancial�transac�ons,� phone�calls—Google’s�range�of�complements�has�extended�into�ever�more� industries.

Because�the�sales�of�complementary�products�rise�in�tandem,�a�company�has�a� strong�strategic�interest�in�reducing�the�cost�and�expanding�the�availability�of�the�

complements�to�its�main�product.�It’s�not�too�much�of�an�exaggera�on�to�say�that�a� company�would�like�all�complements�to�be�given�away.�If�hot�dogs�were�free,� mustard�sales�would�skyrocket.�It’s�this�natural�drive�to�reduce�the�cost�of� complements�that,�more�than�anything�else,�explains�Google’s�business�strategy.� Nearly�everything�the�company�does�is�aimed�at�reducing�the�cost�and�expanding� the�scope�of�Internet�use.�Google�wants�informa�on�to�be�free�because,�as�the�cost� of�informa�on�falls,�we�all�spend�more��me�looking�at�computer�screens�and�the� company’s�pro�ts�go�up.

Most�of�Google’s�services�are�not�pro�table�in�themselves.�Industry�analysts� es�mate,�for�example,�that�YouTube,�which�Google�bought�for�$1.65�billion�in�2006,� lost�between�$200�million�and�$500�million�in�2009.27�But�because�popular�services� like�YouTube�enable�Google�to�collect�more�informa�on,�to�funnel�more�users� toward�its�search�engine,�and�to�prevent�would-be�compe�tors�from�gaining� footholds�in�its�markets,�the�company�is�able�to�jus�fy�the�cost�of�launching�them.� Google�has�let�it�be�known�that�it�won’t�be�sa�s�ed�un�l�it�stores�“100%�of�user� data.”28�Its�expansionary�zeal�isn’t�just�about�money,�though.�The�steady� coloniza�on�of�addi�onal�types�of�content�also�furthers�the�company’s�mission�of� making�the�world’s�informa�on�“universally�accessible�and�useful.”�Its�ideals�and�its� business�interests�converge�in�one�overarching�goal:�to�digi�ze�ever�more�types�of� informa�on,�move�the�informa�on�onto�the�Web,�feed�it�into�its�database,�run�it� through�its�classi�ca�on�and�ranking�algorithms,�and�dispense�it�in�what�it�calls� “snippets”�to�Web�surfers,�preferably�with�ads�in�tow.�With�each�expansion�of� Google’s�ambit,�its�Taylorist�ethic�gains�a��ghter�hold�on�our�intellectual�lives.

THE�MOST�AMBITIOUS�of�Google’s�ini�a�ves—what�Marissa�Mayer�calls�its�“moon� shot”29—is�its�e�ort�to�digi�ze�all�the�books�ever�printed�and�make�their�text� “discoverable�and�searchable�online.”30�The�program�began�in�secret�in�2002,�when� Larry�Page�set�up�a�digital�scanner�in�his�o�ce�in�the�Googleplex�and,�to�the�beat�of� a�metronome,�spent�a�half�hour�methodically�scanning�the�pages�of�a�three- hundred-page�book.�He�wanted�to�get�a�rough�sense�of�how�long�it�would�take�“to� digitally�scan�every�book�in�the�world.”�The�next�year,�a�Google�employee�was�sent� to�Phoenix�to�buy�a�pile�of�old�books�at�a�charity�sale.�Once�carted�back�to�the� Googleplex,�the�volumes�became�the�test�subjects�in�a�series�of�experiments�that� led�to�the�development�of�a�new�“high-speed”�and�“non-destruc�ve”�scanning� technique.�The�ingenious�system,�which�involves�the�use�of�stereoscopic�infrared� cameras,�is�able�to�automa�cally�correct�for�the�bowing�of�pages�that�occurs�when�a� book�is�opened,�elimina�ng�any�distor�on�of�the�text�in�the�scanned�image.31�At� the�same��me,�a�team�of�Google�so�ware�engineers�was��ne-tuning�a�sophis�cated� character�recogni�on�program�able�to�handle�“odd�type�sizes,�unusual�fonts�or� other�unexpected�peculiari�es—in�430�di�erent�languages.”�Another�group�of� Google�employees�spread�out�to�visit�leading�libraries�and�book�publishers�to�gauge�

their�interest�in�having�Google�digi�ze�their�books.32

In�the�fall�of�2004,�Page�and�Brin�formally�announced�the�Google�Print�program�(it� would�later�be�renamed�Google�Book�Search)�at�the�Frankfurt�Book�Fair,�an�event� that�since�Gutenberg’s�day�has�been�the�publishing�industry’s�chief�annual� gathering.�More�than�a�dozen�trade�and�academic�presses�signed�on�as�Google’s� partners,�including�such�top�names�as�Houghton�Mi�in,�McGraw-Hill,�and�the� university�presses�of�Oxford,�Cambridge,�and�Princeton.�Five�of�the�world’s�most� pres�gious�libraries,�including�Harvard’s�Widener,�Oxford’s�Bodleian,�and�the�New� York�Public�Library,�also�agreed�to�collaborate�in�the�e�ort.�They�granted�Google� permission�to�begin�scanning�the�contents�of�their�stacks.�By�the�end�of�the�year,� the�company�already�had�the�text�of�an�es�mated�hundred�thousand�books�in�its� data�bank.

Not�everyone�was�happy�with�the�library�scanning�project.�Google�was�not�just� scanning�old�books�that�had�fallen�out�of�copyright�protec�on.�It�was�also�scanning� newer�books�that,�while�o�en�out�of�print,�were�s�ll�the�copyrighted�property�of� their�authors�or�publishers.�Google�made�it�clear�that�it�had�no�inten�on�of�tracking� down�and�securing�the�consent�of�the�copyright�holders�in�advance.�Rather,�it�would� proceed�to�scan�all�the�books�and�include�them�in�its�database�unless�a�copyright� owner�sent�it�a�formal�wri�en�request�to�exclude�a�par�cular�book.�On�September� 20,�2005,�the�Authors�Guild,�along�with�three�prominent�writers�ac�ng�individually,� sued�Google,�alleging�that�the�scanning�program�entailed�“massive�copyright� infringement.”33�A�few�weeks�later,�the�Associa�on�of�American�Publishers��led� another�lawsuit�against�the�company,�demanding�that�it�stop�scanning�the�libraries’� collec�ons.�Google��red�back,�launching�a�public�rela�ons�o�ensive�to�publicize�the� societal�bene�ts�of�Google�Book�Search.�In�October,�Eric�Schmidt�wrote�an�op-ed� column�for�the�Wall�Street�Journal�that�portrayed�the�book�digi�za�on�e�ort�in� terms�at�once�s�rring�and�vainglorious:�“Imagine�the�cultural�impact�of�pu�ng�tens� of�millions�of�previously�inaccessible�volumes�into�one�vast�index,�every�word�of� which�is�searchable�by�anyone,�rich�and�poor,�urban�and�rural,�First�World�and�Third,� en�toute�langue—and�all,�of�course,�en�rely�for�free.”34

The�suits�proceeded.�A�er�three�years�of�nego�a�ons,�during�which�Google�scanned� some�seven�million�addi�onal�books,�six�million�of�which�were�s�ll�under�copyright,� the�par�es�reached�a�se�lement.�Under�the�terms�of�the�accord,�announced�in� October�2008,�Google�agreed�to�pay�$125�million�to�compensate�the�owners�of�the� copyrights�in�the�works�that�it�had�already�scanned.�It�also�agreed�to�set�up�a� payment�system�that�would�give�authors�and�publishers�a�cut�of�adver�sing�and� other�revenues�earned�from�the�Google�Book�Search�service�in�the�years�ahead.�In� return�for�the�concessions,�the�authors�and�publishers�gave�Google�their�okay�to� proceed�with�its�plan�to�digi�ze�all�the�world’s�books.�The�company�would�also�be�

“authorized�to,�in�the�United�States,�sell�subscrip�ons�to�[an]�Ins�tu�onal� Subscrip�on�Database,�sell�individual�Books,�place�adver�sements�on�Online�Book� Pages,�and�make�other�commercial�uses�of�Books.”35

The�proposed�se�lement�set�o��another,�even��ercer�controversy.�The�terms� appeared�to�give�Google�a�monopoly�over�the�digital�versions�of�millions�of�so-called� orphan�books—those�whose�copyright�owners�are�unknown�or�can’t�be�found.� Many�libraries�and�schools�feared�that,�without�compe��on,�Google�would�be�able� to�raise�the�subscrip�on�fees�for�its�book�database�as�high�as�it�liked.�The�American� Library�Associa�on,�in�a�court��ling,�warned�that�the�company�might�“set�the�price� of�the�subscrip�on�at�a�pro�t-maximizing�point�beyond�the�reach�of�many� libraries.”36�The�U.S.�Jus�ce�Department�and�Copyright�O�ce�both�cri�cized�the� deal,�contending�it�would�give�Google�too�much�power�over�the�future�market�for� digital�books.

Other�cri�cs�had�a�related�but�more�general�worry:�that�commercial�control�over�the� distribu�on�of�digital�informa�on�would�inevitably�lead�to�restric�ons�on�the��ow�of� knowledge.�They�were�suspicious�of�Google’s�mo�ves,�despite�its�altruis�c�rhetoric.� “When�businesses�like�Google�look�at�libraries,�they�do�not�merely�see�temples�of� learning,”�wrote�Robert�Darnton,�who,�in�addi�on�to�teaching�at�Harvard,�oversees� its�library�system.�“They�see�poten�al�assets�or�what�they�call�‘content,’�ready�to�be� mined.”�Although�Google�“has�pursued�a�laudable�goal”�in�“promo�ng�access�to� informa�on,”�conceded�Darnton,�gran�ng�a�pro�t-making�enterprise�a�monopoly� “not�of�railroads�or�steel�but�of�access�to�informa�on”�would�entail�too�great�a�risk.� “What�will�happen�if�its�current�leaders�sell�the�company�or�re�re?”�he�asked.� “What�will�happen�if�Google�favors�pro�tability�over�access?”37�By�the�end�of�2009,� the�original�agreement�had�been�abandoned,�and�Google�and�the�other�par�es�were� trying�to�win�support�for�a�slightly�less�sweeping�alterna�ve.

The�debate�over�Google�Book�Search�is�illumina�ng�for�several�reasons.�It�reveals� how�far�we�s�ll�have�to�go�to�adapt�the�spirit�and�le�er�of�copyright�law,�par�cularly� its�fair-use�provisions,�to�the�digital�age.�(The�fact�that�some�of�the�publishing��rms� that�were�par�es�to�the�lawsuit�against�Google�are�also�partners�in�Google�Book� Search�tes��es�to�the�murkiness�of�the�current�situa�on.)�It�also�tells�us�much�about� Google’s�high-�own�ideals�and�the�high-handed�methods�it�some�mes�uses�to� pursue�them.�One�observer,�the�lawyer�and�technology�writer�Richard�Koman,� argued�that�Google�“has�become�a�true�believer�in�its�own�goodness,�a�belief�which� jus��es�its�own�set�of�rules�regarding�corporate�ethics,�an�-compe��on,�customer� service�and�its�place�in�society.”38

Most�important�of�all,�the�controversy�makes�clear�that�the�world’s�books�will�be� digi�zed—and�that�the�e�ort�is�likely�to�proceed�quickly.�The�argument�about�

Google�Book�Search�has�nothing�to�do�with�the�wisdom�of�scanning�printed�books� into�a�database;�it�has�to�do�with�the�control�and�commercializa�on�of�that� database.�Whether�or�not�Google�ends�up�being�the�sole�proprietor�of�what�Darnton� calls�“the�largest�library�in�the�world,”�that�library�is�going�to�be�constructed;�and�its� digital�volumes,�fed�through�the�Net�into�every�library�on�earth,�will�in��me�supplant� many�of�the�physical�books�that�have�long�been�stored�on�shelves.39�The�prac�cal� bene�ts�of�making�books�“discoverable�and�searchable�online”�are�so�great�that�it’s� hard�to�imagine�anyone�opposing�the�e�ort.�The�digi�za�on�of�old�books,�as�well�as� ancient�scrolls�and�other�documents,�is�already�opening�exci�ng�new�avenues�for� research�into�the�past.�Some�foresee�“a�second�Renaissance”�of�historical� discovery.40�As�Darnton�says,�“Digi�ze�we�must.”

But�the�inevitability�of�turning�the�pages�of�books�into�online�images�should�not� prevent�us�from�considering�the�side�e�ects.�To�make�a�book�discoverable�and� searchable�online�is�also�to�dismember�it.�The�cohesion�of�its�text,�the�linearity�of�its� argument�or�narra�ve�as�it��ows�through�scores�of�pages,�is�sacri�ced.�What�that� ancient�Roman�cra�sman�wove�together�when�he�created�the��rst�codex�is� uns�tched.�The�quiet�that�was�“part�of�the�meaning”�of�the�codex�is�sacri�ced�as� well.�Surrounding�every�page�or�snippet�of�text�on�Google�Book�Search�is�a�welter�of� links,�tools,�tabs,�and�ads,�each�eagerly�angling�for�a�share�of�the�reader’s� fragmented�a�en�on.

For�Google,�with�its�faith�in�e�ciency�as�the�ul�mate�good�and�its�a�endant�desire� “to�get�users�in�and�out�really�quickly,”�the�unbinding�of�the�book�entails�no�loss,� only�gain.�Google�Book�Search�manager�Adam�Mathes�grants�that�“books�o�en�live� a�vibrant�life�o�ine,”�but�he�says�that�they’ll�be�able�to�“live�an�even�more�exci�ng� life�online.”41�What�does�it�mean�for�a�book�to�lead�a�more�exci�ng�life?� Searchability�is�only�the�beginning.�Google�wants�us,�it�says,�to�be�able�to�“slice�and� dice”�the�contents�of�the�digi�zed�books�we�discover,�to�do�all�the�“linking,�sharing,� and�aggrega�ng”�that�are�rou�ne�with�Web�content�but�that�“you�can’t�easily�do� with�physical�books.”�The�company�has�already�introduced�a�cut-and-paste�tool�that� “lets�you�easily�clip�and�publish�passages�from�public�domain�books�on�your�blog�or� website.”42�It�has�also�launched�a�service�it�calls�Popular�Passages,�which�highlights� brief�excerpts�from�books�that�have�been�quoted�frequently,�and�for�some�volumes� it�has�begun�displaying�“word�clouds”�that�allow�a�reader�to,�as�the�company�says,� “explore�a�book�in�10�seconds.”43�It�would�be�silly�to�complain�about�such�tools.� They�are�useful.�But�they�also�make�clear�that,�for�Google,�the�real�value�of�a�book�is� not�as�a�self-contained�literary�work�but�as�another�pile�of�data�to�be�mined.�The� great�library�that�Google�is�rushing�to�create�shouldn’t�be�confused�with�the�libraries� we’ve�known�up�un�l�now.�It’s�not�a�library�of�books.�It’s�a�library�of�snippets.

The�irony�in�Google’s�e�ort�to�bring�greater�e�ciency�to�reading�is�that�it�

undermines�the�very�di�erent�kind�of�e�ciency�that�the�technology�of�the�book� brought�to�reading—and�to�our�minds—in�the��rst�place.�By�freeing�us�from�the� struggle�of�decoding�text,�the�form�that�wri�ng�came�to�take�on�a�page�of� parchment�or�paper�enabled�us�to�become�deep�readers,�to�turn�our�a�en�on,�and� our�brain�power,�to�the�interpreta�on�of�meaning.�With�wri�ng�on�the�screen,�we’re� s�ll�able�to�decode�text�quickly—we�read,�if�anything,�faster�than�ever—but�we’re� no�longer�guided�toward�a�deep,�personally�constructed�understanding�of�the�text’s� connota�ons.�Instead,�we’re�hurried�o��toward�another�bit�of�related�informa�on,� and�then�another,�and�another.�The�strip-mining�of�“relevant�content”�replaces�the� slow�excava�on�of�meaning.

IT�WAS�A�warm�summer�morning�in�Concord,�Massachuse�s.�The�year�was�1844.�An� aspiring�novelist�named�Nathaniel�Hawthorne�was�si�ng�in�a�small�clearing�in�the� woods,�a�par�cularly�peaceful�spot�known�around�town�as�Sleepy�Hollow.�Deep�in� concentra�on,�he�was�a�ending�to�every�passing�impression,�turning�himself�into� what�Emerson,�the�leader�of�Concord’s�Transcendentalist�movement,�had�eight� years�earlier�termed�a�“transparent�eyeball.”�Hawthorne�saw,�as�he�would�record�in� his�notebook�later�that�day,�how�“sunshine�glimmers�through�shadow,�and�shadow� e�aces�sunshine,�imaging�that�pleasant�mood�of�mind�where�gayety�and� pensiveness�intermingle.”�He�felt�a�slight�breeze,�“the�gentlest�sigh�imaginable,�yet� with�a�spiritual�potency,�insomuch�that�it�seems�to�penetrate,�with�its�mild,�ethereal� coolness,�through�the�outward�clay,�and�breathe�upon�the�spirit�itself,�which�shivers� with�gentle�delight.”�He�smelled�on�the�breeze�a�hint�of�“the�fragrance�of�the�white� pines.”�He�heard�“the�striking�of�the�village�clock”�and�“at�a�distance�mowers� whe�ng�their�scythes,”�though�“these�sounds�of�labor,�when�at�a�proper� remoteness,�do�but�increase�the�quiet�of�one�who�lies�at�his�ease,�all�in�a�mist�of�his� own�musings.”

Abruptly,�his�reverie�was�broken:

But,�hark!�there�is�the�whistle�of�the�locomo�ve,—the�long�shriek,�harsh�above�all� other�harshness,�for�the�space�of�a�mile�cannot�mollify�it�into�harmony.�It�tells�a� story�of�busy�men,�ci�zens�from�the�hot�street,�who�have�come�to�spend�a�day�in�a� country�village,—men�of�business,—in�short,�of�all�unquietness;�and�no�wonder�that� it�gives�such�a�startling�shriek,�since�it�brings�the�noisy�world�into�the�midst�of�our� slumbrous�peace.44

Leo�Marx�opens�The�Machine�in�the�Garden,�his�classic�1964�study�of�technology’s� in�uence�on�American�culture,�with�a�recoun�ng�of�Hawthorne’s�morning�in�Sleepy� Hollow.�The�writer’s�real�subject,�Marx�argues,�is�“the�landscape�of�the�psyche”�and� in�par�cular�“the�contrast�between�two�condi�ons�of�consciousness.”�The�quiet� clearing�in�the�woods�provides�the�solitary�thinker�with�“a�singular�insula�on�from�

disturbance,”�a�protected�space�for�re�ec�on.�The�clamorous�arrival�of�the�train,� with�its�load�of�“busy�men,”�brings�“the�psychic�dissonance�associated�with�the� onset�of�industrialism.”45�The�contempla�ve�mind�is�overwhelmed�by�the�noisy� world’s�mechanical�busyness.

The�stress�that�Google�and�other�Internet�companies�place�on�the�e�ciency�of� informa�on�exchange�as�the�key�to�intellectual�progress�is�nothing�new.�It’s�been,�at� least�since�the�start�of�the�Industrial�Revolu�on,�a�common�theme�in�the�history�of� the�mind.�It�provides�a�strong�and�con�nuing�counterpoint�to�the�very�di�erent� view,�promulgated�by�the�American�Transcendentalists�as�well�as�the�earlier�English� Roman�cs,�that�true�enlightenment�comes�only�through�contempla�on�and� introspec�on.�The�tension�between�the�two�perspec�ves�is�one�manifesta�on�of�the� broader�con�ict�between,�in�Marx’s�terms,�“the�machine”�and�“the�garden”—the� industrial�ideal�and�the�pastoral�ideal—that�has�played�such�an�important�role�in� shaping�modern�society.

When�carried�into�the�realm�of�the�intellect,�the�industrial�ideal�of�e�ciency�poses,� as�Hawthorne�understood,�a�poten�ally�mortal�threat�to�the�pastoral�ideal�of� medita�ve�thought.�That�doesn’t�mean�that�promo�ng�the�rapid�discovery�and� retrieval�of�informa�on�is�bad.�It’s�not.�The�development�of�a�well-rounded�mind� requires�both�an�ability�to��nd�and�quickly�parse�a�wide�range�of�informa�on�and�a� capacity�for�open-ended�re�ec�on.�There�needs�to�be��me�for�e�cient�data� collec�on�and��me�for�ine�cient�contempla�on,��me�to�operate�the�machine�and� �me�to�sit�idly�in�the�garden.�We�need�to�work�in�Google’s�“world�of�numbers,”�but� we�also�need�to�be�able�to�retreat�to�Sleepy�Hollow.�The�problem�today�is�that�we’re� losing�our�ability�to�strike�a�balance�between�those�two�very�di�erent�states�of� mind.�Mentally,�we’re�in�perpetual�locomo�on.

Even�as�Gutenberg’s�press�was�making�the�literary�mind�the�general�mind,�it�was� se�ng�in�mo�on�the�process�that�now�threatens�to�render�the�literary�mind� obsolete.�When�books�and�periodicals�began�to��ood�the�marketplace,�people�for� the��rst��me�felt�overwhelmed�by�informa�on.�Robert�Burton,�in�his�1628� masterwork�An�Anatomy�of�Melancholy,�described�the�“vast�chaos�and�confusion�of� books”�that�confronted�the�seventeenth-century�reader:�“We�are�oppressed�with� them,�our�eyes�ache�with�reading,�our��ngers�with�turning.”�A�few�years�earlier,�in� 1600,�another�English�writer,�Barnaby�Rich,�had�complained,�“One�of�the�great� diseases�of�this�age�is�the�mul�tude�of�books�that�doth�so�overcharge�the�world�that� it�is�not�able�to�digest�the�abundance�of�idle�ma�er�that�is�every�day�hatched�and� brought�into�the�world.”46

Ever�since,�we�have�been�seeking,�with�moun�ng�urgency,�new�ways�to�bring�order� to�the�confusion�of�informa�on�we�face�every�day.�For�centuries,�the�methods�of�

personal�informa�on�management�tended�to�be�simple,�manual,�and�idiosyncra�c— �ling�and�shelving�rou�nes,�alphabe�za�on,�annota�on,�notes�and�lists,�catalogues� and�concordances,�rules�of�thumb.�There�were�also�the�more�elaborate,�but�s�ll� largely�manual,�ins�tu�onal�mechanisms�for�sor�ng�and�storing�informa�on�found� in�libraries,�universi�es,�and�commercial�and�governmental�bureaucracies.�During� the�twen�eth�century,�as�the�informa�on��ood�swelled�and�data-processing� technologies�advanced,�the�methods�and�tools�for�both�personal�and�ins�tu�onal� informa�on�management�became�more�elaborate,�more�systema�c,�and� increasingly�automated.�We�began�to�look�to�the�very�machines�that�exacerbated� informa�on�overload�for�ways�to�alleviate�the�problem.

Vannevar�Bush�sounded�the�keynote�for�our�modern�approach�to�managing� informa�on�in�his�much-discussed�ar�cle�“As�We�May�Think,”�which�appeared�in�the� Atlan�c�Monthly�in�1945.�Bush,�an�electrical�engineer�who�had�served�as�Franklin� Roosevelt’s�science�adviser�during�World�War�II,�worried�that�progress�was�being� held�back�by�scien�sts’�inability�to�keep�abreast�of�informa�on�relevant�to�their� work.�The�publica�on�of�new�material,�he�wrote,�“has�been�extended�far�beyond� our�present�ability�to�make�use�of�the�record.�The�summa�on�of�human�experience� is�being�expanded�at�a�prodigious�rate,�and�the�means�we�use�for�threading�through� the�consequent�maze�to�the�momentarily�important�item�is�the�same�as�was�used�in� the�days�of�square-rigged�ships.”

But�a�technological�solu�on�to�the�problem�of�informa�on�overload�was,�Bush� argued,�on�the�horizon:�“The�world�has�arrived�at�an�age�of�cheap�complex�devices� of�great�reliability;�and�something�is�bound�to�come�of�it.”�He�proposed�a�new�kind� of�personal�cataloguing�machine,�called�a�memex,�that�would�be�useful�not�only�to� scien�sts�but�to�anyone�employing�“logical�processes�of�thought.”�Incorporated�into� a�desk,�the�memex,�Bush�wrote,�“is�a�device�in�which�an�individual�stores�[in� compressed�form]�all�his�books,�records,�and�communica�ons,�and�which�is� mechanized�so�that�it�may�be�consulted�with�exceeding�speed�and��exibility.”�On� top�of�the�desk�are�“translucent�screens”�onto�which�are�projected�images�of�the� stored�materials�as�well�as�“a�keyboard”�and�“sets�of�bu�ons�and�levers”�to�navigate� the�database.�The�“essen�al�feature”�of�the�machine�is�its�use�of�“associa�ve� indexing”�to�link�di�erent�pieces�of�informa�on:�“Any�item�may�be�caused�at�will�to� select�immediately�and�automa�cally�another.”�This�process�“of�tying�two�things� together�is,”�Bush�emphasized,�“the�important�thing.”47

With�his�memex,�Bush�an�cipated�both�the�personal�computer�and�the�hypermedia� system�of�the�World�Wide�Web.�His�ar�cle�inspired�many�of�the�original�developers� of�PC�hardware�and�so�ware,�including�such�early�devotees�of�hypertext�as�the� famed�computer�engineer�Douglas�Engelbart�and�HyperCard’s�inventor,�Bill� Atkinson.�But�even�though�Bush’s�vision�has�been�ful�lled�to�an�extent�beyond�

anything�he�could�have�imagined�in�his�own�life�me—we�are�surrounded�by�the� memex’s�o�spring—the�problem�he�set�out�to�solve,�informa�on�overload,�has�not� abated.�In�fact,�it’s�worse�than�ever.�As�David�Levy�has�observed,�“The�development� of�personal�digital�informa�on�systems�and�global�hypertext�seems�not�to�have� solved�the�problem�Bush�iden��ed�but�exacerbated�it.”48

In�retrospect,�the�reason�for�the�failure�seems�obvious.�By�drama�cally�reducing�the� cost�of�crea�ng,�storing,�and�sharing�informa�on,�computer�networks�have�placed� far�more�informa�on�within�our�reach�than�we�ever�had�access�to�before.�And�the� powerful�tools�for�discovering,��ltering,�and�distribu�ng�informa�on�developed�by� companies�like�Google�ensure�that�we�are�forever�inundated�by�informa�on�of� immediate�interest�to�us—and�in�quan��es�well�beyond�what�our�brains�can� handle.�As�the�technologies�for�data�processing�improve,�as�our�tools�for�searching� and��ltering�become�more�precise,�the��ood�of�relevant�informa�on�only�intensi�es.� More�of�what�is�of�interest�to�us�becomes�visible�to�us.�Informa�on�overload�has� become�a�permanent�a�ic�on,�and�our�a�empts�to�cure�it�just�make�it�worse.�The� only�way�to�cope�is�to�increase�our�scanning�and�our�skimming,�to�rely�even�more� heavily�on�the�wonderfully�responsive�machines�that�are�the�source�of�the�problem.� Today,�more�informa�on�is�“available�to�us�than�ever�before,”�writes�Levy,�“but� there�is�less��me�to�make�use�of�it—and�speci�cally�to�make�use�of�it�with�any�depth� of�re�ec�on.”49�Tomorrow,�the�situa�on�will�be�worse�s�ll.

It�was�once�understood�that�the�most�e�ec�ve��lter�of�human�thought�is��me.�“The� best�rule�of�reading�will�be�a�method�from�nature,�and�not�a�mechanical�one,”�wrote� Emerson�in�his�1858�essay�“Books.”�All�writers�must�submit�“their�performance�to� the�wise�ear�of�Time,�who�sits�and�weighs,�and�ten�years�hence�out�of�a�million�of� pages�reprints�one.�Again,�it�is�judged,�it�is�winnowed�by�all�the�winds�of�opinion,� and�what�terri�c�selec�on�has�not�passed�on�it,�before�it�can�be�reprinted�a�er� twenty�years,�and�reprinted�a�er�a�century!”50�We�no�longer�have�the�pa�ence�to� await��me’s�slow�and�scrupulous�winnowing.�Inundated�at�every�moment�by� informa�on�of�immediate�interest,�we�have�li�le�choice�but�to�resort�to�automated� �lters,�which�grant�their�privilege,�instantaneously,�to�the�new�and�the�popular.�On� the�Net,�the�winds�of�opinion�have�become�a�whirlwind.

Once�the�train�had�disgorged�its�cargo�of�busy�men�and�steamed�out�of�the�Concord� sta�on,�Hawthorne�tried,�with�li�le�success,�to�return�to�his�deep�state�of� concentra�on.�He�glimpsed�an�anthill�at�his�feet�and,�“like�a�malevolent�genius,”� tossed�a�few�grains�of�sand�onto�it,�blocking�the�entrance.�He�watched�“one�of�the� inhabitants,”�returning�from�“some�public�or�private�business,”�struggle�to��gure�out� what�had�become�of�his�home:�“What�surprise,�what�hurry,�what�confusion�of�mind,� are�expressed�in�his�movement!�How�inexplicable�to�him�must�be�the�agency�which� has�e�ected�this�mischief!”�But�Hawthorne�was�soon�distracted�from�the�travails�of�

the�ant.�No�cing�a�change�in�the��ickering�pa�ern�of�shade�and�sun,�he�looked�up�at� the�clouds�“sca�ered�about�the�sky”�and�discerned�in�their�shi�ing�forms�“the� sha�ered�ruins�of�a�dreamer’s�Utopia.”

IN�2007,�THE�American�Associa�on�for�the�Advancement�of�Science�invited�Larry� Page�to�deliver�the�keynote�address�at�its�annual�conference,�the�country’s�most� pres�gious�mee�ng�of�scien�sts.�Page’s�speech�was�a�rambling,�o�-the-cu��a�air,� but�it�provided�a�fascina�ng�glimpse�into�the�young�entrepreneur’s�mind.�Once� again��nding�inspira�on�in�an�analogy,�he�shared�with�the�audience�his�concep�on� of�human�life�and�human�intellect.�“My�theory�is�that,�if�you�look�at�your� programming,�your�DNA,�it’s�about�600�megabytes�compressed,”�he�said,�“so�it’s� smaller�than�any�modern�opera�ng�system,�smaller�than�Linux�or�Windows…and� that�includes�boo�ng�up�your�brain,�by�de�ni�on.�So�your�program�algorithms� probably�aren’t�that�complicated;�[intelligence]�is�probably�more�about�overall� computa�on.”51

The�digital�computer�long�ago�replaced�the�clock,�the�fountain,�and�the�factory� machine�as�our�metaphor�of�choice�for�explaining�the�brain’s�makeup�and�workings.� We�so�rou�nely�use�compu�ng�terms�to�describe�our�brains�that�we�no�longer�even� realize�we’re�speaking�metaphorically.�(I’ve�referred�to�the�brain’s�“circuits,”� “wiring,”�“inputs,”�and�“programming”�more�than�a�few��mes�in�this�book.)�But� Page’s�view�is�an�extreme�one.�To�him,�the�brain�doesn’t�just�resemble�a�computer;� it�is�a�computer.�His�assump�on�goes�a�long�way�toward�explaining�why�Google� equates�intelligence�with�data-processing�e�ciency.�If�our�brains�are�computers,� then�intelligence�can�be�reduced�to�a�ma�er�of�produc�vity—of�running�more�bits� of�data�more�quickly�through�the�big�chip�in�our�skull.�Human�intelligence�becomes� indis�nguishable�from�machine�intelligence.

Page�has�from�the�start�viewed�Google�as�an�embryonic�form�of�ar��cial� intelligence.�“Ar��cial�intelligence�would�be�the�ul�mate�version�of�Google,”�he�said� in�a�2000�interview,�long�before�his�company’s�name�had�become�a�household� word.�“We’re�nowhere�near�doing�that�now.�However,�we�can�get�incrementally� closer�to�that,�and�that�is�basically�what�we�work�on.”52�In�a�2003�speech�at� Stanford,�he�went�a�li�le�further�in�describing�his�company’s�ambi�on:�“The� ul�mate�search�engine�is�something�as�smart�as�people—or�smarter.”53�Sergey� Brin,�who�says�he�began�wri�ng�ar��cial-intelligence�programs�in�middle�school,� shares�his�partner’s�enthusiasm�for�crea�ng�a�true�thinking�machine.54�“Certainly�if� you�had�all�the�world’s�informa�on�directly�a�ached�to�your�brain,�or�an�ar��cial� brain�that�was�smarter�than�your�brain,�you’d�be�be�er�o�,”�he�told�a�Newsweek� reporter�in�2004.55�In�a�television�interview�around�the�same��me,�Brin�went�so�far� as�to�suggest�that�the�“ul�mate�search�engine”�would�look�a�lot�like�Stanley� Kubrick’s�HAL.�“Now,�hopefully,”�he�said,�“it�would�never�have�a�bug�like�HAL�did�

where�he�killed�the�occupants�of�the�spaceship.�But�that’s�what�we’re�striving�for,� and�I�think�we’ve�made�it�part�of�the�way�there.”56

The�desire�to�build�a�HAL-like�system�of�ar��cial�intelligence�may�seem�strange�to� most�people.�But�it’s�a�natural�ambi�on,�even�an�admirable�one,�for�a�pair�of� brilliant�young�computer�scien�sts�with�vast�quan��es�of�cash�at�their�disposal�and� a�small�army�of�programmers�and�engineers�in�their�employ.�A�fundamentally� scien��c�enterprise,�Google�is�mo�vated�by�a�desire�to,�in�Eric�Schmidt’s�words,� “us[e]�technology�to�solve�problems�that�have�never�been�solved�before,”57�and� ar��cial�intelligence�is�the�hardest�problem�out�there.�Why�wouldn’t�Brin�and�Page� want�to�be�the�ones�to�crack�it?

S�ll,�their�easy�assump�on�that�we’d�all�“be�be�er�o�”�if�our�brains�were� supplemented,�or�even�replaced,�by�ar��cial�intelligence�is�as�unse�ling�as�it�is� revealing.�It�underscores�the��rmness�and�the�certainty�with�which�Google�holds�to� its�Taylorist�belief�that�intelligence�is�the�output�of�a�mechanical�process,�a�series�of� discrete�steps�that�can�be�isolated,�measured,�and�op�mized.�“Human�beings�are� ashamed�to�have�been�born�instead�of�made,”�the�twen�eth-century�philosopher� Günther�Anders�once�observed,�and�in�the�pronouncements�of�Google’s�founders� we�can�sense�that�shame�as�well�as�the�ambi�on�it�engenders.58�In�Google’s�world,� which�is�the�world�we�enter�when�we�go�online,�there’s�li�le�place�for�the�pensive� s�llness�of�deep�reading�or�the�fuzzy�indirec�on�of�contempla�on.�Ambiguity�is�not� an�opening�for�insight�but�a�bug�to�be��xed.�The�human�brain�is�just�an�outdated� computer�that�needs�a�faster�processor�and�a�bigger�hard�drive—and�be�er� algorithms�to�steer�the�course�of�its�thought.

“Everything�that�human�beings�are�doing�to�make�it�easier�to�operate�computer� networks�is�at�the�same��me,�but�for�di�erent�reasons,�making�it�easier�for� computer�networks�to�operate�human�beings.”59�So�wrote�George�Dyson�in�Darwin� among�the�Machines,�his�1997�history�of�the�pursuit�of�ar��cial�intelligence.�Eight� years�a�er�the�book�came�out,�Dyson�was�invited�to�the�Googleplex�to�give�a�talk� commemora�ng�the�work�of�John�von�Neumann,�the�Princeton�physicist�who�in� 1945,�building�on�the�work�of�Alan�Turing,�drew�up�the��rst�detailed�plan�for�a� modern�computer.�For�Dyson,�who�has�spent�much�of�his�life�specula�ng�about�the� inner�lives�of�machines,�the�visit�to�Google�must�have�been�exhilara�ng.�Here,�a�er� all,�was�a�company�eager�to�deploy�its�enormous�resources,�including�many�of�the� brightest�computer�scien�sts�in�the�world,�to�create�an�ar��cial�brain.

But�the�visit�le��Dyson�troubled.�Toward�the�end�of�an�essay�he�wrote�about�the� experience,�he�recalled�a�solemn�warning�that�Turing�had�made�in�his�paper� “Compu�ng�Machinery�and�Intelligence.”�In�our�a�empts�to�build�intelligent� machines,�the�mathema�cian�had�wri�en,�“we�should�not�be�irreverently�usurping�

His�power�of�crea�ng�souls,�any�more�than�we�are�in�the�procrea�on�of�children.”� Dyson�then�relayed�a�comment�that�“an�unusually�percep�ve�friend”�had�made� a�er�an�earlier�visit�to�the�Googleplex:�“I�thought�the�coziness�to�be�almost� overwhelming.�Happy�Golden�Retrievers�running�in�slow�mo�on�through�water� sprinklers�on�the�lawn.�People�waving�and�smiling,�toys�everywhere.�I�immediately� suspected�that�unimaginable�evil�was�happening�somewhere�in�the�dark�corners.�If� the�devil�would�come�to�earth,�what�place�would�be�be�er�to�hide?”60�The� reac�on,�though�obviously�extreme,�is�understandable.�With�its�enormous�ambi�on,� its�immense�bankroll,�and�its�imperialis�c�designs�on�the�world�of�knowledge,� Google�is�a�natural�vessel�for�our�fears�as�well�as�our�hopes.�“Some�say�Google�is� God,”�Sergey�Brin�has�acknowledged.�“Others�say�Google�is�Satan.”61

So�what�is�lurking�in�the�dark�corners�of�the�Googleplex?�Are�we�on�the�verge�of�the� arrival�of�an�AI?�Are�our�silicon�overlords�at�the�door?�Probably�not.�The��rst� academic�conference�dedicated�to�the�pursuit�of�ar��cial�intelligence�was�held�back� in�the�summer�of�1956—on�the�Dartmouth�campus—and�it�seemed�obvious�at�the� �me�that�computers�would�soon�be�able�to�replicate�human�thought.�The� mathema�cians�and�engineers�who�convened�the�month-long�conclave�sensed�that,� as�they�wrote�in�a�statement,�“every�aspect�of�learning�or�any�other�feature�of� intelligence�can�in�principle�be�so�precisely�described�that�a�machine�can�be�made�to� simulate�it.”62�It�was�just�a�ma�er�of�wri�ng�the�right�programs,�of�rendering�the� conscious�processes�of�the�mind�into�the�steps�of�algorithms.�But�despite�years�of� subsequent�e�ort,�the�workings�of�human�intelligence�have�eluded�precise� descrip�on.�In�the�half�century�since�the�Dartmouth�conference,�computers�have� advanced�at�lightning�speed,�yet�they�remain,�in�human�terms,�as�dumb�as�stumps.� Our�“thinking”�machines�s�ll�don’t�have�the�slightest�idea�what�they’re�thinking.� Lewis�Mumford’s�observa�on�that�“no�computer�can�make�a�new�symbol�out�of�its� own�resources”�remains�as�true�today�as�when�he�said�it�in�1967.63

But�the�AI�advocates�haven’t�given�up.�They’ve�just�shi�ed�their�focus.�They’ve� largely�abandoned�the�goal�of�wri�ng�so�ware�programs�that�replicate�human� learning�and�other�explicit�features�of�intelligence.�Instead,�they’re�trying�to� duplicate,�in�the�circuitry�of�a�computer,�the�electrical�signals�that�buzz�among�the� brain’s�billions�of�neurons,�in�the�belief�that�intelligence�will�then�“emerge”�from�the� machine�as�the�mind�emerges�from�the�physical�brain.�If�you�can�get�the�“overall� computa�on”�right,�as�Page�said,�then�the�algorithms�of�intelligence�will�write� themselves.�In�a�1996�essay�on�the�legacy�of�Kubrick’s�2001,�the�inventor�and� futurist�Ray�Kurzweil�argued�that�once�we’re�able�to�scan�a�brain�in�su�cient�detail� to�“ascertain�the�architecture�of�interneuronal�connec�ons�in�di�erent�regions,”� we’ll�be�able�to�“design�simulated�neural�nets�that�will�operate�in�a�similar�fashion.”� Although�“we�can’t�yet�build�a�brain�like�HAL’s,”�Kurzweil�concluded,�“we�can� describe�right�now�how�we�could�do�it.”64

There’s�li�le�reason�to�believe�that�this�new�approach�to�incuba�ng�an�intelligent� machine�will�prove�any�more�frui�ul�than�the�old�one.�It,�too,�is�built�on�reduc�ve� assump�ons.�It�takes�for�granted�that�the�brain�operates�according�to�the�same� formal�mathema�cal�rules�as�a�computer�does—that,�in�other�words,�the�brain�and� the�computer�speak�the�same�language.�But�that’s�a�fallacy�born�of�our�desire�to� explain�phenomena�we�don’t�understand�in�terms�we�do�understand.�John�von� Neumann�himself�warned�against�falling�vic�m�to�this�fallacy.�“When�we�talk�about� mathema�cs,”�he�wrote�toward�the�end�of�his�life,�“we�may�be�discussing�a� secondary�language,�built�on�the�primary�language�truly�used�by�our�central�nervous� system.”�Whatever�the�nervous�system’s�language�may�be,�“it�cannot�fail�to�di�er� considerably�from�what�we�consciously�and�explicitly�consider�as�mathema�cs.”65

It’s�also�a�fallacy�to�think�that�the�physical�brain�and�the�thinking�mind�exist�as� separate�layers�in�a�precisely�engineered�“architecture.”�The�brain�and�the�mind,�the� neuroplas�city�pioneers�have�shown,�are�exquisitely�intertwined,�each�shaping�the� other.�As�Ari�Schulman�wrote�in�“Why�Minds�Are�Not�like�Computers,”�a�2009�New� Atlan�s�ar�cle,�“Every�indica�on�is�that,�rather�than�a�neatly�separable�hierarchy� like�a�computer,�the�mind�is�a�tangled�hierarchy�of�organiza�on�and�causa�on.� Changes�in�the�mind�cause�changes�in�the�brain,�and�vice�versa.”�To�create�a� computer�model�of�the�brain�that�would�accurately�simulate�the�mind�would�require� the�replica�on�of�“every�level�of�the�brain�that�a�ects�and�is�a�ected�by�the� mind.”66�Since�we’re�nowhere�near�disentangling�the�brain’s�hierarchy,�much�less� understanding�how�its�levels�act�and�interact,�the�fabrica�on�of�an�ar��cial�mind�is� likely�to�remain�an�aspira�on�for�genera�ons�to�come,�if�not�forever.

Google�is�neither�God�nor�Satan,�and�if�there�are�shadows�in�the�Googleplex�they’re� no�more�than�the�delusions�of�grandeur.�What’s�disturbing�about�the�company’s� founders�is�not�their�boyish�desire�to�create�an�amazingly�cool�machine�that�will�be� able�to�ou�hink�its�creators,�but�the�pinched�concep�on�of�the�human�mind�that� gives�rise�to�such�a�desire.

SEARCH,�MEMORY

Socrates�was�right.�As�people�grew�accustomed�to�wri�ng�down�their�thoughts�and� reading�the�thoughts�others�had�wri�en�down,�they�became�less�dependent�on�the� contents�of�their�own�memory.�What�once�had�to�be�stored�in�the�head�could� instead�be�stored�on�tablets�and�scrolls�or�between�the�covers�of�codices.�People� began,�as�the�great�orator�had�predicted,�to�call�things�to�mind�not�“from�within� themselves,�but�by�means�of�external�marks.”�The�reliance�on�personal�memory� diminished�further�with�the�spread�of�the�le�erpress�and�the�a�endant�expansion�of� publishing�and�literacy.�Books�and�journals,�at�hand�in�libraries�or�on�the�shelves�in�

private�homes,�became�supplements�to�the�brain’s�biological�storehouse.�People� didn’t�have�to�memorize�everything�anymore.�They�could�look�it�up.

But�that�wasn’t�the�whole�story.�The�prolifera�on�of�printed�pages�had�another� e�ect,�which�Socrates�didn’t�foresee�but�may�well�have�welcomed.�Books�provided� people�with�a�far�greater�and�more�diverse�supply�of�facts,�opinions,�ideas,�and� stories�than�had�been�available�before,�and�both�the�method�and�the�culture�of� deep�reading�encouraged�the�commitment�of�printed�informa�on�to�memory.�In�the� seventh�century,�Isidore,�the�bishop�of�Seville,�remarked�how�reading�“the�sayings”� of�thinkers�in�books�“render[ed]�their�escape�from�memory�less�easy.”1�Because� every�person�was�free�to�chart�his�own�course�of�reading,�to�de�ne�his�own�syllabus,� individual�memory�became�less�of�a�socially�determined�construct�and�more�the� founda�on�of�a�dis�nc�ve�perspec�ve�and�personality.�Inspired�by�the�book,�people� began�to�see�themselves�as�the�authors�of�their�own�memories.�Shakespeare�has� Hamlet�call�his�memory�“the�book�and�volume�of�my�brain.”

In�worrying�that�wri�ng�would�enfeeble�memory,�Socrates�was,�as�the�Italian� novelist�and�scholar�Umberto�Eco�says,�expressing�“an�eternal�fear:�the�fear�that�a� new�technological�achievement�could�abolish�or�destroy�something�that�we� consider�precious,�frui�ul,�something�that�represents�for�us�a�value�in�itself,�and�a� deeply�spiritual�one.”�The�fear�in�this�case�turned�out�to�be�misplaced.�Books� provide�a�supplement�to�memory,�but�they�also,�as�Eco�puts�it,�“challenge�and� improve�memory;�they�do�not�narco�ze�it.”2

The�Dutch�humanist�Desiderius�Erasmus,�in�his�1512�textbook�De�Copia,�stressed�the� connec�on�between�memory�and�reading.�He�urged�students�to�annotate�their� books,�using�“an�appropriate�li�le�sign”�to�mark�“occurrences�of�striking�words,� archaic�or�novel�dic�on,�brilliant��ashes�of�style,�adages,�examples,�and�pithy� remarks�worth�memorizing.”�He�also�suggested�that�every�student�and�teacher�keep� a�notebook,�organized�by�subject,�“so�that�whenever�he�lights�on�anything�worth� no�ng�down,�he�may�write�it�in�the�appropriate�sec�on.”�Transcribing�the�excerpts� in�longhand,�and�rehearsing�them�regularly,�would�help�ensure�that�they�remained� �xed�in�the�mind.�The�passages�were�to�be�viewed�as�“kinds�of��owers,”�which,� plucked�from�the�pages�of�books,�could�be�preserved�in�the�pages�of�memory.3

Erasmus,�who�as�a�schoolboy�had�memorized�great�swathes�of�classical�literature,� including�the�complete�works�of�the�poet�Horace�and�the�playwright�Terence,�was� not�recommending�memoriza�on�for�memoriza�on’s�sake�or�as�a�rote�exercise�for� retaining�facts.�To�him,�memorizing�was�far�more�than�a�means�of�storage.�It�was� the��rst�step�in�a�process�of�synthesis,�a�process�that�led�to�a�deeper�and�more� personal�understanding�of�one’s�reading.�He�believed,�as�the�classical�historian�Erika� Rummel�explains,�that�a�person�should�“digest�or�internalize�what�he�learns�and�

re�ect�rather�than�slavishly�reproduce�the�desirable�quali�es�of�the�model�author.”� Far�from�being�a�mechanical,�mindless�process,�Erasmus’s�brand�of�memoriza�on� engaged�the�mind�fully.�It�required,�Rummel�writes,�“crea�veness�and�judgment.”4

Erasmus’s�advice�echoed�that�of�the�Roman�Seneca,�who�also�used�a�botanical� metaphor�to�describe�the�essen�al�role�that�memory�plays�in�reading�and�in� thinking.�“We�should�imitate�bees,”�Seneca�wrote,�“and�we�should�keep�in�separate� compartments�whatever�we�have�collected�from�our�diverse�reading,�for�things� conserved�separately�keep�be�er.�Then,�diligently�applying�all�the�resources�of�our� na�ve�talent,�we�should�mingle�all�the�various�nectars�we�have�tasted,�and�then�turn� them�into�a�single�sweet�substance,�in�such�a�way�that,�even�if�it�is�apparent�where� it�originated,�it�appears�quite�di�erent�from�what�it�was�in�its�original�state.”5� Memory,�for�Seneca�as�for�Erasmus,�was�as�much�a�crucible�as�a�container.�It�was� more�than�the�sum�of�things�remembered.�It�was�something�newly�made,�the� essence�of�a�unique�self.

Erasmus’s�recommenda�on�that�every�reader�keep�a�notebook�of�memorable� quota�ons�was�widely�and�enthusias�cally�followed.�Such�notebooks,�which�came� to�be�called�“commonplace�books,”�or�just�“commonplaces,”�became��xtures�of� Renaissance�schooling.�Every�student�kept�one.6�By�the�seventeenth�century,�their� use�had�spread�beyond�the�schoolhouse.�Commonplaces�were�viewed�as�necessary� tools�for�the�cul�va�on�of�an�educated�mind.�In�1623,�Francis�Bacon�observed�that� “there�can�hardly�be�anything�more�useful”�as�“a�sound�help�for�the�memory”�than� “a�good�and�learned�Digest�of�Common�Places.”�By�aiding�the�recording�of�wri�en� works�in�memory,�he�wrote,�a�well-maintained�commonplace�“supplies�ma�er�to� inven�on.”7�Through�the�eighteenth�century,�according�to�American�University� linguis�cs�professor�Naomi�Baron,�“a�gentleman’s�commonplace�book”�served�“both� as�a�vehicle�for�and�a�chronicle�of�his�intellectual�development.”8

The�popularity�of�commonplace�books�ebbed�as�the�pace�of�life�quickened�in�the� nineteenth�century,�and�by�the�middle�of�the�twen�eth�century�memoriza�on�itself� had�begun�to�fall�from�favor.�Progressive�educators�banished�the�prac�ce�from� classrooms,�dismissing�it�as�a�ves�ge�of�a�less�enlightened��me.�What�had�long�been� viewed�as�a�s�mulus�for�personal�insight�and�crea�vity�came�to�be�seen�as�a�barrier� to�imagina�on�and�then�simply�as�a�waste�of�mental�energy.�The�introduc�on�of� new�storage�and�recording�media�throughout�the�last�century—audiotapes,� videotapes,�micro�lm�and�micro�che,�photocopiers,�calculators,�computer�drives— greatly�expanded�the�scope�and�availability�of�“ar��cial�memory.”�Commi�ng� informa�on�to�one’s�own�mind�seemed�ever�less�essen�al.�The�arrival�of�the� limitless�and�easily�searchable�data�banks�of�the�Internet�brought�a�further�shi�,�not� just�in�the�way�we�view�memoriza�on�but�in�the�way�we�view�memory�itself.�The� Net�quickly�came�to�be�seen�as�a�replacement�for,�rather�than�just�a�supplement�to,�

personal�memory.�Today,�people�rou�nely�talk�about�ar��cial�memory�as�though� it’s�indis�nguishable�from�biological�memory.

Clive�Thompson,�the�Wired�writer,�refers�to�the�Net�as�an�“outboard�brain”�that�is� taking�over�the�role�previously�played�by�inner�memory.�“I’ve�almost�given�up� making�an�e�ort�to�remember�anything,”�he�says,�“because�I�can�instantly�retrieve� the�informa�on�online.”�He�suggests�that�“by�o�oading�data�onto�silicon,�we�free� our�own�gray�ma�er�for�more�germanely�‘human’�tasks�like�brainstorming�and� daydreaming.”�9�David�Brooks,�the�popular�New�York�Times�columnist,�makes�a� similar�point.�“I�had�thought�that�the�magic�of�the�informa�on�age�was�that�it� allowed�us�to�know�more,”�he�writes,�“but�then�I�realized�the�magic�of�the� informa�on�age�is�that�it�allows�us�to�know�less.�It�provides�us�with�external� cogni�ve�servants—silicon�memory�systems,�collabora�ve�online��lters,�consumer� preference�algorithms�and�networked�knowledge.�We�can�burden�these�servants� and�liberate�ourselves.”10

Peter�Suderman,�who�writes�for�the�American�Scene,�argues�that,�with�our�more�or� less�permanent�connec�ons�to�the�Internet,�“it’s�no�longer�terribly�e�cient�to�use� our�brains�to�store�informa�on.”�Memory,�he�says,�should�now�func�on�like�a� simple�index,�poin�ng�us�to�places�on�the�Web�where�we�can�locate�the�informa�on� we�need�at�the�moment�we�need�it:�“Why�memorize�the�content�of�a�single�book� when�you�could�be�using�your�brain�to�hold�a�quick�guide�to�an�en�re�library?�Rather� than�memorize�informa�on,�we�now�store�it�digitally�and�just�remember�what�we� stored.”�As�the�Web�“teaches�us�to�think�like�it�does,”�he�says,�we’ll�end�up�keeping� “rather�li�le�deep�knowledge”�in�our�own�heads.11�Don�Tapsco�,�the�technology� writer,�puts�it�more�bluntly.�Now�that�we�can�look�up�anything�“with�a�click�on� Google,”�he�says,�“memorizing�long�passages�or�historical�facts”�is�obsolete.� Memoriza�on�is�“a�waste�of��me.”12

Our�embrace�of�the�idea�that�computer�databases�provide�an�e�ec�ve�and�even� superior�subs�tute�for�personal�memory�is�not�par�cularly�surprising.�It�culminates� a�century-long�shi��in�the�popular�view�of�the�mind.�As�the�machines�we�use�to� store�data�have�become�more�voluminous,��exible,�and�responsive,�we’ve�grown� accustomed�to�the�blurring�of�ar��cial�and�biological�memory.�But�it’s�an� extraordinary�development�nonetheless.�The�no�on�that�memory�can�be� “outsourced,”�as�Brooks�puts�it,�would�have�been�unthinkable�at�any�earlier� moment�in�our�history.�For�the�Ancient�Greeks,�memory�was�a�goddess:� Mnemosyne,�mother�of�the�Muses.�To�Augus�ne,�it�was�“a�vast�and�in�nite� profundity,”�a�re�ec�on�of�the�power�of�God�in�man.13�The�classical�view�remained� the�common�view�through�the�Middle�Ages,�the�Renaissance,�and�the� Enlightenment—up�to,�in�fact,�the�close�of�the�nineteenth�century.�When,�in�an� 1892�lecture�before�a�group�of�teachers,�William�James�declared�that�“the�art�of�

remembering�is�the�art�of�thinking,”�he�was�sta�ng�the�obvious.14�Now,�his�words� seem�old-fashioned.�Not�only�has�memory�lost�its�divinity;�it’s�well�on�its�way�to� losing�its�humanness.�Mnemosyne�has�become�a�machine.

The�shi��in�our�view�of�memory�is�yet�another�manifesta�on�of�our�acceptance�of� the�metaphor�that�portrays�the�brain�as�a�computer.�If�biological�memory�func�ons� like�a�hard�drive,�storing�bits�of�data�in��xed�loca�ons�and�serving�them�up�as�inputs� to�the�brain’s�calcula�ons,�then�o�oading�that�storage�capacity�to�the�Web�is�not� just�possible�but,�as�Thompson�and�Brooks�argue,�libera�ng.�It�provides�us�with�a� much�more�capacious�memory�while�clearing�out�space�in�our�brains�for�more� valuable�and�even�“more�human”�computa�ons.�The�analogy�has�a�simplicity�that� makes�it�compelling,�and�it�certainly�seems�more�“scien��c”�than�the�sugges�on� that�our�memory�is�like�a�book�of�pressed��owers�or�the�honey�in�a�beehive’s�comb.� But�there’s�a�problem�with�our�new,�post-Internet�concep�on�of�human�memory.� It’s�wrong.

AFTER�DEMONSTRATING,�IN�the�early�1970s,�that�“synapses�change�with� experience,”�Eric�Kandel�con�nued�to�probe�the�nervous�system�of�the�lowly�sea� slug�for�many�years.�The�focus�of�his�work�shi�ed,�though.�He�began�to�look�beyond� the�neuronal�triggers�of�simple�re�ex�responses,�such�as�the�slug’s�withdrawal�of�its� gill�when�touched,�to�the�much�more�complicated�ques�on�of�how�the�brain�stores� informa�on�as�memories.�Kandel�wanted,�in�par�cular,�to�shed�light�on�one�of�the� central�and�most�perplexing�riddles�in�neuroscience:�how,�exactly,�does�the�brain� transform��ee�ng�short-term�memories,�such�as�the�ones�that�enter�and�exit�our� working�memory�every�waking�moment,�into�the�long-term�memories�that�can�last�a� life�me?

Neurologists�and�psychologists�had�known�since�the�end�of�the�nineteenth�century� that�our�brains�hold�more�than�one�kind�of�memory.�In�1885,�the�German� psychologist�Hermann�Ebbinghaus�conducted�an�exhaus�ng�series�of�experiments,� using�himself�as�the�sole�subject,�that�involved�memorizing�two�thousand�nonsense� words.�He�discovered�that�his�ability�to�retain�a�word�in�memory�strengthened�the� more��mes�he�studied�the�word�and�that�it�was�much�easier�to�memorize�a�half� dozen�words�at�a�si�ng�than�to�memorize�a�dozen.�He�also�found�that�the�process� of�forge�ng�had�two�stages.�Most�of�the�words�he�studied�disappeared�from�his� memory�very�quickly,�within�an�hour�a�er�he�rehearsed�them,�but�a�smaller�set� stayed�put�much�longer—they�slipped�away�only�gradually.�The�results�of� Ebbinghaus’s�tests�led�William�James�to�conclude,�in�1890,�that�memories�were�of� two�kinds:�“primary�memories,”�which�evaporated�from�the�mind�soon�a�er�the� event�that�inspired�them,�and�“secondary�memories,”�which�the�brain�could�hold� onto�inde�nitely.15

At�around�the�same��me,�studies�of�boxers�revealed�that�a�concussive�blow�to�the� head�could�bring�on�retrograde�amnesia,�erasing�all�memories�stored�during�the� preceding�few�minutes�or�hours�while�leaving�older�memories�intact.�The�same� phenomenon�was�noted�in�epilep�cs�a�er�they�su�ered�seizures.�Such�observa�ons� implied�that�a�memory,�even�a�strong�one,�remains�unstable�for�a�brief�period�a�er� it’s�formed.�A�certain�amount�of��me�seemed�to�be�required�for�a�primary,�or�short- term,�memory�to�be�transformed�into�a�secondary,�or�long-term,�one.

That�hypothesis�was�backed�up�by�research�conducted�by�two�other�German� psychologists,�Georg�Müller�and�Alfons�Pilzecker,�in�the�late�1890s.�In�a�varia�on�on� Ebbinghaus’s�experiments,�they�asked�a�group�of�people�to�memorize�a�list�of� nonsense�words.�A�day�later,�they�tested�the�group�and�found�that�the�subjects�had� no�problem�recalling�the�list.�The�researchers�then�conducted�the�same�experiment� on�another�group�of�people,�but�this��me�they�had�the�subjects�study�a�second�list� of�words�immediately�a�er�learning�the��rst�list.�In�the�next�day’s�test,�this�group� was�unable�to�remember�the�ini�al�set�of�words.�Müller�and�Pilzecker�then� conducted�one�last�trial,�with�another�twist.�The�third�group�of�subjects�memorized� the��rst�list�of�words�and�then,�a�er�a�delay�of�two�hours,�were�given�the�second�list� to�study.�This�group,�like�the��rst,�had�li�le�trouble�remembering�the�ini�al�list�of� words�the�next�day.�Müller�and�Pilzecker�concluded�that�it�takes�an�hour�or�so�for� memories�to�become��xed,�or�“consolidated,”�in�the�brain.�Short-term�memories� don’t�become�long-term�memories�immediately,�and�the�process�of�their� consolida�on�is�delicate.�Any�disrup�on,�whether�a�jab�to�the�head�or�a�simple� distrac�on,�can�sweep�the�nascent�memories�from�the�mind.16

Subsequent�studies�con�rmed�the�existence�of�short-term�and�long-term�forms�of� memory�and�provided�further�evidence�of�the�importance�of�the�consolida�on� phase�during�which�the�former�are�turned�into�the�la�er.�In�the�1960s,�University�of� Pennsylvania�neurologist�Louis�Flexner�made�a�par�cularly�intriguing�discovery.� A�er�injec�ng�mice�with�an�an�bio�c�drug�that�prevented�their�cells�from�producing� proteins,�he�found�that�the�animals�were�unable�to�form�long-term�memories� (about�how�to�avoid�receiving�a�shock�while�in�a�maze)�but�could�con�nue�to�store� short-term�ones.�The�implica�on�was�clear:�long-term�memories�are�not�just� stronger�forms�of�short-term�memories.�The�two�types�of�memory�entail�di�erent� biological�processes.�Storing�long-term�memories�requires�the�synthesis�of�new� proteins.�Storing�short-term�memories�does�not.17

Inspired�by�the�groundbreaking�results�of�his�earlier�Aplysia�experiments,�Kandel� recruited�a�team�of�talented�researchers,�including�physiological�psychologists�and� cell�biologists,�to�help�him�plumb�the�physical�workings�of�both�short-term�and�long- term�memory.�They�began�to�me�culously�trace�the�course�of�a�sea�slug’s�neuronal� signals,�“one�cell�at�a��me,”�as�the�animal�learned�to�adapt�to�outside�s�muli�such�as�

pokes�and�shocks�to�its�body.18�They�quickly�con�rmed�what�Ebbinghaus�had� observed:�the�more��mes�an�experience�is�repeated,�the�longer�the�memory�of�the� experience�lasts.�Repe��on�encourages�consolida�on.�When�they�examined�the� physiological�e�ects�of�repe��on�on�individual�neurons�and�synapses,�they� discovered�something�amazing.�Not�only�did�the�concentra�on�of�neurotransmi�ers� in�synapses�change,�altering�the�strength�of�the�exis�ng�connec�ons�between� neurons,�but�the�neurons�grew�en�rely�new�synap�c�terminals.�The�forma�on�of� long-term�memories,�in�other�words,�involves�not�only�biochemical�changes�but� anatomical�ones.�That�explained,�Kandel�realized,�why�memory�consolida�on� requires�new�proteins.�Proteins�play�an�essen�al�role�in�producing�structural� changes�in�cells.

The�anatomical�altera�ons�in�the�slug’s�rela�vely�simple�memory�circuits�were� extensive.�In�one�case,�the�researchers�found�that,�before�a�long-term�memory�was� consolidated,�a�par�cular�sensory�neuron�had�some�thirteen�hundred�synap�c� connec�ons�to�about�twenty-�ve�other�neurons.�Only�about�forty�percent�of�those� connec�ons�were�ac�ve—in�other�words,�sending�signals�through�the�produc�on�of� neurotransmi�ers.�A�er�the�long-term�memory�had�been�formed,�the�number�of� synap�c�connec�ons�had�more�than�doubled,�to�about�twenty-seven�hundred,�and� the�propor�on�that�were�ac�ve�had�increased�from�forty�percent�to�sixty�percent.� The�new�synapses�remained�in�place�as�long�as�the�memory�persisted.�When�the� memory�was�allowed�to�fade—by�discon�nuing�the�repe��on�of�the�experience— the�number�of�synapses�eventually�dropped�to�about���een�hundred.�The�fact�that,� even�a�er�a�memory�is�forgo�en,�the�number�of�synapses�remains�a�bit�higher�than� it�had�been�originally�helps�explain�why�it’s�easier�to�learn�something�a�second��me.

Through�the�new�round�of�Aplysia�experiments,�Kandel�wrote�in�his�2006�memoir�In� Search�of�Memory,�“we�could�see�for�the��rst��me�that�the�number�of�synapses�in� the�brain�is�not��xed—it�changes�with�learning!�Moreover,�long-term�memory� persists�for�as�long�as�the�anatomical�changes�are�maintained.”�The�research�also� revealed�the�basic�physiological�di�erence�between�the�two�types�of�memory:� “Short-term�memory�produces�a�change�in�the�func�on�of�the�synapse,� strengthening�or�weakening�preexis�ng�connec�ons;�long-term�memory�requires� anatomical�changes.”19�Kandel’s��ndings��t�seamlessly�with�the�discoveries�being� made�about�neuroplas�city�by�Michael�Merzenich�and�others.�Further�experiments� soon�made�it�clear�that�the�biochemical�and�structural�changes�involved�in�memory� consolida�on�are�not�limited�to�slugs.�They�also�take�place�in�the�brains�of�other� animals,�including�primates.

Kandel�and�his�colleagues�had�unlocked�some�of�the�secrets�of�memory�at�the� cellular�level.�Now,�they�wanted�to�go�deeper—to�the�molecular�processes�within� the�cells.�The�researchers�were,�as�Kandel�later�put�it,�“entering�completely�

uncharted�territory.”20�They�looked��rst�at�the�molecular�changes�that�occur�in� synapses�as�short-term�memories�are�formed.�They�found�that�the�process�involves� much�more�than�just�the�transmission�of�a�neurotransmi�er—glutamate,�in�this� case—from�one�neuron�to�another.�Other�types�of�cells,�called�interneurons,�are� also�involved.�The�interneurons�produce�the�neurotransmi�er�serotonin,�which��ne- tunes�the�synap�c�connec�on,�modula�ng�the�amount�of�glutamate�released�into� the�synapse.�Working�with�the�biochemists�James�Schwartz�and�Paul�Greengard,� Kandel�discovered�that�the��ne-tuning�occurs�through�a�series�of�molecular�signals.� The�serotonin�released�by�the�interneuron�binds�to�a�receptor�on�the�membrane�of� the�presynap�c�neuron—the�neuron�carrying�the�electric�pulse—which�starts�a� chemical�reac�on�that�leads�the�neuron�to�produce�a�molecule�called�cyclic�AMP.� The�cyclic�AMP�in�turn�ac�vates�a�protein�called�kinase�A,�a�cataly�c�enzyme�that� spurs�the�cell�to�release�more�glutamate�into�the�synapse,�thereby�strengthening� the�synap�c�connec�on,�prolonging�the�electrical�ac�vity�in�the�linked�neurons,�and� enabling�the�brain�to�maintain�the�short-term�memory�for�seconds�or�minutes.

The�next�challenge�facing�Kandel�was�to��gure�out�how�such�brie�y�held�short-term� memories�could�be�transformed�into�much�more�permanent�long-term�memories.� What�was�the�molecular�basis�of�the�consolida�on�process?�Answering�that� ques�on�would�require�him�to�enter�the�realm�of�gene�cs.

In�1983,�the�pres�gious�and�well-�nanced�Howard�Hughes�Medical�Ins�tute�asked� Kandel,�together�with�Schwartz�and�the�Columbia�University�neuroscien�st�Richard� Axel,�to�head�a�research�group�in�molecular�cogni�on,�based�at�Columbia.�The�group� soon�succeeded�in�harves�ng�neurons�from�larval�Aplysia�and�using�them�to�grow,� as�a��ssue�culture�in�the�laboratory,�a�basic�neural�circuit�incorpora�ng�a� presynap�c�neuron,�a�postsynap�c�neuron,�and�the�synapse�between�them.�To� mimic�the�ac�on�of�the�modula�ng�interneurons,�the�scien�sts�injected�serotonin� into�the�culture.�A�single�squirt�of�serotonin,�replica�ng�a�single�learning�experience,� triggered,�as�expected,�a�release�of�glutamate—producing�the�brief�strengthening�of� the�synapse�that�is�characteris�c�of�short-term�memory.�Five�separate�squirts�of� serotonin,�in�contrast,�strengthened�the�exis�ng�synapse�for�days�and�also�spurred� the�forma�on�of�new�synap�c�terminals—changes�characteris�c�of�long-term� memory.

What�happens�a�er�repeated�injec�ons�of�serotonin�is�that�the�enzyme�kinase�A,� along�with�another�enzyme,�called�MAP,�moves�from�the�neuron’s�outer�cytoplasm� into�its�nucleus.�There,�kinase�A�ac�vates�a�protein�called�CREB-1,�which�in�turn� switches�on�a�set�of�genes�that�synthesize�the�proteins�the�neuron�needs�to�grow� new�synap�c�terminals.�At�the�same��me,�MAP�ac�vates�another�protein,�CREB-2,� which�switches�o��a�set�of�genes�that�inhibit�the�growth�of�new�terminals.�Through� a�complex�chemical�process�of�cellular�“marking,”�the�resul�ng�synap�c�changes�are�

concentrated�at�par�cular�regions�on�the�surface�of�the�neuron�and�perpetuated� over�long�periods�of��me.�It�is�through�this�elaborate�process,�involving�extensive� chemical�and�gene�c�signals�and�changes,�that�synapses�become�able�to�hold� memories�over�the�course�of�days�or�even�years.�“The�growth�and�maintenance�of� new�synap�c�terminals,”�writes�Kandel,�“makes�memory�persist.”21�The�process� also�says�something�important�about�how,�thanks�to�the�plas�city�of�our�brains,�our� experiences�con�nually�shape�our�behavior�and�iden�ty:�“The�fact�that�a�gene�must� be�switched�on�to�form�long-term�memory�shows�clearly�that�genes�are�not�simply� determinants�of�behavior�but�are�also�responsive�to�environmental�s�mula�on,� such�as�learning.”22

THE�MENTAL�LIFE�of�a�sea�slug,�it�seems�safe�to�say,�is�not�par�cularly�exci�ng.�The� memory�circuits�that�Kandel�and�his�team�studied�were�simple�ones.�They�involved� the�storage�of�what�psychologists�call�“implicit”�memories—the�unconscious� memories�of�past�experiences�that�are�recalled�automa�cally�in�carrying�out�a� re�exive�ac�on�or�rehearsing�a�learned�skill.�A�slug�calls�on�implicit�memories�when� retrac�ng�its�gill.�A�person�draws�on�them�when�dribbling�a�basketball�or�riding�a� bike.�As�Kandel�explains,�an�implicit�memory�“is�recalled�directly�through� performance,�without�any�conscious�e�ort�or�even�awareness�that�we�are�drawing� on�memory.”23

When�we�talk�about�our�memories,�what�we’re�usually�referring�to�are�the�“explicit”� ones—the�recollec�ons�of�people,�events,�facts,�ideas,�feelings,�and�impressions� that�we’re�able�to�summon�into�the�working�memory�of�our�conscious�mind.�Explicit� memory�encompasses�everything�that�we�say�we�“remember”�about�the�past.� Kandel�refers�to�explicit�memory�as�“complex�memory”—and�for�good�reason.�The� long-term�storage�of�explicit�memories�involves�all�the�biochemical�and�molecular� processes�of�“synap�c�consolida�on”�that�play�out�in�storing�implicit�memories.�But� it�also�requires�a�second�form�of�consolida�on,�called�“system�consolida�on,”�which� involves�concerted�interac�ons�among�far-�ung�areas�of�the�brain.�Scien�sts�have� only�recently�begun�to�document�the�workings�of�system�consolida�on,�and�many�of� their��ndings�remain�tenta�ve.�What’s�clear,�though,�is�that�the�consolida�on�of� explicit�memories�involves�a�long�and�involved�“conversa�on”�between�the�cerebral� cortex�and�the�hippocampus.

A�small,�ancient�part�of�the�brain,�the�hippocampus�lies�beneath�the�cortex,�folded� deep�within�the�medial�temporal�lobes.�As�well�as�being�the�seat�of�our�naviga�onal� sense—it’s�where�London�cabbies�store�their�mental�maps�of�the�city’s�roads—the� hippocampus�plays�an�important�role�in�the�forma�on�and�management�of�explicit� memories.�Much�of�the�credit�for�the�discovery�of�the�hippocampus’s�connec�on� with�memory�storage�lies�with�an�unfortunate�man�named�Henry�Molaison.�Born�in� 1926,�Molaison�was�stricken�with�epilepsy�a�er�su�ering�a�severe�head�injury�in�his�

youth.�During�his�adult�years,�he�experienced�increasingly�debilita�ng�grand�mal� seizures.�The�source�of�his�a�ic�on�was�eventually�traced�to�the�area�of�his� hippocampus,�and�in�1953�doctors�removed�most�of�the�hippocampus�as�well�as� other�parts�of�the�medial�temporal�lobes.�The�surgery�cured�Molaison’s�epilepsy,�but� it�had�an�extraordinarily�strange�e�ect�on�his�memory.�His�implicit�memories� remained�intact,�as�did�his�older�explicit�memories.�He�could�remember�the�events� of�his�childhood�in�great�detail.�But�many�of�his�more�recent�explicit�memories— some�da�ng�back�years�before�the�surgery—had�vanished.�And�he�was�no�longer� able�to�store�new�explicit�memories.�Events�slipped�from�his�mind�moments�a�er� they�happened.

Molaison’s�experience,�me�culously�documented�by�the�English�psychologist� Brenda�Milner,�suggested�that�the�hippocampus�is�essen�al�to�the�consolida�on�of� new�explicit�memories�but�that�a�er�a��me�many�of�those�memories�come�to�exist� independently�of�the�hippocampus.24�Extensive�experiments�over�the�last��ve� decades�have�helped�untangle�this�conundrum.�The�memory�of�an�experience� seems�to�be�stored�ini�ally�not�only�in�the�cor�cal�regions�that�record�the� experience—the�auditory�cortex�for�a�memory�of�a�sound,�the�visual�cortex�for�a� memory�of�a�sight,�and�so�forth—but�also�in�the�hippocampus.�The�hippocampus� provides�an�ideal�holding�place�for�new�memories�because�its�synapses�are�able�to� change�very�quickly.�Over�the�course�of�a�few�days,�through�a�s�ll�mysterious� signaling�process,�the�hippocampus�helps�stabilize�the�memory�in�the�cortex,� beginning�its�transforma�on�from�a�short-term�memory�into�a�long-term�one.� Eventually,�once�the�memory�is�fully�consolidated,�it�appears�to�be�erased�from�the� hippocampus.�The�cortex�becomes�its�sole�holding�place.�Fully�transferring�an� explicit�memory�from�the�hippocampus�to�the�cortex�is�a�gradual�process�that�can� take�many�years.25�That’s�why�so�many�of�Molaison’s�memories�disappeared�along� with�his�hippocampus.

The�hippocampus�seems�to�act�as�something�like�an�orchestra�conductor�in�direc�ng� the�symphony�of�our�conscious�memory.�Beyond�its�involvement�in��xing�par�cular� memories�in�the�cortex,�it�is�thought�to�play�an�important�role�in�weaving�together� the�various�contemporaneous�memories—visual,�spa�al,�auditory,�tac�le,�emo�onal —that�are�stored�separately�in�the�brain�but�that�coalesce�to�form�a�single,�seamless� recollec�on�of�an�event.�Neuroscien�sts�also�theorize�that�the�hippocampus�helps� link�new�memories�with�older�ones,�forming�the�rich�mesh�of�neuronal�connec�ons� that�give�memory�its��exibility�and�depth.�Many�of�the�connec�ons�between� memories�are�likely�forged�when�we’re�asleep�and�the�hippocampus�is�relieved�of� some�of�its�other�cogni�ve�chores.�As�the�psychiatrist�Daniel�Siegel�explains�in�his� book�The�Developing�Mind,�“Though��lled�with�a�combina�on�of�seemingly�random� ac�va�ons,�aspects�of�the�day’s�experiences,�and�elements�from�the�distant�past,� dreams�may�be�a�fundamental�way�in�which�the�mind�consolidates�the�myriad�of�

explicit�recollec�ons�into�a�coherent�set�of�representa�ons�for�permanent,� consolidated�memory.”26�When�our�sleep�su�ers,�studies�show,�so,�too,�does�our� memory.27

Much�remains�to�be�learned�about�the�workings�of�explicit�and�even�implicit� memory,�and�much�of�what�we�now�know�will�be�revised�and�re�ned�through�future� research.�But�the�growing�body�of�evidence�makes�clear�that�the�memory�inside�our� heads�is�the�product�of�an�extraordinarily�complex�natural�process�that�is,�at�every� instant,�exquisitely�tuned�to�the�unique�environment�in�which�each�of�us�lives�and� the�unique�pa�ern�of�experiences�that�each�of�us�goes�through.�The�old�botanical� metaphors�for�memory,�with�their�emphasis�on�con�nual,�indeterminate�organic� growth,�are,�it�turns�out,�remarkably�apt.�In�fact,�they�seem�to�be�more���ng�than� our�new,�fashionably�high-tech�metaphors,�which�equate�biological�memory�with� the�precisely�de�ned�bits�of�digital�data�stored�in�databases�and�processed�by� computer�chips.�Governed�by�highly�variable�biological�signals,�chemical,�electrical,� and�gene�c,�every�aspect�of�human�memory—the�way�it’s�formed,�maintained,� connected,�recalled—has�almost�in�nite�grada�ons.�Computer�memory�exists�as� simple�binary�bits—ones�and�zeros—that�are�processed�through��xed�circuits,�which� can�be�either�open�or�closed�but�nothing�in�between.

Kobi�Rosenblum,�who�heads�the�Department�of�Neurobiology�and�Ethology�at�the� University�of�Haifa�in�Israel,�has,�like�Eric�Kandel,�done�extensive�research�on� memory�consolida�on.�One�of�the�salient�lessons�to�emerge�from�his�work�is�how� di�erent�biological�memory�is�from�computer�memory.�“The�process�of�long-term� memory�crea�on�in�the�human�brain,”�he�says,�“is�one�of�the�incredible�processes� which�is�so�clearly�di�erent�than�‘ar��cial�brains’�like�those�in�a�computer.�While�an� ar��cial�brain�absorbs�informa�on�and�immediately�saves�it�in�its�memory,�the� human�brain�con�nues�to�process�informa�on�long�a�er�it�is�received,�and�the� quality�of�memories�depends�on�how�the�informa�on�is�processed.”28�Biological� memory�is�alive.�Computer�memory�is�not.

Those�who�celebrate�the�“outsourcing”�of�memory�to�the�Web�have�been�misled�by� a�metaphor.�They�overlook�the�fundamentally�organic�nature�of�biological�memory.� What�gives�real�memory�its�richness�and�its�character,�not�to�men�on�its�mystery� and�fragility,�is�its�con�ngency.�It�exists�in��me,�changing�as�the�body�changes.� Indeed,�the�very�act�of�recalling�a�memory�appears�to�restart�the�en�re�process�of� consolida�on,�including�the�genera�on�of�proteins�to�form�new�synap�c� terminals.29�Once�we�bring�an�explicit�long-term�memory�back�into�working� memory,�it�becomes�a�short-term�memory�again.�When�we�reconsolidate�it,�it�gains� a�new�set�of�connec�ons—a�new�context.�As�Joseph�LeDoux�explains,�“The�brain� that�does�the�remembering�is�not�the�brain�that�formed�the�ini�al�memory.�In�order� for�the�old�memory�to�make�sense�in�the�current�brain,�the�memory�has�to�be�

updated.”30�Biological�memory�is�in�a�perpetual�state�of�renewal.�The�memory� stored�in�a�computer,�by�contrast,�takes�the�form�of�dis�nct�and�sta�c�bits;�you�can� move�the�bits�from�one�storage�drive�to�another�as�many��mes�as�you�like,�and�they� will�always�remain�precisely�as�they�were.

The�proponents�of�the�outsourcing�idea�also�confuse�working�memory�with�long- term�memory.�When�a�person�fails�to�consolidate�a�fact,�an�idea,�or�an�experience�in� long-term�memory,�he’s�not�“freeing�up”�space�in�his�brain�for�other�func�ons.�In� contrast�to�working�memory,�with�its�constrained�capacity,�long-term�memory� expands�and�contracts�with�almost�unlimited�elas�city,�thanks�to�the�brain’s�ability� to�grow�and�prune�synap�c�terminals�and�con�nually�adjust�the�strength�of�synap�c� connec�ons.�“Unlike�a�computer,”�writes�Nelson�Cowan,�an�expert�on�memory�who� teaches�at�the�University�of�Missouri,�“the�normal�human�brain�never�reaches�a� point�at�which�experiences�can�no�longer�be�commi�ed�to�memory;�the�brain� cannot�be�full.”31�Says�Torkel�Klingberg,�“The�amount�of�informa�on�that�can�be� stored�in�long-term�memory�is�virtually�boundless.”32�Evidence�suggests,�moreover,� that�as�we�build�up�our�personal�store�of�memories,�our�minds�become�sharper.�The� very�act�of�remembering,�explains�clinical�psychologist�Sheila�Crowell�in�The� Neurobiology�of�Learning,�appears�to�modify�the�brain�in�a�way�that�can�make�it� easier�to�learn�ideas�and�skills�in�the�future.33

We�don’t�constrain�our�mental�powers�when�we�store�new�long-term�memories.�We� strengthen�them.�With�each�expansion�of�our�memory�comes�an�enlargement�of�our� intelligence.�The�Web�provides�a�convenient�and�compelling�supplement�to�personal� memory,�but�when�we�start�using�the�Web�as�a�subs�tute�for�personal�memory,� bypassing�the�inner�processes�of�consolida�on,�we�risk�emptying�our�minds�of�their� riches.

In�the�1970s,�when�schools�began�allowing�students�to�use�portable�calculators,� many�parents�objected.�They�worried�that�a�reliance�on�the�machines�would�weaken� their�children’s�grasp�of�mathema�cal�concepts.�The�fears,�subsequent�studies� showed,�were�largely�unwarranted.34�No�longer�forced�to�spend�a�lot�of��me�on� rou�ne�calcula�ons,�many�students�gained�a�deeper�understanding�of�the�principles� underlying�their�exercises.�Today,�the�story�of�the�calculator�is�o�en�used�to�support� the�argument�that�our�growing�dependence�on�online�databases�is�benign,�even� libera�ng.�In�freeing�us�from�the�work�of�remembering,�it’s�said,�the�Web�allows�us� to�devote�more��me�to�crea�ve�thought.�But�the�parallel�is��awed.�The�pocket� calculator�relieved�the�pressure�on�our�working�memory,�le�ng�us�deploy�that� cri�cal�short-term�store�for�more�abstract�reasoning.�As�the�experience�of�math� students�has�shown,�the�calculator�made�it�easier�for�the�brain�to�transfer�ideas� from�working�memory�to�long-term�memory�and�encode�them�in�the�conceptual� schemas�that�are�so�important�to�building�knowledge.�The�Web�has�a�very�di�erent�

e�ect.�It�places�more�pressure�on�our�working�memory,�not�only�diver�ng�resources� from�our�higher�reasoning�facul�es�but�obstruc�ng�the�consolida�on�of�long-term� memories�and�the�development�of�schemas.�The�calculator,�a�powerful�but�highly� specialized�tool,�turned�out�to�be�an�aid�to�memory.�The�Web�is�a�technology�of� forge�ulness.

WHAT�DETERMINES�WHAT�we�remember�and�what�we�forget?�The�key�to�memory� consolida�on�is�a�en�veness.�Storing�explicit�memories�and,�equally�important,� forming�connec�ons�between�them�requires�strong�mental�concentra�on,�ampli�ed� by�repe��on�or�by�intense�intellectual�or�emo�onal�engagement.�The�sharper�the� a�en�on,�the�sharper�the�memory.�“For�a�memory�to�persist,”�writes�Kandel,�“the� incoming�informa�on�must�be�thoroughly�and�deeply�processed.�This�is� accomplished�by�a�ending�to�the�informa�on�and�associa�ng�it�meaningfully�and� systema�cally�with�knowledge�already�well�established�in�memory.”35�If�we’re� unable�to�a�end�to�the�informa�on�in�our�working�memory,�the�informa�on�lasts� only�as�long�as�the�neurons�that�hold�it�maintain�their�electric�charge—a�few� seconds�at�best.�Then�it’s�gone,�leaving�li�le�or�no�trace�in�the�mind.

A�en�on�may�seem�ethereal—a�“ghost�inside�the�head,”�as�the�developmental� psychologist�Bruce�McCandliss�says36—but�it’s�a�genuine�physical�state,�and�it� produces�material�e�ects�throughout�the�brain.�Recent�experiments�with�mice� indicate�that�the�act�of�paying�a�en�on�to�an�idea�or�an�experience�sets�o��a�chain� reac�on�that�crisscrosses�the�brain.�Conscious�a�en�on�begins�in�the�frontal�lobes� of�the�cerebral�cortex,�with�the�imposi�on�of�top-down,�execu�ve�control�over�the� mind’s�focus.�The�establishment�of�a�en�on�leads�the�neurons�of�the�cortex�to�send� signals�to�neurons�in�the�midbrain�that�produce�the�powerful�neurotransmi�er� dopamine.�The�axons�of�these�neurons�reach�all�the�way�into�the�hippocampus,� providing�a�distribu�on�channel�for�the�neurotransmi�er.�Once�the�dopamine�is� funneled�into�the�synapses�of�the�hippocampus,�it�jump-starts�the�consolida�on�of� explicit�memory,�probably�by�ac�va�ng�genes�that�spur�the�synthesis�of�new� proteins.37

The�in�ux�of�compe�ng�messages�that�we�receive�whenever�we�go�online�not�only� overloads�our�working�memory;�it�makes�it�much�harder�for�our�frontal�lobes�to� concentrate�our�a�en�on�on�any�one�thing.�The�process�of�memory�consolida�on� can’t�even�get�started.�And,�thanks�once�again�to�the�plas�city�of�our�neuronal� pathways,�the�more�we�use�the�Web,�the�more�we�train�our�brain�to�be�distracted— to�process�informa�on�very�quickly�and�very�e�ciently�but�without�sustained� a�en�on.�That�helps�explain�why�many�of�us��nd�it�hard�to�concentrate�even�when� we’re�away�from�our�computers.�Our�brains�become�adept�at�forge�ng,�inept�at� remembering.�Our�growing�dependence�on�the�Web’s�informa�on�stores�may�in� fact�be�the�product�of�a�self-perpetua�ng,�self-amplifying�loop.�As�our�use�of�the�

Web�makes�it�harder�for�us�to�lock�informa�on�into�our�biological�memory,�we’re� forced�to�rely�more�and�more�on�the�Net’s�capacious�and�easily�searchable�ar��cial� memory,�even�if�it�makes�us�shallower�thinkers.

The�changes�in�our�brains�happen�automa�cally,�outside�the�narrow�compass�of�our� consciousness,�but�that�doesn’t�absolve�us�from�responsibility�for�the�choices�we� make.�One�thing�that�sets�us�apart�from�other�animals�is�the�command�we�have� been�granted�over�our�a�en�on.�“‘Learning�how�to�think’�really�means�learning�how� to�exercise�some�control�over�how�and�what�you�think,”�said�the�novelist�David� Foster�Wallace�in�a�commencement�address�at�Kenyon�College�in�2005.�“It�means� being�conscious�and�aware�enough�to�choose�what�you�pay�a�en�on�to�and�to� choose�how�you�construct�meaning�from�experience.”�To�give�up�that�control�is�to� be�le��with�“the�constant�gnawing�sense�of�having�had�and�lost�some�in�nite� thing.”38�A�mentally�troubled�man—he�would�hang�himself�two�and�a�half�years� a�er�the�speech—Wallace�knew�with�special�urgency�the�stakes�involved�in�how�we� choose,�or�fail�to�choose,�to�focus�our�mind.�We�cede�control�over�our�a�en�on�at� our�own�peril.�Everything�that�neuroscien�sts�have�discovered�about�the�cellular� and�molecular�workings�of�the�human�brain�underscores�that�point.

Socrates�may�have�been�mistaken�about�the�e�ects�of�wri�ng,�but�he�was�wise�to� warn�us�against�taking�memory’s�treasures�for�granted.�His�prophecy�of�a�tool�that� would�“implant�forge�ulness”�in�the�mind,�providing�“a�recipe�not�for�memory,�but� for�reminder,”�has�gained�new�currency�with�the�coming�of�the�Web.�The�predic�on� may�turn�out�to�have�been�merely�premature,�not�wrong.�Of�all�the�sacri�ces�we� make�when�we�devote�ourselves�to�the�Internet�as�our�universal�medium,�the� greatest�is�likely�to�be�the�wealth�of�connec�ons�within�our�own�minds.�It’s�true�that� the�Web�is�itself�a�network�of�connec�ons,�but�the�hyperlinks�that�associate�bits�of� online�data�are�nothing�like�the�synapses�in�our�brain.�The�Web’s�links�are�just� addresses,�simple�so�ware�tags�that�direct�a�browser�to�load�another�discrete�page� of�informa�on.�They�have�none�of�the�organic�richness�or�sensi�vity�of�our� synapses.�The�brain’s�connec�ons,�writes�Ari�Schulman,�“don’t�merely�provide� access�to�a�memory;�they�in�many�ways�cons�tute�memories.”39�The�Web’s� connec�ons�are�not�our�connec�ons—and�no�ma�er�how�many�hours�we�spend� searching�and�sur�ng,�they�will�never�become�our�connec�ons.�When�we�outsource� our�memory�to�a�machine,�we�also�outsource�a�very�important�part�of�our�intellect� and�even�our�iden�ty.�William�James,�in�concluding�his�1892�lecture�on�memory,� said,�“The�connec�ng�is�the�thinking.”�To�which�could�be�added,�“The�connec�ng�is� the�self.”

“I�PROJECT�THE�history�of�the�future,”�wrote�Walt�Whitman�in�one�of�the�opening� verses�of�Leaves�of�Grass.�It�has�long�been�known�that�the�culture�a�person�is� brought�up�in�in�uences�the�content�and�character�of�that�person’s�memory.�People�

born�into�socie�es�that�celebrate�individual�achievement,�like�the�United�States,� tend,�for�example,�to�be�able�to�remember�events�from�earlier�in�their�lives�than�do� people�raised�in�socie�es�that�stress�communal�achievement,�such�as�Korea.40� Psychologists�and�anthropologists�are�now�discovering�that,�as�Whitman�intuited,� the�in�uence�goes�both�ways.�Personal�memory�shapes�and�sustains�the�“collec�ve� memory”�that�underpins�culture.�What’s�stored�in�the�individual�mind—events,� facts,�concepts,�skills—is�more�than�the�“representa�on�of�dis�nc�ve�personhood”� that�cons�tutes�the�self,�writes�the�anthropologist�Pascal�Boyer.�It’s�also�“the�crux�of� cultural�transmission.”41�Each�of�us�carries�and�projects�the�history�of�the�future.� Culture�is�sustained�in�our�synapses.

The�o�oading�of�memory�to�external�data�banks�doesn’t�just�threaten�the�depth� and�dis�nc�veness�of�the�self.�It�threatens�the�depth�and�dis�nc�veness�of�the� culture�we�all�share.�In�a�recent�essay,�the�playwright�Richard�Foreman�eloquently� described�what’s�at�stake.�“I�come�from�a�tradi�on�of�Western�culture,”�he�wrote,� “in�which�the�ideal�(my�ideal)�was�the�complex,�dense�and�‘cathedral-like’�structure� of�the�highly�educated�and�ar�culate�personality—a�man�or�woman�who�carried� inside�themselves�a�personally�constructed�and�unique�version�of�the�en�re�heritage� of�the�West.”�But�now,�he�con�nued,�“I�see�within�us�all�(myself�included)�the� replacement�of�complex�inner�density�with�a�new�kind�of�self—evolving�under�the� pressure�of�informa�on�overload�and�the�technology�of�the�‘instantly�available.’”�As� we�are�drained�of�our�“inner�repertory�of�dense�cultural�inheritance,”�Foreman� concluded,�we�risk�turning�into�“pancake�people—spread�wide�and�thin�as�we� connect�with�that�vast�network�of�informa�on�accessed�by�the�mere�touch�of�a� bu�on.”42

Culture�is�more�than�the�aggregate�of�what�Google�describes�as�“the�world’s� informa�on.”�It’s�more�than�what�can�be�reduced�to�binary�code�and�uploaded�onto� the�Net.�To�remain�vital,�culture�must�be�renewed�in�the�minds�of�the�members�of� every�genera�on.�Outsource�memory,�and�culture�withers.

a�digression

on�the�wri�ng�of�this�book

I�KNOW�WHAT�you’re�thinking.�The�very�existence�of�this�book�would�seem�to� contradict�its�thesis.�If�I’m��nding�it�so�hard�to�concentrate,�to�stay�focused�on�a�line� of�thought,�how�in�the�world�did�I�manage�to�write�a�few�hundred�pages�of�at�least� semicoherent�prose?

It�wasn’t�easy.�When�I�began�wri�ng�The�Shallows,�toward�the�end�of�2007,�I� struggled�in�vain�to�keep�my�mind��xed�on�the�task.�The�Net�provided,�as�always,�a�

bounty�of�useful�informa�on�and�research�tools,�but�its�constant�interrup�ons� sca�ered�my�thoughts�and�words.�I�tended�to�write�in�disconnected�spurts,�the� same�way�I�wrote�when�blogging.�It�was�clear�that�big�changes�were�in�order.�In�the� summer�of�the�following�year,�I�moved�with�my�wife�from�a�highly�connected�suburb� of�Boston�to�the�mountains�of�Colorado.�There�was�no�cell�phone�service�at�our�new� home,�and�the�Internet�arrived�through�a�rela�vely�poky�DSL�connec�on.�I�canceled� my�Twi�er�account,�put�my�Facebook�membership�on�hiatus,�and�mothballed�my� blog.�I�shut�down�my�RSS�reader�and�curtailed�my�skyping�and�instant�messaging.� Most�important,�I�thro�led�back�my�e-mail�applica�on.�It�had�long�been�set�to�check� for�new�messages�every�minute.�I�reset�it�to�check�only�once�an�hour,�and�when�that� s�ll�created�too�much�of�a�distrac�on,�I�began�keeping�the�program�closed�much�of� the�day.

The�dismantling�of�my�online�life�was�far�from�painless.�For�months,�my�synapses� howled�for�their�Net��x.�I�found�myself�sneaking�clicks�on�the�“check�for�new�mail”� bu�on.�Occasionally,�I’d�go�on�a�daylong�Web�binge.�But�in��me�the�cravings� subsided,�and�I�found�myself�able�to�type�at�my�keyboard�for�hours�on�end�or�to� read�through�a�dense�academic�paper�without�my�mind�wandering.�Some�old,� disused�neural�circuits�were�springing�back�to�life,�it�seemed,�and�some�of�the� newer,�Web-wired�ones�were�quie�ng�down.�I�started�to�feel�generally�calmer�and� more�in�control�of�my�thoughts—less�like�a�lab�rat�pressing�a�lever�and�more�like,� well,�a�human�being.�My�brain�could�breathe�again.

My�case,�I�realize,�isn’t�typical.�Being�self-employed�and�of�a�fairly�solitary�nature,�I� have�the�op�on�of�disconnec�ng.�Most�people�today�don’t.�The�Web�is�so�essen�al� to�their�work�and�social�lives�that�even�if�they�wanted�to�escape�the�network�they� could�not.�In�a�recent�essay,�the�young�novelist�Benjamin�Kunkel�mulled�over�the� Net’s�expanding�hold�on�his�waking�hours:�“The�internet,�as�its�proponents�rightly� remind�us,�makes�for�variety�and�convenience;�it�does�not�force�anything�on�you.� Only�it�turns�out�it�doesn’t�feel�like�that�at�all.�We�don’t�feel�as�if�we�had�freely� chosen�our�online�prac�ces.�We�feel�instead�that�they�are�habits�we�have�helplessly� picked�up�or�that�history�has�enforced,�that�we�are�not�distribu�ng�our�a�en�on�as� we�intend�or�even�like�to.”1

The�ques�on,�really,�isn’t�whether�people�can�s�ll�read�or�write�the�occasional�book.� Of�course�they�can.�When�we�begin�using�a�new�intellectual�technology,�we�don’t� immediately�switch�from�one�mental�mode�to�another.�The�brain�isn’t�binary.�An� intellectual�technology�exerts�its�in�uence�by�shi�ing�the�emphasis�of�our�thought.� Although�even�the�ini�al�users�of�the�technology�can�o�en�sense�the�changes�in� their�pa�erns�of�a�en�on,�cogni�on,�and�memory�as�their�brains�adapt�to�the�new� medium,�the�most�profound�shi�s�play�out�more�slowly,�over�several�genera�ons,�as� the�technology�becomes�ever�more�embedded�in�work,�leisure,�and�educa�on—in�

all�the�norms�and�prac�ces�that�de�ne�a�society�and�its�culture.�How�is�the�way�we� read�changing?�How�is�the�way�we�write�changing?�How�is�the�way�we�think� changing?�Those�are�the�ques�ons�we�should�be�asking,�both�of�ourselves�and�of� our�children.

As�for�me,�I’m�already�backsliding.�With�the�end�of�this�book�in�sight,�I’ve�gone�back� to�keeping�my�e-mail�running�all�the��me�and�I’ve�jacked�into�my�RSS�feed�again.�I’ve� been�playing�around�with�a�few�new�social-networking�services�and�have�been� pos�ng�some�new�entries�to�my�blog.�I�recently�broke�down�and�bought�a�Blu-ray� player�with�a�built-in�Wi-��connec�on.�It�lets�me�stream�music�from�Pandora,� movies�from�NetFlix,�and�videos�from�YouTube�through�my�television�and�stereo.�I� have�to�confess:�it’s�cool.�I’m�not�sure�I�could�live�without�it.

A�THING�LIKE�ME

It�was�one�of�the�odder�episodes�in�the�history�of�computer�science,�yet�also�one�of� the�more�telling.�Over�the�course�of�a�few�months�in�1964�and�1965,�Joseph� Weizenbaum,�a�forty-one-year-old�computer�scien�st�at�the�Massachuse�s�Ins�tute� of�Technology,�wrote�a�so�ware�applica�on�for�parsing�wri�en�language,�which�he� programmed�to�run�on�the�university’s�new��me-sharing�system.�A�student,�si�ng� at�one�of�the�system’s�terminals,�would�type�a�sentence�into�the�computer,�and� Weizenbaum’s�program,�following�a�set�of�simple�rules�about�English�grammar,� would�iden�fy�a�salient�word�or�phrase�in�the�sentence�and�analyze�the�syntac�cal� context�in�which�it�was�used.�The�program�would�then,�following�another�set�of� rules,�transform�the�sentence�into�a�new�sentence�that�had�the�appearance�of�being� a�response�to�the�original.�The�computer-generated�sentence�would�appear�almost� instantly�on�the�student’s�terminal,�giving�the�illusion�of�a�conversa�on.

In�a�January�1966�paper�introducing�his�program,�Weizenbaum�provided�an�example� of�how�it�worked.�If�a�person�typed�the�sentence�“I�am�very�unhappy�these�days,”� the�computer�would�need�only�know�that�the�phrase�“I�am”�typically�comes�before�a� descrip�on�of�the�speaker’s�current�situa�on�or�state�of�mind.�The�computer�could� then�recast�the�sentence�into�the�reply�“How�long�have�you�been�very�unhappy� these�days?”�The�program�worked,�Weizenbaum�explained,�by��rst�applying�“a�kind� of�template�to�the�original�sentence,�one�part�of�which�matched�the�two�words�‘I� am’�and�the�remainder�[of�which]�isolated�the�words�‘very�unhappy�these�days.’”�It� then�used�an�algorithmic�“reassembly�kit,”�tailored�to�the�template,�that�included�a� rule�specifying�that�“any�sentence�of�the�form�‘I�am�BLAH’”�should�be�“transformed� to�‘How�long�have�you�been�BLAH,’�independently�of�the�meaning�of�BLAH.”1

Weizenbaum’s�applica�on�was�a�product�of�its��me.�During�the�1950s�and�’60s,�the� enthusiasm�for�computers,�so�ware�programming,�and�ar��cial�intelligence�gave�

rise�not�only�to�the�idea�that�the�human�brain�is�a�type�of�computer�but�to�the�sense� that�human�language�is�the�output�of�one�of�the�algorithms�running�inside�that� computer.�As�David�Golumbia�explains�in�The�Cultural�Logic�of�Computa�on,�a�new� breed�of�“computa�onal�linguists,”�led�by�Weizenbaum’s�MIT�colleague�Noam� Chomsky,�posited�that�the�form�of�the�“natural�language”�that�people�speak�and� write�re�ects�“the�opera�on�of�the�computer�inside�the�human�mind�that�performs� all�linguis�c�opera�ons.”2�In�a�1958�ar�cle�in�the�journal�Informa�on�and�Control,� Chomsky�had�wri�en�that�“one�possible�method�for�describing�a�grammar�is�in� terms�of�a�program�for�a�universal�Turing�machine.”3�What�made�the� computa�onalist�theory�so�compelling�was�that�it�came�wrapped�in�a�seduc�ve� “penumbra�of�technological�newness,”�writes�Golumbia.�It�o�ered�a�“mechanic� clarity,”�replacing�language’s�human�“messiness”�with�“a�clean�internal�computer.”4� By�reverse-engineering�the�way�people�talk,�you�could�discover�language’s� underlying�code,�which�you�could�then�replicate�as�so�ware.

Weizenbaum�named�his�program�ELIZA,�a�er�Eliza�Dooli�le,�the�cockney��ower�girl� who,�in�George�Bernard�Shaw’s�Pygmalion,�learns�to�speak�proper�English�under�the� tutelage�of�the�haughty�phone�cs�professor�Henry�Higgins.�To�make�the�simulated� conversa�ons�a�li�le�more�interes�ng,�Weizenbaum�also�gave�his�ar��cial� interlocutor�a�persona—that�of�a�Rogerian�psychotherapist.�The�choice,�as�he� explained�in�his�paper,�was�a�pragma�c�one.�Using�a�technique�developed�by�the� psychologist�Carl�Rogers�in�the�1940s,�Rogerian�therapists�pretended,�in�their� conversa�ons�with�pa�ents,�to�have�no�understanding�of�the�world.�For�the�most� part,�they�simply�parroted�their�pa�ents’�statements�back�to�them�in�the�form�of� banal,�open-ended�ques�ons�or�comments.�Knowing�that�the�naïveté�was�a�pose,� the�pa�ents�were�free�to�a�ribute�to�their�therapists�“all�sorts�of�background� knowledge,�insights�and�reasoning�ability.”�The�Rogerian�persona,�Weizenbaum� recognized,�had�“a�crucial�psychological�u�lity”�for�ELIZA:�it�suggested�that�the� program’s�vacuity�masked�some�sort�of�real�intelligence.

Weizenbaum�provided�a�transcript�of�part�of�an�exchange�between�ELIZA�and�a� young�woman�who�had�been�an�early�tester�of�the�program�(the�machine’s� responses�are�in�italic�type):

Men�are�all�alike.

In�what�way?

They’re�always�bugging�us�about�something�or�other.

Can�you�think�of�a�speci�c�example?

Well,�my�boyfriend�made�me�come�here.

Your�boyfriend�made�you�come�here.

He�says�I’m�depressed�much�of�the��me.

I�am�sorry�to�hear�you�are�depressed.

It’s�true.�I�am�unhappy.

Do�you�think�coming�here�will�help�you�to�be�not�unhappy?

I�need�some�help,�that�much�seems�certain.

What�would�it�mean�to�you�if�you�got�some�help?

Perhaps�I�could�learn�to�get�along�with�my�mother.

Tell�me�more�about�your�family.

My�mother�takes�care�of�me.

Who�else�in�your�family�takes�care�of�you?

My�father.

Your�father.

You�are�like�my�father�in�some�ways.

What�resemblance�do�you�see?

You�are�not�very�aggressive�but�I�think�you�don’t�want�me�to�no�ce�that.

What�makes�you�think�I�am�not�very�aggressive?

You�don’t�argue�with�me.

Why�do�you�think�I�don’t�argue�with�you?

You�are�afraid�of�me.

Does�it�please�you�to�believe�I�am�afraid�of�you?

My�father�is�afraid�of�everybody.5

In�commen�ng�on�his�crea�on,�which�he�acknowledged�to�be�a�modest�and�even� slightly�silly�contribu�on�to�the��edgling��eld�of�natural-language�processing,� Weizenbaum�observed�how�easy�it�is�for�computer�programmers�to�make�machines� “behave�in�wondrous�ways,�o�en�su�cient�to�dazzle�even�the�most�experienced� observer.”�But�as�soon�as�a�program’s�“inner�workings�are�explained�in�language� su�ciently�plain�to�induce�understanding,”�he�con�nued,�“its�magic�crumbles�away;� it�stands�revealed�as�a�mere�collec�on�of�procedures,�each�quite�comprehensible.� The�observer�says�to�himself�‘I�could�have�wri�en�that.’”�The�program�goes�“from� the�shelf�marked�‘intelligent’�to�that�reserved�for�curios.”6

But�Weizenbaum,�like�Henry�Higgins,�was�soon�to�have�his�equilibrium�disturbed.� ELIZA�quickly�found�fame�on�the�MIT�campus,�becoming�a�mainstay�of�lectures�and� presenta�ons�about�compu�ng�and��me-sharing.�It�was�among�the��rst�so�ware� programs�able�to�demonstrate�the�power�and�speed�of�computers�in�a�way�that� laymen�could�easily�grasp.�You�didn’t�need�a�background�in�mathema�cs,�much�less� computer�science,�to�chat�with�ELIZA.�Copies�of�the�program�proliferated�at�other� schools�as�well.�Then�the�press�took�no�ce,�and�ELIZA�became,�as�Weizenbaum�later� put�it,�“a�na�onal�plaything.”7�While�he�was�surprised�by�the�public’s�interest�in�his� program,�what�shocked�him�was�how�quickly�and�deeply�people�using�the�so�ware� “became�emo�onally�involved�with�the�computer,”�talking�to�it�as�if�it�were�an� actual�person.�They�“would,�a�er�conversing�with�it�for�a��me,�insist,�in�spite�of�my� explana�ons,�that�the�machine�really�understood�them.”8�Even�his�secretary,�who� had�watched�him�write�the�code�for�ELIZA�“and�surely�knew�it�to�be�merely�a� computer�program,”�was�seduced.�A�er�a�few�moments�using�the�so�ware�at�a� terminal�in�Weizenbaum’s�o�ce,�she�asked�the�professor�to�leave�the�room�because� she�was�embarrassed�by�the�in�macy�of�the�conversa�on.�“What�I�had�not�realized,”� said�Weizenbaum,�“is�that�extremely�short�exposures�to�a�rela�vely�simple� computer�program�could�induce�powerful�delusional�thinking�in�quite�normal� people.”�9

Things�were�about�to�get�stranger�s�ll.�Dis�nguished�psychiatrists�and�scien�sts� began�to�suggest,�with�considerable�enthusiasm,�that�the�program�could�play�a� valuable�role�in�actually�trea�ng�the�ill�and�the�disturbed.�In�an�ar�cle�in�the�Journal� of�Nervous�and�Mental�Disease,�three�prominent�research�psychiatrists�wrote�that� ELIZA,�with�a�bit�of�tweaking,�could�be�“a�therapeu�c�tool�which�can�be�made�widely� available�to�mental�hospitals�and�psychiatric�centers�su�ering�a�shortage�of� therapists.”�Thanks�to�the�“�me-sharing�capabili�es�of�modern�and�future� computers,�several�hundred�pa�ents�an�hour�could�be�handled�by�a�computer�

system�designed�for�this�purpose.”�Wri�ng�in�Natural�History,�the�prominent� astrophysicist�Carl�Sagan�expressed�equal�excitement�about�ELIZA’s�poten�al.�He� foresaw�the�development�of�“a�network�of�computer�therapeu�c�terminals,� something�like�arrays�of�large�telephone�booths,�in�which,�for�a�few�dollars�a� session,�we�would�be�able�to�talk�with�an�a�en�ve,�tested,�and�largely�non-direc�ve� psychotherapist.”10

In�his�paper�“Compu�ng�Machinery�and�Intelligence,”�Alan�Turing�had�grappled�with� the�ques�on�“Can�machines�think?”�He�proposed�a�simple�experiment�for�judging� whether�a�computer�could�be�said�to�be�intelligent,�which�he�called�“the�imita�on� game”�but�which�soon�came�to�be�known�as�the�Turing�test.�It�involved�having�a� person,�the�“interrogator,”�sit�at�a�computer�terminal�in�an�otherwise�empty�room� and�engage�in�a�typed�conversa�on�with�two�other�people,�one�an�actual�person� and�the�other�a�computer�pretending�to�be�a�person.�If�the�interrogator�was�unable� to�dis�nguish�the�computer�from�the�real�person,�then�the�computer,�argued�Turing,� could�be�considered�intelligent.�The�ability�to�conjure�a�plausible�self�out�of�words� would�signal�the�arrival�of�a�true�thinking�machine.

To�converse�with�ELIZA�was�to�engage�in�a�varia�on�on�the�Turing�test.�But,�as� Weizenbaum�was�astonished�to�discover,�the�people�who�“talked”�with�his�program� had�li�le�interest�in�making�ra�onal,�objec�ve�judgments�about�the�iden�ty�of� ELIZA.�They�wanted�to�believe�that�ELIZA�was�a�thinking�machine.�They�wanted�to� imbue�ELIZA�with�human�quali�es—even�when�they�were�well�aware�that�ELIZA�was� nothing�more�than�a�computer�program�following�simple�and�rather�obvious� instruc�ons.�The�Turing�test,�it�turned�out,�was�as�much�a�test�of�the�way�human� beings�think�as�of�the�way�machines�think.�In�their�Journal�of�Nervous�and�Mental� Disease�ar�cle,�the�three�psychiatrists�hadn’t�just�suggested�that�ELIZA�could�serve� as�a�subs�tute�for�a�real�therapist.�They�went�on�to�argue,�in�circular�fashion,�that�a� psychotherapist�was�in�essence�a�kind�of�computer:�“A�human�therapist�can�be� viewed�as�an�informa�on�processor�and�decision�maker�with�a�set�of�decision�rules� which�are�closely�linked�to�short-range�and�long-range�goals.”11�In�simula�ng�a� human�being,�however�clumsily,�ELIZA�encouraged�human�beings�to�think�of� themselves�as�simula�ons�of�computers.

The�reac�on�to�the�so�ware�unnerved�Weizenbaum.�It�planted�in�his�mind�a� ques�on�he�had�never�before�asked�himself�but�that�would�preoccupy�him�for�many� years:�“What�is�it�about�the�computer�that�has�brought�the�view�of�man�as�a� machine�to�a�new�level�of�plausibility?”12�In�1976,�a�decade�a�er�ELIZA’s�debut,�he� provided�an�answer�in�his�book�Computer�Power�and�Human�Reason.�To�understand� the�e�ects�of�a�computer,�he�argued,�you�had�to�see�the�machine�in�the�context�of� mankind’s�past�intellectual�technologies,�the�long�succession�of�tools�that,�like�the� map�and�the�clock,�transformed�nature�and�altered�“man’s�percep�on�of�reality.”�

Such�technologies�become�part�of�“the�very�stu��out�of�which�man�builds�his� world.”�Once�adopted,�they�can�never�be�abandoned,�at�least�not�without�plunging� society�into�“great�confusion�and�possibly�u�er�chaos.”�An�intellectual�technology,� he�wrote,�“becomes�an�indispensable�component�of�any�structure�once�it�is�so� thoroughly�integrated�with�the�structure,�so�enmeshed�in�various�vital� substructures,�that�it�can�no�longer�be�factored�out�without�fatally�impairing�the� whole�structure.”

That�fact,�almost�“a�tautology,”�helps�explain�how�our�dependence�on�digital� computers�grew�steadily�and�seemingly�inexorably�a�er�the�machines�were� invented�at�the�end�of�the�Second�World�War.�“The�computer�was�not�a� prerequisite�to�the�survival�of�modern�society�in�the�post-war�period�and�beyond,”� Weizenbaum�argued;�“its�enthusias�c,�uncri�cal�embrace�by�the�most�‘progressive’� elements�of�American�government,�business,�and�industry�made�it�a�resource� essen�al�to�society’s�survival�in�the�form�that�the�computer�itself�had�been� instrumental�in�shaping.”�He�knew�from�his�experience�with��me-sharing�networks� that�the�role�of�computers�would�expand�beyond�the�automa�on�of�governmental� and�industrial�processes.�Computers�would�come�to�mediate�the�ac�vi�es�that� de�ne�people’s�everyday�lives—how�they�learn,�how�they�think,�how�they�socialize.� What�the�history�of�intellectual�technologies�shows�us,�he�warned,�is�that�“the� introduc�on�of�computers�into�some�complex�human�ac�vi�es�may�cons�tute�an� irreversible�commitment.”�Our�intellectual�and�social�lives�may,�like�our�industrial� rou�nes,�come�to�re�ect�the�form�that�the�computer�imposes�on�them.13

What�makes�us�most�human,�Weizenbaum�had�come�to�believe,�is�what�is�least� computable�about�us—the�connec�ons�between�our�mind�and�our�body,�the� experiences�that�shape�our�memory�and�our�thinking,�our�capacity�for�emo�on�and� empathy.�The�great�danger�we�face�as�we�become�more�in�mately�involved�with� our�computers—as�we�come�to�experience�more�of�our�lives�through�the� disembodied�symbols��ickering�across�our�screens—is�that�we’ll�begin�to�lose�our� humanness,�to�sacri�ce�the�very�quali�es�that�separate�us�from�machines.�The�only� way�to�avoid�that�fate,�Weizenbaum�wrote,�is�to�have�the�self-awareness�and�the� courage�to�refuse�to�delegate�to�computers�the�most�human�of�our�mental�ac�vi�es� and�intellectual�pursuits,�par�cularly�“tasks�that�demand�wisdom.”14

In�addi�on�to�being�a�learned�trea�se�on�the�workings�of�computers�and�so�ware,� Weizenbaum’s�book�was�a�cri�de�coeur,�a�computer�programmer’s�passionate�and�at� �mes�self-righteous�examina�on�of�the�limits�of�his�profession.�The�book�did�not� endear�the�author�to�his�peers.�A�er�it�came�out,�Weizenbaum�was�spurned�as�a� here�c�by�leading�computer�scien�sts,�par�cularly�those�pursuing�ar��cial� intelligence.�John�McCarthy,�one�of�the�organizers�of�the�original�Dartmouth�AI� conference,�spoke�for�many�technologists�when,�in�a�mocking�review,�he�dismissed�

Computer�Power�and�Human�Reason�as�“an�unreasonable�book”�and�scolded� Weizenbaum�for�unscien��c�“moralizing.”15�Outside�the�data-processing��eld,�the� book�caused�only�a�brief�s�r.�It�appeared�just�as�the��rst�personal�computers�were� making�the�leap�from�hobbyists’�workbenches�to�mass�produc�on.�The�public,� primed�for�the�start�of�a�buying�spree�that�would�put�computers�into�most�every� o�ce,�home,�and�school�in�the�land,�was�in�no�mood�to�entertain�an�apostate’s� doubts.

WHEN�A�CARPENTER�picks�up�a�hammer,�the�hammer�becomes,�so�far�as�his�brain�is� concerned,�part�of�his�hand.�When�a�soldier�raises�a�pair�of�binoculars�to�his�face,�his� brain�sees�through�a�new�set�of�eyes,�adap�ng�instantaneously�to�a�very�di�erent� �eld�of�view.�The�experiments�on�pliers-wielding�monkeys�revealed�how�readily�the� plas�c�primate�brain�can�incorporate�tools�into�its�sensory�maps,�making�the� ar��cial�feel�natural.�In�the�human�brain,�that�capacity�has�advanced�far�beyond� what’s�seen�in�even�our�closest�primate�cousins.�Our�ability�to�meld�with�all�manner� of�tools�is�one�of�the�quali�es�that�most�dis�nguishes�us�as�a�species.�In�combina�on� with�our�superior�cogni�ve�skills,�it’s�what�makes�us�so�good�at�using�new� technologies.�It’s�also�what�makes�us�so�good�at�inven�ng�them.�Our�brains�can� imagine�the�mechanics�and�the�bene�ts�of�using�a�new�device�before�that�device� even�exists.�The�evolu�on�of�our�extraordinary�mental�capacity�to�blur�the�boundary� between�the�internal�and�the�external,�the�body�and�the�instrument,�was,�says� University�of�Oregon�neuroscien�st�Sco��Frey,�“no�doubt�a�fundamental�step�in�the� development�of�technology.”16

The��ght�bonds�we�form�with�our�tools�go�both�ways.�Even�as�our�technologies� become�extensions�of�ourselves,�we�become�extensions�of�our�technologies.�When� the�carpenter�takes�his�hammer�into�his�hand,�he�can�use�that�hand�to�do�only�what� a�hammer�can�do.�The�hand�becomes�an�implement�for�pounding�and�pulling�nails.� When�the�soldier�puts�the�binoculars�to�his�eyes,�he�can�see�only�what�the�lenses� allow�him�to�see.�His��eld�of�view�lengthens,�but�he�becomes�blind�to�what’s�nearby.� Nietzsche’s�experience�with�his�typewriter�provides�a�par�cularly�good�illustra�on�of� the�way�technologies�exert�their�in�uence�on�us.�Not�only�did�the�philosopher�come� to�imagine�that�his�wri�ng�ball�was�“a�thing�like�me”�he�also�sensed�that�he�was� becoming�a�thing�like�it,�that�his�typewriter�was�shaping�his�thoughts.�T.�S.�Eliot�had� a�similar�experience�when�he�went�from�wri�ng�his�poems�and�essays�by�hand�to� typing�them.�“Composing�on�the�typewriter,”�he�wrote�in�a�1916�le�er�to�Conrad� Aiken,�“I��nd�that�I�am�sloughing�o��all�my�long�sentences�which�I�used�to�dote� upon.�Short,�staccato,�like�modern�French�prose.�The�typewriter�makes�for�lucidity,� but�I�am�not�sure�that�it�encourages�subtlety.”17

Every�tool�imposes�limita�ons�even�as�it�opens�possibili�es.�The�more�we�use�it,�the� more�we�mold�ourselves�to�its�form�and�func�on.�That�explains�why,�a�er�working�

with�a�word�processor�for�a��me,�I�began�to�lose�my�facility�for�wri�ng�and�edi�ng�in� longhand.�My�experience,�I�later�learned,�was�not�uncommon.�“People�who�write�on� a�computer�are�o�en�at�a�loss�when�they�have�to�write�by�hand,”�Norman�Doidge� reports.�Their�ability�“to�translate�thoughts�into�cursive�wri�ng”�diminishes�as�they� become�used�to�tapping�keys�and�watching�le�ers�appear�as�if�by�magic�on�a� screen.18�Today,�with�kids�using�keyboards�and�keypads�from�a�very�young�age�and� schools�discon�nuing�penmanship�lessons,�there�is�moun�ng�evidence�that�the� ability�to�write�in�cursive�script�is�disappearing�altogether�from�our�culture.�It’s� becoming�a�lost�art.�“We�shape�our�tools,”�observed�the�Jesuit�priest�and�media� scholar�John�Culkin�in�1967,�“and�therea�er�they�shape�us.”19

Marshall�McLuhan,�who�was�Culkin’s�intellectual�mentor,�elucidated�the�ways�our� technologies�at�once�strengthen�and�sap�us.�In�one�of�the�most�percep�ve,�if�least� remarked,�passages�in�Understanding�Media,�McLuhan�wrote�that�our�tools�end�up� “numbing”�whatever�part�of�our�body�they�“amplify.”20�When�we�extend�some�part� of�ourselves�ar��cially,�we�also�distance�ourselves�from�the�ampli�ed�part�and�its� natural�func�ons.�When�the�power�loom�was�invented,�weavers�could�manufacture� far�more�cloth�during�the�course�of�a�workday�than�they’d�been�able�to�make�by� hand,�but�they�sacri�ced�some�of�their�manual�dexterity,�not�to�men�on�some�of� their�“feel”�for�fabric.�Their��ngers,�in�McLuhan’s�terms,�became�numb.�Farmers,� similarly,�lost�some�of�their�feel�for�the�soil�when�they�began�using�mechanical� harrows�and�plows.�Today’s�industrial�farm�worker,�si�ng�in�his�air-condi�oned� cage�atop�a�gargantuan�tractor,�rarely�touches�the�soil�at�all—though�in�a�single�day� he�can��ll�a��eld�that�his�hoe-wielding�forebear�could�not�have�turned�in�a�month.� When�we’re�behind�the�wheel�of�our�car,�we�can�go�a�far�greater�distance�than�we� could�cover�on�foot,�but�we�lose�the�walker’s�in�mate�connec�on�to�the�land.

As�McLuhan�acknowledged,�he�was�far�from�the��rst�to�observe�technology’s� numbing�e�ect.�It’s�an�ancient�idea,�one�that�was�given�perhaps�its�most�eloquent� and�ominous�expression�by�the�Old�Testament�psalmist:

Their�idols�are�silver�and�gold,

The�work�of�men’s�hands.

They�have�mouths,�but�they�speak�not;

Eyes�have�they,�but�they�see�not;

They�have�ears,�but�they�hear�not;

Noses�have�they,�but�they�smell�not;

They�have�hands,�but�they�handle�not;

Feet�have�they,�but�they�walk�not;

Neither�speak�they�through�their�throat.

They�that�make�them�are�like�unto�them;

So�is�every�one�that�trusteth�in�them.

The�price�we�pay�to�assume�technology’s�power�is�aliena�on.�The�toll�can�be� par�cularly�high�with�our�intellectual�technologies.�The�tools�of�the�mind�amplify� and�in�turn�numb�the�most�in�mate,�the�most�human,�of�our�natural�capaci�es— those�for�reason,�percep�on,�memory,�emo�on.�The�mechanical�clock,�for�all�the� blessings�it�bestowed,�removed�us�from�the�natural��ow�of��me.�When�Lewis� Mumford�described�how�modern�clocks�helped�“create�the�belief�in�an�independent� world�of�mathema�cally�measurable�sequences,”�he�also�stressed�that,�as�a� consequence,�clocks�“disassociated��me�from�human�events.”21�Weizenbaum,� building�on�Mumford’s�point,�argued�that�the�concep�on�of�the�world�that�emerged� from��mekeeping�instruments�“was�and�remains�an�impoverished�version�of�the� older�one,�for�it�rests�on�a�rejec�on�of�those�direct�experiences�that�formed�the� basis�for,�and�indeed�cons�tuted,�the�old�reality.”22�In�deciding�when�to�eat,�to� work,�to�sleep,�to�wake�up,�we�stopped�listening�to�our�senses�and�started�obeying� the�clock.�We�became�a�lot�more�scien��c,�but�we�became�a�bit�more�mechanical�as� well.

Even�a�tool�as�seemingly�simple�and�benign�as�the�map�had�a�numbing�e�ect.�Our� ancestors’�naviga�onal�skills�were�ampli�ed�enormously�by�the�cartographer’s�art.� For�the��rst��me,�people�could�con�dently�traverse�lands�and�seas�they’d�never� seen�before—an�advance�that�spurred�a�history-making�expansion�of�explora�on,� trade,�and�warfare.�But�their�na�ve�ability�to�comprehend�a�landscape,�to�create�a� richly�detailed�mental�map�of�their�surroundings,�weakened.�The�map’s�abstract,� two-dimensional�representa�on�of�space�interposed�itself�between�the�map�reader� and�his�percep�on�of�the�actual�land.�As�we�can�infer�from�recent�studies�of�the� brain,�the�loss�must�have�had�a�physical�component.�When�people�came�to�rely�on� maps�rather�than�their�own�bearings,�they�would�have�experienced�a�diminishment� of�the�area�of�their�hippocampus�devoted�to�spa�al�representa�on.�The�numbing� would�have�occurred�deep�in�their�neurons.

We’re�likely�going�through�another�such�adapta�on�today�as�we�come�to�depend�on� computerized�GPS�devices�to�shepherd�us�around.�Eleanor�Maguire,�the�

neuroscien�st�who�led�the�study�of�the�brains�of�London�taxi�drivers,�worries�that� satellite�naviga�on�could�have�“a�big�e�ect”�on�cabbies’�neurons.�“We�very�much� hope�they�don’t�start�using�it,”�she�says,�speaking�on�behalf�of�her�team�of� researchers.�“We�believe�[the�hippocampal]�area�of�the�brain�increased�in�grey� ma�er�volume�because�of�the�huge�amount�of�data�[the�drivers]�have�to�memorize.� If�they�all�start�using�GPS,�that�knowledge�base�will�be�less�and�possibly�a�ect�the� brain�changes�we�are�seeing.”23�The�cabbies�would�be�freed�from�the�hard�work�of� learning�the�city’s�roads,�but�they�would�also�lose�the�dis�nc�ve�mental�bene�ts�of� that�training.�Their�brains�would�become�less�interes�ng.

In�explaining�how�technologies�numb�the�very�facul�es�they�amplify,�to�the�point� even�of�“autoamputa�on,”�McLuhan�was�not�trying�to�roman�cize�society�as�it� existed�before�the�inven�on�of�maps�or�clocks�or�power�looms.�Aliena�on,�he� understood,�is�an�inevitable�by-product�of�the�use�of�technology.�Whenever�we�use� a�tool�to�exert�greater�control�over�the�outside�world,�we�change�our�rela�onship� with�that�world.�Control�can�be�wielded�only�from�a�psychological�distance.�In�some� cases,�aliena�on�is�precisely�what�gives�a�tool�its�value.�We�build�houses�and�sew� Gore-Tex�jackets�because�we�want�to�be�alienated�from�the�wind�and�the�rain�and� the�cold.�We�build�public�sewers�because�we�want�to�maintain�a�healthy�distance� from�our�own��lth.�Nature�isn’t�our�enemy,�but�neither�is�it�our�friend.�McLuhan’s� point�was�that�an�honest�appraisal�of�any�new�technology,�or�of�progress�in�general,� requires�a�sensi�vity�to�what’s�lost�as�well�as�what’s�gained.�We�shouldn’t�allow�the� glories�of�technology�to�blind�our�inner�watchdog�to�the�possibility�that�we’ve� numbed�an�essen�al�part�of�our�self.

AS�A�UNIVERSAL�medium,�a�supremely�versa�le�extension�of�our�senses,�our� cogni�on,�and�our�memory,�the�networked�computer�serves�as�a�par�cularly� powerful�neural�ampli�er.�Its�numbing�e�ects�are�equally�strong.�Norman�Doidge� explains�that�“the�computer�extends�the�processing�capabili�es�of�our�central� nervous�system”�and�in�the�process�“also�alters�it.”�Electronic�media�“are�so� e�ec�ve�at�altering�the�nervous�system�because�they�both�work�in�similar�ways�and� are�basically�compa�ble�and�easily�linked.”�Thanks�to�its�plas�city,�the�nervous� system�“can�take�advantage�of�this�compa�bility�and�merge�with�the�electronic� media,�making�a�single,�larger�system.”24

There’s�another,�even�deeper�reason�why�our�nervous�systems�are�so�quick�to� “merge”�with�our�computers.�Evolu�on�has�imbued�our�brains�with�a�powerful� social�ins�nct,�which,�as�Jason�Mitchell,�the�head�of�Harvard’s�Social�Cogni�on�and� A�ec�ve�Neuroscience�Laboratory,�says,�entails�“a�set�of�processes�for�inferring� what�those�around�us�are�thinking�and�feeling.”�Recent�neuroimaging�studies� indicate�that�three�highly�ac�ve�brain�regions—one�in�the�prefrontal�cortex,�one�in� the�parietal�cortex,�and�one�at�the�intersec�on�of�the�parietal�and�temporal�cor�ces

—are�“speci�cally�dedicated�to�the�task�of�understanding�the�goings-on�of�other� people’s�minds.”�Our�innate�ability�for�“mind�reading,”�says�Mitchell,�has�played�an� important�role�in�the�success�of�our�species,�allowing�us�to�“coordinate�large�groups� of�people�to�achieve�goals�that�individuals�could�not.”25�As�we’ve�entered�the� computer�age,�however,�our�talent�for�connec�ng�with�other�minds�has�had�an� unintended�consequence.�The�“chronic�overac�vity�of�those�brain�regions� implicated�in�social�thought”�can,�writes�Mitchell,�lead�us�to�perceive�minds�where� no�minds�exist,�even�in�“inanimate�objects.”�There’s�growing�evidence,�moreover,� that�our�brains�naturally�mimic�the�states�of�the�other�minds�we�interact�with,� whether�those�minds�are�real�or�imagined.�Such�neural�“mirroring”�helps�explain� why�we’re�so�quick�to�a�ribute�human�characteris�cs�to�our�computers�and� computer�characteris�cs�to�ourselves—why�we�hear�a�human�voice�when�ELIZA� speaks.

Our�willingness,�even�eagerness,�to�enter�into�what�Doidge�calls�“a�single,�larger� system”�with�our�data-processing�devices�is�an�outgrowth�not�only�of�the� characteris�cs�of�the�digital�computer�as�an�informa�onal�medium�but�of�the� characteris�cs�of�our�socially�adapted�brains.�While�this�cyberne�c�blurring�of�mind� and�machine�may�allow�us�to�carry�out�certain�cogni�ve�tasks�far�more�e�ciently,�it� poses�a�threat�to�our�integrity�as�human�beings.�Even�as�the�larger�system�into� which�our�minds�so�readily�meld�is�lending�us�its�powers,�it�is�also�imposing�on�us�its� limita�ons.�To�put�a�new�spin�on�Culkin’s�phrase,�we�program�our�computers�and� therea�er�they�program�us.

Even�at�a�prac�cal�level,�the�e�ects�are�not�always�as�bene�cial�as�we�want�to� believe.�As�the�many�studies�of�hypertext�and�mul�media�show,�our�ability�to�learn� can�be�severely�compromised�when�our�brains�become�overloaded�with�diverse� s�muli�online.�More�informa�on�can�mean�less�knowledge.�But�what�about�the� e�ects�of�the�many�so�ware�tools�we�use?�How�do�all�the�ingenious�applica�ons�we� depend�on�to��nd�and�evaluate�informa�on,�form�and�communicate�our�thoughts,� and�carry�out�other�cogni�ve�chores�in�uence�what�and�how�we�learn?�In�2003,�a� Dutch�clinical�psychologist�named�Christof�van�Nimwegen�began�a�fascina�ng�study� of�computer-aided�learning�that�a�BBC�writer�would�later�call�“one�of�the�most� interes�ng�examina�ons�of�current�computer�use�and�the�poten�al�downsides�of� our�increasing�reliance�on�screen-based�interac�on�with�informa�on�systems.”26� Van�Nimwegen�had�two�groups�of�volunteers�work�through�a�tricky�logic�puzzle�on�a� computer.�The�puzzle�involved�transferring�colored�balls�between�two�boxes�in� accordance�with�a�set�of�rules�governing�which�balls�could�be�moved�at�which��me.� One�of�the�groups�used�so�ware�that�had�been�designed�to�be�as�helpful�as� possible.�It�o�ered�on-screen�assistance�during�the�course�of�solving�the�puzzle,� providing�visual�cues,�for�instance,�to�highlight�permi�ed�moves.�The�other�group� used�a�bare-bones�program,�which�provided�no�hints�or�other�guidance.

In�the�early�stages�of�solving�the�puzzle,�the�group�using�the�helpful�so�ware�made� correct�moves�more�quickly�than�the�other�group,�as�would�be�expected.�But�as�the� test�proceeded,�the�pro�ciency�of�the�members�of�the�group�using�the�bare-bones� so�ware�increased�more�rapidly.�In�the�end,�those�using�the�unhelpful�program� were�able�to�solve�the�puzzle�more�quickly�and�with�fewer�wrong�moves.�They�also� reached�fewer�impasses—states�in�which�no�further�moves�were�possible—than�did� the�people�using�the�helpful�so�ware.�The��ndings�indicated,�as�van�Nimwegen� reported,�that�those�using�the�unhelpful�so�ware�were�be�er�able�to�plan�ahead� and�plot�strategy,�while�those�using�the�helpful�so�ware�tended�to�rely�on�simple� trial�and�error.�O�en,�in�fact,�those�with�the�helpful�so�ware�were�found�“to� aimlessly�click�around”�as�they�tried�to�crack�the�puzzle.27

Eight�months�a�er�the�experiment,�van�Nimwegen�reassembled�the�groups�and�had� them�again�work�on�the�colored-balls�puzzle�as�well�as�a�varia�on�on�it.�He�found� that�the�people�who�had�originally�used�the�unhelpful�so�ware�were�able�to�solve� the�puzzles�nearly�twice�as�fast�as�those�who�had�used�the�helpful�so�ware.�In� another�test,�he�had�a�di�erent�set�of�volunteers�use�ordinary�calendar�so�ware�to� schedule�a�complicated�series�of�mee�ngs�involving�overlapping�groups�of�people.� Once�again,�one�group�used�helpful�so�ware�that�provided�lots�of�on-screen�cues,� and�another�group�used�unhelpful�so�ware.�The�results�were�the�same.�The� subjects�using�the�unhelpful�program�“solved�the�problems�with�fewer�super�uous� moves�[and]�in�a�more�straigh�orward�manner,”�and�they�demonstrated�greater� “plan-based�behavior”�and�“smarter�solu�on�paths.”28

In�his�report�on�the�research,�van�Nimwegen�emphasized�that�he�controlled�for� varia�ons�in�the�par�cipants’�fundamental�cogni�ve�skills.�It�was�the�di�erences�in� the�design�of�the�so�ware�that�explained�the�di�erences�in�performance�and� learning.�The�subjects�using�the�bare-bones�so�ware�consistently�demonstrated� “more�focus,�more�direct�and�economical�solu�ons,�be�er�strategies,�and�be�er� imprin�ng�of�knowledge.”�The�more�that�people�depended�on�explicit�guidance� from�so�ware�programs,�the�less�engaged�they�were�in�the�task�and�the�less�they� ended�up�learning.�The��ndings�indicate,�van�Nimwegen�concluded,�that�as�we� “externalize”�problem�solving�and�other�cogni�ve�chores�to�our�computers,�we� reduce�our�brain’s�ability�“to�build�stable�knowledge�structures”—schemas,�in�other� words—that�can�later�“be�applied�in�new�situa�ons.”29�A�polemicist�might�put�it� more�pointedly:�The�brighter�the�so�ware,�the�dimmer�the�user.

In�discussing�the�implica�ons�of�his�study,�van�Nimwegen�suggested�that� programmers�might�want�to�design�their�so�ware�to�be�less�helpful�in�order�to�force� users�to�think�harder.�That�may�well�be�good�advice,�but�it’s�hard�to�imagine�the� developers�of�commercial�computer�programs�and�Web�applica�ons�taking�it�to�

heart.�As�van�Nimwegen�himself�noted,�one�of�the�long-standing�trends�in�so�ware� programming�has�been�the�pursuit�of�ever�more�“user-friendly”�interfaces.�That’s� par�cularly�true�on�the�Net.�Internet�companies�are�in��erce�compe��on�to�make� people’s�lives�easier,�to�shi��the�burden�of�problem�solving�and�other�mental�labor� away�from�the�user�and�onto�the�microprocessor.�A�small�but�telling�example�can�be� seen�in�the�evolu�on�of�search�engines.�In�its�earliest�incarna�on,�the�Google�engine� was�a�very�simple�tool:�you�entered�a�keyword�into�the�search�box,�and�you�hit�the� Search�bu�on.�But�Google,�facing�compe��on�from�other�search�engines,�like� Microso�’s�Bing,�has�worked�diligently�to�make�its�service�ever�more�solicitous.� Now,�as�soon�as�you�enter�the��rst�le�er�of�your�keyword�into�the�box,�Google� immediately�suggests�a�list�of�popular�search�terms�that�begin�with�that�le�er.�“Our� algorithms�use�a�wide�range�of�informa�on�to�predict�the�queries�users�are�most� likely�to�want�to�see,”�the�company�explains.�“By�sugges�ng�more�re�ned�searches� up�front,�[we]�can�make�your�searches�more�convenient�and�e�cient.”30

Automa�ng�cogni�ve�processes�in�this�way�has�become�the�modern�programmer’s� stock-in-trade.�And�for�good�reason:�people�naturally�seek�out�those�so�ware�tools� and�Web�sites�that�o�er�the�most�help�and�the�most�guidance—and�shun�those�that� are�di�cult�to�master.�We�want�friendly,�helpful�so�ware.�Why�wouldn’t�we?�Yet�as� we�cede�to�so�ware�more�of�the�toil�of�thinking,�we�are�likely�diminishing�our�own� brain�power�in�subtle�but�meaningful�ways.�When�a�ditchdigger�trades�his�shovel�for� a�backhoe,�his�arm�muscles�weaken�even�as�his�e�ciency�increases.�A�similar�trade- o��may�well�take�place�as�we�automate�the�work�of�the�mind.

Another�recent�study,�this�one�on�academic�research,�provides�real-world�evidence� of�the�way�the�tools�we�use�to�si��informa�on�online�in�uence�our�mental�habits� and�frame�our�thinking.�James�Evans,�a�sociologist�at�the�University�of�Chicago,� assembled�an�enormous�database�on�34�million�scholarly�ar�cles�published�in� academic�journals�from�1945�through�2005.�He�analyzed�the�cita�ons�included�in� the�ar�cles�to�see�if�pa�erns�of�cita�on,�and�hence�of�research,�have�changed�as� journals�have�shi�ed�from�being�printed�on�paper�to�being�published�online.� Considering�how�much�easier�it�is�to�search�digital�text�than�printed�text,�the� common�assump�on�has�been�that�making�journals�available�on�the�Net�would� signi�cantly�broaden�the�scope�of�scholarly�research,�leading�to�a�much�more� diverse�set�of�cita�ons.�But�that’s�not�at�all�what�Evans�discovered.�As�more�journals� moved�online,�scholars�actually�cited�fewer�ar�cles�than�they�had�before.�And�as�old� issues�of�printed�journals�were�digi�zed�and�uploaded�to�the�Web,�scholars�cited� more�recent�ar�cles�with�increasing�frequency.�A�broadening�of�available� informa�on�led,�as�Evans�described�it,�to�a�“narrowing�of�science�and� scholarship.”31

In�explaining�the�counterintui�ve��ndings�in�a�2008�Science�ar�cle,�Evans�noted�that�

automated�informa�on-�ltering�tools,�such�as�search�engines,�tend�to�serve�as� ampli�ers�of�popularity,�quickly�establishing�and�then�con�nually�reinforcing�a� consensus�about�what�informa�on�is�important�and�what�isn’t.�The�ease�of� following�hyperlinks,�moreover,�leads�online�researchers�to�“bypass�many�of�the� marginally�related�ar�cles�that�print�researchers”�would�rou�nely�skim�as�they� �ipped�through�the�pages�of�a�journal�or�a�book.�The�quicker�that�scholars�are�able� to�“�nd�prevailing�opinion,”�wrote�Evans,�the�more�likely�they�are�“to�follow�it,� leading�to�more�cita�ons�referencing�fewer�ar�cles.”�Though�much�less�e�cient� than�searching�the�Web,�old-fashioned�library�research�probably�served�to�widen� scholars’�horizons:�“By�drawing�researchers�through�unrelated�ar�cles,�print� browsing�and�perusal�may�have�facilitated�broader�comparisons�and�led�researchers� into�the�past.”32�The�easy�way�may�not�always�be�the�best�way,�but�the�easy�way�is� the�way�our�computers�and�search�engines�encourage�us�to�take.

Before�Frederick�Taylor�introduced�his�system�of�scien��c�management,�the� individual�laborer,�drawing�on�his�training,�knowledge,�and�experience,�would�make� his�own�decisions�about�how�he�did�his�work.�He�would�write�his�own�script.�A�er� Taylor,�the�laborer�began�following�a�script�wri�en�by�someone�else.�The�machine� operator�was�not�expected�to�understand�how�the�script�was�constructed�or�the� reasoning�behind�it;�he�was�simply�expected�to�obey�it.�The�messiness�that�comes� with�individual�autonomy�was�cleaned�up,�and�the�factory�as�a�whole�became�more� e�cient,�its�output�more�predictable.�Industry�prospered.�What�was�lost�along�with� the�messiness�was�personal�ini�a�ve,�crea�vity,�and�whim.�Conscious�cra��turned� into�unconscious�rou�ne.

When�we�go�online,�we,�too,�are�following�scripts�wri�en�by�others—algorithmic� instruc�ons�that�few�of�us�would�be�able�to�understand�even�if�the�hidden�codes� were�revealed�to�us.�When�we�search�for�informa�on�through�Google�or�other� search�engines,�we’re�following�a�script.�When�we�look�at�a�product�recommended� to�us�by�Amazon�or�Ne�lix,�we’re�following�a�script.�When�we�choose�from�a�list�of� categories�to�describe�ourselves�or�our�rela�onships�on�Facebook,�we’re�following�a� script.�These�scripts�can�be�ingenious�and�extraordinarily�useful,�as�they�were�in�the� Taylorist�factories,�but�they�also�mechanize�the�messy�processes�of�intellectual� explora�on�and�even�social�a�achment.�As�the�computer�programmer�Thomas�Lord� has�argued,�so�ware�can�end�up�turning�the�most�in�mate�and�personal�of�human� ac�vi�es�into�mindless�“rituals”�whose�steps�are�“encoded�in�the�logic�of�web� pages.”33�Rather�than�ac�ng�according�to�our�own�knowledge�and�intui�on,�we�go� through�the�mo�ons.

WHAT�EXACTLY�WAS�going�on�in�Hawthorne’s�head�as�he�sat�in�the�green�seclusion� of�Sleepy�Hollow�and�lost�himself�in�contempla�on?�And�how�was�it�di�erent�from� what�was�going�through�the�minds�of�the�city�dwellers�on�that�crowded,�noisy�train?�

A�series�of�psychological�studies�over�the�past�twenty�years�has�revealed�that�a�er� spending��me�in�a�quiet�rural�se�ng,�close�to�nature,�people�exhibit�greater� a�en�veness,�stronger�memory,�and�generally�improved�cogni�on.�Their�brains� become�both�calmer�and�sharper.�The�reason,�according�to�a�en�on�restora�on� theory,�or�ART,�is�that�when�people�aren’t�being�bombarded�by�external�s�muli,� their�brains�can,�in�e�ect,�relax.�They�no�longer�have�to�tax�their�working�memories� by�processing�a�stream�of�bo�om-up�distrac�ons.�The�resul�ng�state�of� contempla�veness�strengthens�their�ability�to�control�their�mind.

The�results�of�the�most�recent�such�study�were�published�in�Psychological�Science�at� the�end�of�2008.�A�team�of�University�of�Michigan�researchers,�led�by�psychologist� Marc�Berman,�recruited�some�three�dozen�people�and�subjected�them�to�a�rigorous,� and�mentally�fa�guing,�series�of�tests�designed�to�measure�the�capacity�of�their� working�memory�and�their�ability�to�exert�top-down�control�over�their�a�en�on.� The�subjects�were�then�divided�into�two�groups.�Half�of�them�spent�about�an�hour� walking�through�a�secluded�woodland�park,�and�the�other�half�spent�an�equal� amount�of��me�walking�along�busy�downtown�streets.�Both�groups�then�took�the� tests�a�second��me.�Spending��me�in�the�park,�the�researchers�found,�“signi�cantly� improved”�people’s�performance�on�the�cogni�ve�tests,�indica�ng�a�substan�al� increase�in�a�en�veness.�Walking�in�the�city,�by�contrast,�led�to�no�improvement�in� test�results.

The�researchers�then�conducted�a�similar�experiment�with�another�set�of�people.� Rather�than�taking�walks�between�the�rounds�of�tes�ng,�these�subjects�simply� looked�at�photographs�of�either�calm�rural�scenes�or�busy�urban�ones.�The�results� were�the�same.�The�people�who�looked�at�pictures�of�nature�scenes�were�able�to� exert�substan�ally�stronger�control�over�their�a�en�on,�while�those�who�looked�at� city�scenes�showed�no�improvement�in�their�a�en�veness.�“In�sum,”�concluded�the� researchers,�“simple�and�brief�interac�ons�with�nature�can�produce�marked� increases�in�cogni�ve�control.”�Spending��me�in�the�natural�world�seems�to�be�of� “vital�importance”�to�“e�ec�ve�cogni�ve�func�oning.”34

There�is�no�Sleepy�Hollow�on�the�Internet,�no�peaceful�spot�where� contempla�veness�can�work�its�restora�ve�magic.�There�is�only�the�endless,� mesmerizing�buzz�of�the�urban�street.�The�s�mula�ons�of�the�Net,�like�those�of�the� city,�can�be�invigora�ng�and�inspiring.�We�wouldn’t�want�to�give�them�up.�But�they� are,�as�well,�exhaus�ng�and�distrac�ng.�They�can�easily,�as�Hawthorne�understood,� overwhelm�all�quieter�modes�of�thought.�One�of�the�greatest�dangers�we�face�as�we� automate�the�work�of�our�minds,�as�we�cede�control�over�the��ow�of�our�thoughts� and�memories�to�a�powerful�electronic�system,�is�the�one�that�informs�the�fears�of� both�the�scien�st�Joseph�Weizenbaum�and�the�ar�st�Richard�Foreman:�a�slow� erosion�of�our�humanness�and�our�humanity.

It’s�not�only�deep�thinking�that�requires�a�calm,�a�en�ve�mind.�It’s�also�empathy� and�compassion.�Psychologists�have�long�studied�how�people�experience�fear�and� react�to�physical�threats,�but�it’s�only�recently�that�they’ve�begun�researching�the� sources�of�our�nobler�ins�ncts.�What�they’re��nding�is�that,�as�Antonio�Damasio,�the� director�of�USC’s�Brain�and�Crea�vity�Ins�tute,�explains,�the�higher�emo�ons� emerge�from�neural�processes�that�“are�inherently�slow.”35�In�one�recent� experiment,�Damasio�and�his�colleagues�had�subjects�listen�to�stories�describing� people�experiencing�physical�or�psychological�pain.�The�subjects�were�then�put�into� a�magne�c�resonance�imaging�machine�and�their�brains�were�scanned�as�they�were� asked�to�remember�the�stories.�The�experiment�revealed�that�while�the�human� brain�reacts�very�quickly�to�demonstra�ons�of�physical�pain—when�you�see� someone�injured,�the�primi�ve�pain�centers�in�your�own�brain�ac�vate�almost� instantaneously—the�more�sophis�cated�mental�process�of�empathizing�with� psychological�su�ering�unfolds�much�more�slowly.�It�takes��me,�the�researchers� discovered,�for�the�brain�“to�transcend�immediate�involvement�of�the�body”�and� begin�to�understand�and�to�feel�“the�psychological�and�moral�dimensions�of�a� situa�on.”36

The�experiment,�say�the�scholars,�indicates�that�the�more�distracted�we�become,� the�less�able�we�are�to�experience�the�subtlest,�most�dis�nc�vely�human�forms�of� empathy,�compassion,�and�other�emo�ons.�“For�some�kinds�of�thoughts,�especially� moral�decision-making�about�other�people’s�social�and�psychological�situa�ons,�we� need�to�allow�for�adequate��me�and�re�ec�on,”�cau�ons�Mary�Helen�Immordino- Yang,�a�member�of�the�research�team.�“If�things�are�happening�too�fast,�you�may� not�ever�fully�experience�emo�ons�about�other�people’s�psychological�states.”37�It� would�be�rash�to�jump�to�the�conclusion�that�the�Internet�is�undermining�our�moral� sense.�It�would�not�be�rash�to�suggest�that�as�the�Net�reroutes�our�vital�paths�and� diminishes�our�capacity�for�contempla�on,�it�is�altering�the�depth�of�our�emo�ons�as� well�as�our�thoughts.

There�are�those�who�are�heartened�by�the�ease�with�which�our�minds�are�adap�ng� to�the�Web’s�intellectual�ethic.�“Technological�progress�does�not�reverse,”�writes�a� Wall�Street�Journal�columnist,�“so�the�trend�toward�mul�tasking�and�consuming� many�di�erent�types�of�informa�on�will�only�con�nue.”�We�need�not�worry,�though,� because�our�“human�so�ware”�will�in��me�“catch�up�to�the�machine�technology� that�made�the�informa�on�abundance�possible.”�We’ll�“evolve”�to�become�more� agile�consumers�of�data.38�The�writer�of�a�cover�story�in�New�York�magazine�says� that�as�we�become�used�to�“the�21st-century�task”�of�“�i�ng”�among�bits�of�online� informa�on,�“the�wiring�of�the�brain�will�inevitably�change�to�deal�more�e�ciently� with�more�informa�on.”�We�may�lose�our�capacity�“to�concentrate�on�a�complex� task�from�beginning�to�end,”�but�in�recompense�we’ll�gain�new�skills,�such�as�the�

ability�to�“conduct�34�conversa�ons�simultaneously�across�six�di�erent�media.”39�A� prominent�economist�writes,�cheerily,�that�“the�web�allows�us�to�borrow�cogni�ve� strengths�from�au�sm�and�to�be�be�er�infovores.”�40�An�Atlan�c�author�suggests� that�our�“technology-induced�ADD”�may�be�“a�short-term�problem,”�stemming�from� our�reliance�on�“cogni�ve�habits�evolved�and�perfected�in�an�era�of�limited� informa�on��ow.”�Developing�new�cogni�ve�habits�is�“the�only�viable�approach�to� naviga�ng�the�age�of�constant�connec�vity.”41

These�writers�are�certainly�correct�in�arguing�that�we’re�being�molded�by�our�new� informa�on�environment.�Our�mental�adaptability,�built�into�the�deepest�workings� of�our�brains,�is�a�keynote�of�intellectual�history.�But�if�there’s�comfort�in�their� reassurances,�it’s�of�a�very�cold�sort.�Adapta�on�leaves�us�be�er�suited�to�our� circumstances,�but�qualita�vely�it’s�a�neutral�process.�What�ma�ers�in�the�end�is�not� our�becoming�but�what�we�become.�In�the�1950s,�Mar�n�Heidegger�observed�that� the�looming�“�de�of�technological�revolu�on”�could�“so�cap�vate,�bewitch,�dazzle,� and�beguile�man�that�calcula�ve�thinking�may�someday�come�to�be�accepted�and� prac�ced�as�the�only�way�of�thinking.”�Our�ability�to�engage�in�“medita�ve� thinking,”�which�he�saw�as�the�very�essence�of�our�humanity,�might�become�a�vic�m� of�headlong�progress.42�The�tumultuous�advance�of�technology�could,�like�the� arrival�of�the�locomo�ve�at�the�Concord�sta�on,�drown�out�the�re�ned�percep�ons,� thoughts,�and�emo�ons�that�arise�only�through�contempla�on�and�re�ec�on.�The� “frenziedness�of�technology,”�Heidegger�wrote,�threatens�to�“entrench�itself� everywhere.”43

It�may�be�that�we�are�now�entering�the��nal�stage�of�that�entrenchment.�We�are� welcoming�the�frenziedness�into�our�souls.

Epilogue

HUMAN�ELEMENTS

As�I�was��nishing�this�book�late�in�2009,�I�stumbled�on�a�small�story�tucked�away�in� the�press.�Edexcel,�the�largest�educa�onal�tes�ng��rm�in�England,�had�announced�it� was�introducing�“ar��cial�intelligence-based,�automated�marking�of�exam�essays.”� The�computerized�grading�system�would�“read�and�assess”�the�essays�that�Bri�sh� students�write�as�part�of�a�widely�used�test�of�language�pro�ciency.�A�spokesman� for�Edexcel,�which�is�a�subsidiary�of�the�media�conglomerate�Pearson,�explained�that� the�system�“produced�the�accuracy�of�human�markers�while�elimina�ng�human� elements�such�as��redness�and�subjec�vity,”�according�to�a�report�in�the�Times� Educa�on�Supplement.�A�tes�ng�expert�told�the�paper�that�the�computerized� evalua�on�of�essays�would�be�a�mainstay�of�educa�on�in�the�future:�“The� uncertainty�is�‘when’�not�‘if.’”1

How,�I�wondered,�would�the�Edexcel�so�ware�discern�those�rare�students�who� break�from�the�conven�ons�of�wri�ng�not�because�they’re�incompetent�but�because� they�have�a�special�spark�of�brilliance?�I�knew�the�answer:�it�wouldn’t.�Computers,� as�Joseph�Weizenbaum�pointed�out,�follow�rules;�they�don’t�make�judgments.�In� place�of�subjec�vity,�they�give�us�formula.�The�story�revealed�just�how�prescient� Weizenbaum�had�been�when,�decades�ago,�he�warned�that�as�we�grow�more� accustomed�to�and�dependent�on�our�computers�we�will�be�tempted�to�entrust�to� them�“tasks�that�demand�wisdom.”�And�once�we�do�that,�there�will�be�no�turning� back.�The�so�ware�will�become�indispensable�to�those�tasks.

The�seduc�ons�of�technology�are�hard�to�resist,�and�in�our�age�of�instant� informa�on�the�bene�ts�of�speed�and�e�ciency�can�seem�unalloyed,�their� desirability�beyond�debate.�But�I�con�nue�to�hold�out�hope�that�we�won’t�go�gently� into�the�future�our�computer�engineers�and�so�ware�programmers�are�scrip�ng�for� us.�Even�if�we�don’t�heed�Weizenbaum’s�words,�we�owe�it�to�ourselves�to�consider� them,�to�be�a�en�ve�to�what�we�stand�to�lose.�How�sad�it�would�be,�par�cularly� when�it�comes�to�the�nurturing�of�our�children’s�minds,�if�we�were�to�accept�without� ques�on�the�idea�that�“human�elements”�are�outmoded�and�dispensable.

The�Edexcel�story�also�s�rred,�once�again,�my�memory�of�that�scene�at�the�end�of� 2001.�It’s�a�scene�that�has�haunted�me�ever�since�I��rst�saw�the��lm�as�a�teenager� back�in�the�1970s,�in�the�midst�of�my�analogue�youth.�What�makes�it�so�poignant,� and�so�weird,�is�the�computer’s�emo�onal�response�to�the�disassembly�of�its�mind:� its�despair�as�one�circuit�a�er�another�goes�dark,�its�childlike�pleading�with�the� astronaut—“I�can�feel�it.�I�can�feel�it.�I’m�afraid”—and�its��nal�reversion�to�what�can� only�be�called�a�state�of�innocence.�HAL’s�outpouring�of�feeling�contrasts�with�the� emo�onlessness�that�characterizes�the�human��gures�in�the��lm,�who�go�about� their�business�with�an�almost�robo�c�e�ciency.�Their�thoughts�and�ac�ons�feel� scripted,�as�if�they’re�following�the�steps�of�an�algorithm.�In�the�world�of�2001,� people�have�become�so�machinelike�that�the�most�human�character�turns�out�to�be� a�machine.�That’s�the�essence�of�Kubrick’s�dark�prophecy:�as�we�come�to�rely�on� computers�to�mediate�our�understanding�of�the�world,�it�is�our�own�intelligence�that� �a�ens�into�ar��cial�intelligence.

Notes

Prologue�THE�WATCHDOG�AND�THE�THIEF

1.�Marshall�McLuhan,�Understanding�Media:�The�Extensions�of�Man,�cri�cal�ed.,�ed.� W.�Terrence�Gordon�(Corte�Madera,�CA:�Gingko,�2003),�5.

2.�Ibid.,�30.

3.�Ibid.,�31.

4.�Ibid.,�23.

5.�Ibid.,�31.

6.�David�Thomson,�Have�You�Seen?:�A�Personal�Introduc�on�to�1,000�Films�(New� York:�Knopf,�2008),�149.�One�HAL�AND�ME

1.�Heather�Pringle,�“Is�Google�Making�Archaeologists�Smarter?,”�Beyond�Stone�&� Bone�blog�(Archaeological�Ins�tute�of�America),�February�27,�2009,� h�p://archaeology.org/blog/?p=332.

2.�Clive�Thompson,�“Your�Outboard�Brain�Knows�All,”�Wired,�October�2007.

3.�Sco��Karp,�“The�Evolu�on�from�Linear�Thought�to�Networked�Thought,”� Publishing�2.0�blog,�February�9,�2008,�h�p://publishing2.com/2008/02/09/the- evolu�on-from-linear-thought-to-networked-thought.

4.�Bruce�Friedman,�“How�Google�Is�Changing�Our�Informa�on-Seeking�Behavior,”� Lab�So��News�blog,�February�6,�2008,�h�p://labso�news.type� pad.com/lab_so�_news/2008/02/how-google-is-c.html.

5.�Philip�Davis,�“Is�Google�Making�Us�Stupid?�Nope!”�The�Scholarly�Kitchen�blog,� June�16,�2008,�h�p://scholarlykitchen.sspnet.org/2008/06/16/is-google-making-us- stupid-nope.

6.�Sco��Karp,�“Connec�ng�the�Dots�of�the�Web�Revolu�on,”�Publishing�2.0�blog,� June�17,�2008,�h�p://publishing2.com/2008/06/17/connec�ng-the-dots-of-the- web-revolu�on.

7.�Davis,�“Is�Google�Making�Us�Stupid?�Nope!”

8.�Don�Tapsco�,�“How�Digital�Technology�Has�Changed�the�Brain,”�BusinessWeek� Online,�November�10,�2008,�www.businessweek.com/� technology/content/nov2008/�tc2008117_034517.htm.

9.�Don�Tapsco�,�“How�to�Teach�and�Manage�‘Genera�on�Net,’”�BusinessWeek� Online,�November�30,�2008,�www.businessweek.com/technology/content/nov� 2008/tc20081130_713563.htm.

10.�Quoted�in�Naomi�S.�Baron,�Always�On:�Language�in�an�Online�and�Mobile�World� (Oxford:�Oxford�University�Press,�2008),�204.

11.�John�Ba�elle,�“Google:�Making�Nick�Carr�Stupid,�but�It’s�Made�This�Guy� Smarter,”�John�Ba�elle’s�Searchblog,�June�10,�2008,�h�p://ba�ellemedia.� com/archives/004494.php.

12.�John�G.�Kemeny,�Man�and�the�Computer�(New�York:�Scribner,�1972),�21.

13.�Gary�Wolfe,�“The�(Second�Phase�of�the)�Revolu�on�Has�Begun,”�Wired,�October� 1994.�Two�THE�VITAL�PATHS

1.�Sverre�Avnskog,�“Who�Was�Rasmus�Malling-Hansen?,”�Malling-Hansen�Society,� 2006,�www.malling-hansen.org/�leadmin/biography/biography.pdf.

2.�The�story�of�Nietzsche�and�his�typewriter�draws�from�Friedrich�A.�Ki�ler,� Gramophone,�Film,�Typewriter�(Stanford:�Stanford�University�Press,�1999),�200–203;� J.�C.�Nyíri,�“Thinking�with�a�Word�Processor,”�in�Philosophy�and�the�Cogni�ve� Sciences,�ed.�R.�Casa��(Vienna:�Hölder-Pichler-Tempsky,�1994),�63–74;�Chris�an�J.� Emden,�Nietzsche�on�Language,�Consciousness,�and�the�Body�(Champaign:� University�of�Illinois�Press,�2005),�27–29;�and�Cur�s�Cate,�Friedrich�Nietzsche� (Woodstock,�NY:�Overlook,�2005),�315–18.

3.�Joseph�LeDoux,�Synap�c�Self:�How�Our�Brains�Become�Who�We�Are�(New�York:� Penguin,�2002),�38–39.

4.�In�addi�on�to�the�100�billion�neurons�in�our�brains,�there�are�about�a�trillion�glial� cells,�or�glia.�It�was�once�assumed�that�glia�were�inert,�essen�ally�providing�padding� to�the�neurons.�(Glia�means�“glue”�in�Greek.)�Over�the�last�two�decades,�however,� neuroscien�sts�have�found�clues�that�glia�may�play�important�roles�in�the�brain’s� func�oning.�A�par�cularly�abundant�kind�of�glial�cell,�called�an�astrocyte,�appears�to� release�carbon�atoms�and�produce�neurotransmi�ers�in�response�to�signals�from� other�cells.�Further�discoveries�about�glia�may�deepen�our�understanding�of�the� brain’s�workings.�For�a�good�overview,�see�Carl�Zimmer,�“The�Dark�Ma�er�of�the� Human�Brain,”�Discover,�September�2009.

5.�J.�Z.�Young,�Doubt�and�Certainty�in�Science:�A�Biologist’s�Re�ec�ons�on�the�Brain� (London:�Oxford�University�Press,�1951),�36.

6.�William�James,�The�Principles�of�Psychology,�vol.�1�(New�York:�Holt,�1890),�104–6.� Transla�on�of�Dumont’s�essay�is�from�James�E.�Black�and�William�T.�Greenough,�

“Induc�on�of�Pa�ern�in�Neural�Structure�by�Experience:�Implica�ons�for�Cogni�ve� Development,”�in�Advances�in�Developmental�Psychology,�vol.�4,�ed.�Michael�E.� Lamb,�Ann�L.�Brown,�and�Barbara�Rogo��(Hillsdale,�NJ:�Erlbaum,�1986),�1.

7.�See�Norman�Doidge,�The�Brain�That�Changes�Itself:�Stories�of�Personal�Triumph� from�the�Fron�ers�of�Brain�Science�(New�York:�Penguin,�2007),�223.

8.�Quoted�in�Je�rey�M.�Schwartz�and�Sharon�Begley,�The�Mind�and�the�Brain:� Neuroplas�city�and�the�Power�of�Mental�Force�(New�York:�Harper�Perennial,�2003),� 130.

9.�Quoted�in�Doidge,�Brain�That�Changes�Itself,�201.

10.�The�Nobel�laureate�David�Hubel�made�this�remark�to�the�neurosurgeon�Joseph� Boden,�report�Schwartz�and�Begley�in�Mind�and�the�Brain,�25.

11.�Doidge,�Brain�That�Changes�Itself,�xviii.

12.�A�video�of�the�debate�between�Mailer�and�McLuhan�can�be�seen�at�Google� Videos:�h�p://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=5470443898801103219.

13.�Schwartz�and�Begley,�Mind�and�the�Brain,�175.

14.�R.�L.�Paul,�H.�Goodman,�and�M.�Merzenich,�“Altera�ons�in�Mechanoreceptor� Input�to�Brodmann’s�Areas�1�and�3�of�the�Postcentral�Hand�Area�of�Macaca�mula�a� a�er�Nerve�Sec�on�and�Regenera�on,”�Brain�Research,�39,�no.�1�(April�1972):�1–19.

15.�Quoted�in�Schwartz�and�Begley,�Mind�and�the�Brain,�177.

16.�James�Olds,�interview�with�the�author,�February�1,�2008.

17.�Graham�Lawton,�“Is�It�Worth�Going�to�the�Mind�Gym?,”�New�Scien�st,�January� 12,�2008.

18.�The�workings�of�synapses�are�extraordinarily�complicated,�in�uenced�by�a�wide� array�of�chemicals�including�transmi�ers�like�glutamate�(which�encourages�the� transfer�of�electrical�signals�between�neurons)�and�GABA�(gamma-aminobutyric� acid,�which�inhibits�the�transfer�of�the�signals)�and�various�modulators,�like� serotonin,�dopamine,�testosterone,�and�estrogen,�that�alter�the�e�cacy�of�the� transmi�ers.�In�rare�cases,�the�membranes�of�neurons�fuse,�allowing�electrical� signals�to�pass�without�the�media�on�of�synapses.�See�LeDoux,�Synap�c�Self,� par�cularly�49–64.

19.�Eric�R.�Kandel,�In�Search�of�Memory:�The�Emergence�of�a�New�Science�of�Mind� (New�York:�Norton,�2006),�198–207.�See�also�Bruce�E.�Wexler,�Brain�and�Culture:� Neurobiology,�Ideology,�and�Social�Change�(Cambridge,�MA:�MIT�Press,�2006),�27– 29.

20.�Kandel,�In�Search�of�Memory,�202–3.

21.�LeDoux,�Synap�c�Self,�3.

22.�The�use�of�the�visual�cortex�in�reading�Braille�was�documented�in�an�experiment� undertaken�by�Alvaro�Pascual-Leone�in�1993.�See�Doidge,�Brain�That�Changes�Itself,� 200.

23.�McGovern�Ins�tute�for�Brain�Research,�“What�Drives�Brain�Changes�in�Macular� Degenera�on?,”�press�release,�March�4,�2009.

24.�Sandra�Blakesley,�“Missing�Limbs,�S�ll�A�ngle,�Are�Clues�to�Changes�in�the� Brain,”�New�York�Times,�November�10,�1992.

25.�In�some�of�the�most�promising�experimental�treatments�for�Alzheimer’s�disease,� currently�being�tested�with�considerable�success�in�mice,�drugs�are�used�to�promote� plas�c�synap�c�changes�that�strengthen�memory�forma�on.�See�J.-S.�Guan,�S.�J.� Haggarty,�E.�Giacome�,�et�al.,�“HDAC2�Nega�vely�Regulates�Memory�Forma�on�and� Synap�c�Plas�city,”�Nature,�459�(May�7,�2009):�55–60.

26.�Mark�Halle�,�“Neuroplas�city�and�Rehabilita�on,”�Journal�of�Rehabilita�on� Research�and�Development,�42,�no.�4�(July–August�2005):�xvii–xxii.

27.�A.�Pascual-Leone,�A.�Amedi,�F.�Fregni,�and�L.�B.�Merabet,�“The�Plas�c�Human� Brain�Cortex,”�Annual�Review�of�Neuroscience,�28�(2005):�377–401.

28.�David�J.�Buller,�Adap�ng�Minds:�Evolu�onary�Psychology�and�the�Persistent� Quest�for�Human�Nature�(Cambridge,�MA:�MIT�Press,�2005),�136–42.

29.�M.�A.�Umiltà,�L.�Escola,�I.�Instkirveli,�et�al.,�“When�Pliers�Become�Fingers�in�the� Monkey�Motor�System,”�Proceedings�of�the�Na�onal�Academy�of�Sciences,�105,�no.� 6�(February�12,�2008):�2209–13.�See�also�Angelo�Maravita�and�Atsushi�Iriki,�“Tools� for�the�Body�(Schema),”�Trends�in�Cogni�ve�Science,�8,�no.�2�(February�2004):�79– 86.

30.�E.�A.�Maguire,�D.�G.�Gadian,�I.�S.�Johnsrude,�et�al.,�“Naviga�on-Related�Structural�

Change�in�the�Hippocampi�of�Taxi�Drivers,”�Proceedings�of�the�Na�onal�Academy�of� Sciences,�97,�no.�8�(April�11,�2000):�4398–403.�See�also�E.�A.�Maguire,�H.�J.�Spiers,�C.� D.�Good,�et�al.,�“Naviga�on�Exper�se�and�the�Human�Hippocampus:�A�Structural� Brain�Imaging�Analysis,”�Hip-�pocampus,�13,�no.�2�(2003):�250–59;�and�Alex� Hutchinson,�“Global�Imposi�oning�Systems,”�Walrus,�November�2009.

31.�A.�Pascual-Leone,�D.�Nguyet,�L.�G.�Cohen,�et�al.,�“Modula�on�of�Muscle� Responses�Evoked�by�Transcranial�Magne�c�S�mula�on�during�the�Acquisi�on�of� New�Fine�Motor�Skills,”�Journal�of�Neurophysiology,�74,�no.�3�(1995):�1037–45.�See� also�Doidge,�Brain�That�Changes�Itself,�200–202.

32.�Michael�Greenberg,�“Just�Remember�This,”�New�York�Review�of�Books,� December�4,�2008.

33.�Doidge,�Brain�That�Changes�Itself,�317.

34.�Ibid.,�108.

35.�Pascual-Leone�et�al.,�“Plas�c�Human�Brain�Cortex.”�See�also�Sharon�Begley,�Train� Your�Mind,�Change�Your�Brain:�How�a�New�Science�Reveals�Our�Extraordinary� Poten�al�to�Transform�Ourselves�(New�York:�Ballan�ne,�2007),�244.

36.�Doidge,�Brain�That�Changes�Itself,�59.

37.�Schwartz�and�Begley,�Mind�and�the�Brain,�201.�a�digression�ON�WHAT�THE�BRAIN� THINKS�ABOUT�WHEN�IT�THINKS�ABOUT�ITSELF

1.�Quota�ons�from�Aristotle’s�The�Parts�of�Animals�are�from�William�Ogle’s�much- reproduced�transla�on.

2.�Robert�L.�Martensen,�The�Brain�Takes�Shape:�An�Early�History�(New�York:�Oxford� University�Press,�2004),�50.

3.�René�Descartes,�The�World�and�Other�Wri�ngs,�ed.�Stephen�Gaukroger� (Cambridge:�Cambridge�University�Press,�1998),�106–40.

4.�Martensen,�Brain�Takes�Shape,�66.�Three�TOOLS�OF�THE�MIND

1.�Vincent�Virga�and�the�Library�of�Congress,�Cartographia�(New�York:�Li�le,�Brown,� 2007),�5.

2.�Ibid.

3.�Arthur�H.�Robinson,�Early�Thema�c�Mapping�in�the�History�of�Cartography� (Chicago:�University�of�Chicago�Press,�1982),�1.

4.�Jacques�Le�Go�,�Time,�Work,�and�Culture�in�the�Middle�Ages�(Chicago:�University� of�Chicago�Press,�1980),�44.

5.�David�S.�Landes,�Revolu�on�in�Time:�Clocks�and�the�Making�of�the�Modern�World� (Cambridge,�MA:�Harvard�University�Press,�2000),�76.

6.�Lynn�White�Jr.,�Medieval�Technology�and�Social�Change�(New�York:�Oxford� University�Press,�1964),�124.

7.�Landes,�Revolu�on�in�Time,�92–93.

8.�Lewis�Mumford,�Technics�and�Civiliza�on�(New�York:�Harcourt�Brace,�1963),�15.� The�dis�nguished�computer�scien�st�Danny�Hillis�notes�that�“the�computer,�with�its� mechanis�c�playing�out�of�predetermined�rules,�is�the�direct�descendant�of�the� clock.”�W.�Daniel�Hillis,�“The�Clock,”�in�The�Greatest�Inven�ons�of�the�Past�2,000� Years,�ed.�John�Brockman�(New�York:�Simon�&�Schuster,�2000),�141.

9.�Karl�Marx,�The�Poverty�of�Philosophy�(New�York:�Cosimo,�2008),�119.

10.�Ralph�Waldo�Emerson,�“Ode,�Inscribed�to�W.�H.�Channing,”�in�Collected�Poems� and�Transla�ons�(New�York:�Library�of�America,�1994),�63.

11.�Marshall�McLuhan,�Understanding�Media:�The�Extensions�of�Man,�cri�cal�ed.,� ed.�W.�Terrence�Gordon�(Corte�Madera,�CA:�Gingko,�2003),�68.�For�a�more�recent� expression�of�this�view,�see�Kevin�Kelly,�“Humans�Are�the�Sex�Organs�of� Technology,”�The�Technium�blog,�February�16,�2007,�www.kk.org/thetechnium/� archives/2007/02/�humans_are_the.php.

12.�James�W.�Carey,�Communica�on�as�Culture:�Essays�on�Media�and�Society�(New� York:�Routledge,�2008),�107.

13.�Langdon�Winner,�“Technologies�as�Forms�of�Life,”�in�Readings�in�the�Philosophy� of�Technology,�ed.�David�M.�Kaplan�(Lanham,�MD:�Rowman�&�Li�le�eld,�2004),�105.

14.�Ralph�Waldo�Emerson,�“Intellect,”�in�Emerson:�Essays�and�Lectures�(New�York:� Library�of�America,�1983),�417.

15.�See�Maryanne�Wolf,�Proust�and�the�Squid:�The�Story�and�Science�of�the�Reading�

Brain�(New�York:�Harper,�2007),�217.

16.�H.�G.�Wells,�World�Brain�(New�York:�Doubleday,�Doran,�1938),�vii.

17.�René�Descartes,�The�Philosophical�Wri�ngs�of�Descartes,�vol.�3,�The� Correspondence�(Cambridge:�Cambridge�University�Press,�1991),�304.

18.�Walter�J.�Ong,�Orality�and�Literacy�(New�York:�Routledge,�2002),�82.

19.�F.�Ostrosky-Solís,�Miguel�Arellano�García,�and�Martha�Pérez,�“Can�Learning�to� Read�and�Write�Change�the�Brain�Organiza�on?�An�Electrophysio-logical�Study,”� Interna�onal�Journal�of�Psychology,�39,�no.�1�(2004):�27–35.

20.�Wolf,�Proust�and�the�Squid,�36.

21.�E.�Paulesu,�J.-F.�Démonet,�F.�Fazio,�et�al.,�“Dyslexia:�Cultural�Diversity�and� Biological�Unity,”�Science,�291�(March�16,�2001):�2165–67.�See�also�Maggie�Jackson,� Distracted:�The�Erosion�of�A�en�on�and�the�Coming�Dark�Age�(Amherst,�NY:� Prometheus,�2008),�168–69.

22.�Wolf,�Proust�and�the�Squid,�29.

23.�Ibid.,�34.

24.�Ibid.,�60–65.

25.�Quota�ons�from�Phaedrus�are�taken�from�the�popular�transla�ons�by�Reginald� Hackforth�and�Benjamin�Jowe�.

26.�Eric�A.�Havelock,�Preface�to�Plato�(Cambridge,�MA:�Harvard�University�Press,� 1963),�41.

27.�Ong,�Orality�and�Literacy,�80.

28.�See�Ong,�Orality�and�Literacy,�33.

29.�Ibid.,�34.

30.�Eric�A.�Havelock,�The�Muse�Learns�to�Write:�Re�ec�ons�on�Orality�and�Literacy� from�An�quity�to�the�Present�(New�Haven,�CT:�Yale�University�Press,�1986),�74.

31.�McLuhan,�Understanding�Media,�112–13.

32.�Ibid.,�120.

33.�Ong,�Orality�and�Literacy,�14–15.

34.�Ibid.,�82.�Four�THE�DEEPENING�PAGE

1.�Saint�Augus�ne,�Confessions,�trans.�R.�S.�Pine-Co�n�(London:�Penguin,�1961),� 114.

2.�Paul�Saenger,�Space�between�Words:�The�Origins�of�Silent�Reading�(Palo�Alto,�CA:� Stanford�University�Press,�1997),�14.

3.�Ibid.,�7.

4.�Ibid.,�11.

5.�Ibid.,�15.

6.�Maryanne�Wolf,�Proust�and�the�Squid:�The�Story�and�Science�of�the�Reading�Brain� (New�York:�Harper,�2007),�142–46.

7.�Saenger,�Space�between�Words,�13.

8.�Charles�E.�Connor,�Howard�E.�Egeth,�and�Steven�Yan�s,�“Visual�A�en�on:�Bo�om- Up�versus�Top-Down,”�Cogni�ve�Biology,�14�(October�5,�2004):�850–52.

9.�Maya�Pines,�“Sensing�Change�in�the�Environment,”�in�Seeing,�Hearing,�and� Smelling�in�the�World:�A�Report�from�the�Howard�Hughes�Medical�Ins�tute,� February�1995,�www.hhmi.org/senses/a120.html.

10.�The�brain’s�maintenance�of�top-down�control�over�a�en�on�seems�to�require� the�synchronized��ring�of�neurons�in�the�prefrontal�cortex.�“It�takes�a�lot�of�your� prefrontal�brain�power�to�force�yourself�not�to�process�a�strong�[distrac�ng]�input,”� says�MIT�neuroscien�st�Robert�Desimone.�See�John�Tierney,�“Ear�Plugs�to�Lasers:� The�Science�of�Concentra�on,”�New�York�Times,�May�5,�2009.

11.�Vaughan�Bell,�“The�Myth�of�the�Concentra�on�Oasis,”�Mind�Hacks�blog,�February� 11,�2009,�www.mindhacks.com/blog/�2009/02/the_myth_�of_the_conc.html.

12.�Quoted�in�Alberto�Manguel,�A�History�of�Reading�(New�York:�Viking,�1996),�49.� Early�Chris�ans�prac�ced�a�religious�form�of�Bible�reading�called�lec�o�divina,�or�

holy�reading.�Deeply�medita�ve�reading�was�seen�as�a�way�to�approach�the�divine.

13.�See�Saenger,�Space�between�Words,�249–50.

14.�Ibid.,�258.�Walter�J.�Ong�notes�that�editorial�intensity�increased�further�as�the� publishing�business�grew�more�sophis�cated:�“Print�involves�many�persons�besides� the�author�in�the�produc�on�of�a�work—publishers,�literary�agents,�publishers’� readers,�copy�editors�and�others.�Before�as�well�as�a�er�scru�ny�by�such�persons,� wri�ng�for�print�o�en�calls�for�painstaking�revisions�by�the�author�of�an�order�of� magnitude�virtually�unknown�in�a�manuscript�culture.”�Ong,�Orality�and�Literacy� (New�York:�Routledge,�2002),�122.

15.�Saenger,�Space�between�Words,�259–60.

16.�See�Christopher�de�Hamel,�“Pu�ng�a�Price�on�It,”�introduc�on�to�Michael� Olmert,�The�Smithsonian�Book�of�Books�(Washington,�DC:�Smithsonian�Books,�1992),� 10.

17.�James�Carroll,�“Silent�Reading�in�Public�Life,”�Boston�Globe,�February�12,�2007.

18.�Gutenberg�was�not�the��rst�to�invent�movable�type.�Around�1050,�a�Chinese� cra�sman�named�Pi�Sheng�began�molding�Chinese�logographs�out�of�small�bits�of� clay.�The�clay�type�was�used�to�print�pages�through�hand-rubbing,�the�same�method� used�to�make�prints�from�woodblocks.�Because�the�Chinese�didn’t�invent�a�prin�ng� press�(perhaps�because�the�large�number�of�logographic�symbols�made�the�machine� imprac�cal),�they�were�unable�to�mass-produce�the�prints,�and�Pi�Sheng’s�movable� type�remained�of�limited�use.�See�Olmert,�Smithsonian�Book�of�Books,�65.

19.�See�Frederick�G.�Kilgour,�The�Evolu�on�of�the�Book�(New�York:�Oxford�University� Press,�1998),�84–93.

20.�Francis�Bacon,�The�New�Organon,�ed.�Lisa�Jardine�and�Michael�Silverthorne� (Cambridge:�Cambridge�University�Press,�2000),�100.

21.�Elizabeth�L.�Eisenstein,�The�Prin�ng�Press�as�an�Agent�of�Change,�one-volume� paperback�ed.�(Cambridge:�Cambridge�University�Press,�1980),�46.

22.�Michael�Clapham,�“Prin�ng,”�in�A�History�of�Technology,�vol.�3,�From�the� Renaissance�to�the�Industrial�Revolu�on,�c.�1500–c.�1750,�ed.�Charles�Singer�et�al.� (London:�Oxford�University�Press,�1957),�37.

23.�Eisenstein,�Prin�ng�Press�as�an�Agent�of�Change,�50.

24.�Ibid.,�49.

25.�François�Rabelais,�Gargantua�and�Pantagruel,�trans.�Sir�Thomas�Urquhart�and� Pierre�Le�Mo�eux�(New�York:�Barnes�&�Noble,�2005),�161.

26.�Eisenstein,�Prin�ng�Press�as�an�Agent�of�Change,�72.

27.�Quoted�in�Joad�Raymond,�The�Inven�on�of�the�Newspaper:�English�News-books,� 1641–1649�(Oxford:�Oxford�University�Press,�2005),�187.

28.�See�Olmert,�Smithsonian�Book�of�Books,�301.

29.�Eisenstein,�Prin�ng�Press�as�an�Agent�of�Change,�130.

30.�Notes�Eisenstein,�“Reading�out�loud�to�hearing�publics�not�only�persisted�a�er� prin�ng�but�was,�indeed,�facilitated�by�the�new�abundance�of�texts.”�Elizabeth�L.� Eisenstein,�The�Prin�ng�Revolu�on�in�Early�Modern�Europe,�2nd�ed.�(New�York:� Cambridge�University�Press,�2005),�328.

31.�J.�Z.�Young,�Doubt�and�Certainty�in�Science:�A�Biologist’s�Re�ec�ons�on�the�Brain� (London:�Oxford�University�Press,�1951),�101.

32.�Books�also�introduced�a�new�set�of�tools�for�organizing�and�conveying� informa�on.�As�Jack�Goody�has�shown,�lists,�tables,�formulas,�and�recipes�became� commonplace�as�books�proliferated.�Such�literary�devices�further�deepened�our� thinking,�providing�ways�to�classify�and�explain�phenomena�with�ever-greater� precision.�Goody�writes�that�“it�does�not�require�much�re�ec�on�upon�the�contents� of�a�book�to�realize�the�transforma�on�in�communica�on�that�wri�ng�has�made,�not� simply�in�a�mechanical�sense,�but�in�a�cogni�ve�one,�what�we�can�do�with�our�minds� and�what�our�minds�can�do�with�us.”�Goody,�The�Domes�ca�on�of�the�Savage�Mind� (Cambridge:�Cambridge�University�Press,�1977),�160.

33.�Darnton�points�out�that�the�radically�democra�c�and�meritocra�c�Republic�of� Le�ers�was�an�ideal�that�would�never�be�fully�realized,�but�as�an�ideal�it�had�great� force�in�shaping�people’s�concep�on�of�themselves�and�their�culture.�Robert� Darnton,�“Google�and�the�Future�of�Books,”�New�York�Review�of�Books,�February�12,� 2009.

34.�David�M.�Levy,�Scrolling�Forward:�Making�Sense�of�Documents�in�the�Digital�Age� (New�York:�Arcade,�2001),�104.�The�italics�are�Levy’s.

35.�Nicole�K.�Speer,�Jeremy�R.�Reynolds,�Khena�M.�Swallow,�and�Je�rey�M.�Zacks,� “Reading�Stories�Ac�vates�Neural�Representa�ons�of�Visual�and�Motor� Experiences,”�Psychological�Science,�20,�no.�8�(2009):�989–99.�Gerry�Everding,� “Readers�Build�Vivid�Mental�Simula�ons�of�Narra�ve�Situa�ons,�Brain�Scans� Suggest,”�Washington�University�(St.�Louis)�Web�site,�January�26,�2009,�h�p://news- info.wustl.edu/�ps/page/normal/13325.html.

36.�Ralph�Waldo�Emerson,�“Thoughts�on�Modern�Literature,”�Dial,�October�1840.

37.�Ong,�Orality�and�Literacy,�8.

38.�Eisenstein,�Prin�ng�Press�as�an�Agent�of�Change,�152.

39.�Wolf,�Proust�and�the�Squid,�217–18.

40.�Some�people�have�suggested�that�communica�on�on�the�Internet,�which�tends� to�be�brief,�informal,�and�conversa�onal,�will�return�us�to�an�oral�culture.�But�that� seems�unlikely�for�many�reasons,�the�most�important�being�that�the�communica�on� does�not�take�place�in�person,�as�it�does�in�oral�cultures,�but�rather�through�a� technological�intermediary.�Digital�messages�are�disembodied.�“The�oral�word,”� wrote�Walter�Ong,�“never�exists�in�a�simply�verbal�context,�as�a�wri�en�word�does.� Spoken�words�are�always�modi�ca�ons�of�a�total,�existen�al�situa�on,�which�always� engages�the�body.�Bodily�ac�vity�beyond�mere�vocaliza�on�is�not�adven��ous�or� contrived,�but�is�natural�and�even�inevitable.”�Ong,�Orality�and�Literacy,�67–68.

41.�Ibid.,�80.�a�digression�ON�LEE�DE�FOREST�AND�HIS�AMAZING�AUDION

1.�Public�Broadcas�ng�System,�“A�Science�Odyssey:�People�and�Discoveries:�Lee�de� Forest,”�undated,�www.pbs.org/wgbh/aso/databank/entries/b�ore.�html.�For�an� excellent�review�of�de�Forest’s�early�career�and�accomplishments,�see�Hugh�G.�J.� Aitken,�The�Con�nuous�Wave:�Technology�and�American�Radio,�1900–1932� (Princeton,�NJ:�Princeton�University�Press,�1985),�162–249.�For�de�Forest’s�own�take� on�his�life,�see�Father�of�the�Radio:�The�Autobiography�of�Lee�de�Forest�(Chicago:� Wilcox�&�Folle�,�1950).

2.�Aitken,�Con�nuous�Wave,�217.

3.�Lee�de�Forest,�“Dawn�of�the�Electronic�Age,”�Popular�Mechanics,�January�1952.� Five�A�MEDIUM�OF�THE�MOST�GENERAL�NATURE

1.�Andrew�Hodges,�“Alan�Turing,”�in�The�Stanford�Encyclopedia�of�Philosophy,�Fall� 2008�ed.,�ed.�Edward�N.�Zalta,�h�p://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall�

2008/entries/turing.

2.�Alan�Turing,�“On�Computable�Numbers,�with�an�Applica�on�to�the� Entsheidungsproblem,”�Proceedings�of�the�London�Mathema�cal�Society,�42,�no.�1� (1937):�230–65.

3.�Alan�Turing,�“Compu�ng�Machinery�and�Intelligence,”�Mind,�59�(October�1950):� 433–60.

4.�George�B.�Dyson,�Darwin�among�the�Machines:�The�Evolu�on�of�Global� Intelligence�(New�York:�Addison-Wesley,�1997),�40.

5.�Nicholas�G.�Carr,�Does�IT�Ma�er?�(Boston:�Harvard�Business�School�Press,�2004),� 79.

6.�K.�G.�Co�man�and�A.�M.�Odlyzko,�“Growth�of�the�Internet,”�AT&T�Labs� monograph,�July�6,�2001,�www.dtc.umn.edu/%7Eodlyzko/� doc/o�.internet.growth.pdf.

7.�Forrester�Research,�“Consumers’�Behavior�Online:�A�2007�Deep�Dive,”�April�18,� 2008,�www.forrester.com/Research/�Document/0,7211,45266,00.html.

8.�Forrester�Research,�“Consumer�Behavior�Online:�A�2009�Deep�Dive,”�July�27,� 2009,�www.forrester.com/Research/�Document/0,7211,54327,00.html.

9.�Nielsen�Company,�“Time�Spent�Online�among�Kids�Increases�63�Percent�in�the�Last� Five�Years,�According�to�Nielsen,”�media�alert,�July�6,�2009,�www.nielsen- online.com/pr/pr_090706.pdf.

10.�Forrester�Research,�“A�Deep�Dive�into�European�Consumers’�Online�Behavior,� 2009,”�August�13,�2009,�www.forrester.com/Research/Doc� ument/0,7211,54524,00.html.

11.�TNS�Global,�“Digital�World,�Digital�Life,”�December�2008,� www.tnsglobal.com/_assets/��les/TNS_Market_Research_� Digital_World_Digital_Life.pdf.

12.�Nielsen�Company,�“Tex�ng�Now�More�Popular�than�Calling,”�news�release,� September�22,�2008,�www.nielsenmobile.com/html/press%20� releases/TextsVersusCalls.html;�Eric�Zeman,�“U.S.�Teens�Sent�2,272�Text�Messages� per�Month�in�4Q08,”�Over�the�Air�blog�(Informa�onWeek),�May�26,�2009,� www.informa�onweek.com/blog/�main/archives/2009/05/us_�teens_sent_2.html.

13.�Steven�Cherry,�“thx�4�the�revnu,”�IEEE�Spectrum,�October�2008.

14.�Sara�Rimer,�“Play�with�Your�Food,�Just�Don’t�Text!”�New�York�Times,�May�26,� 2009.

15.�Nielsen�Company,�“A2/M2�Three�Screen�Report:�1st�Quarter�2009,”�May�20,� 2009,�h�p://blog.nielsen.com/�nielsenwire/wp-content/�uploads/2009/05/� nielsen_threescreenreport_q109.pdf.

16.�Forrester�Research,�“How�European�Teens�Consume�Media,”�December�4,�2009,� www.forrester.com/rb/Research�/how_european_teens_�consume_media/q/id/� 53763/t/2.

17.�Heidi�Dawley,�“Time-wise,�Internet�Is�Now�TV’s�Equal,”�Media�Life,�February�1,� 2006.

18.�Council�for�Research�Excellence,�“The�Video�Consumer�Mapping�Study,”�March� 26,�2009,�www.researchexcellence.com/�vcm_overview.pdf.

19.�Bureau�of�Labor�Sta�s�cs,�“American�Time�Use�Survey,”�2004–2008,� www.bls.gov/tus/.

20.�Noreen�O’Leary,�“Welcome�to�My�World,”�Adweek,�November�17,�2008.

21.�Marshall�McLuhan,�Understanding�Media:�The�Extensions�of�Man,�cri�cal�ed.,� ed.�W.�Terrence�Gordon�(Corte�Madera,�CA:�Gingko,�2003),�237.

22.�Anne�Mangen,�“Hypertext�Fic�on�Reading:�Hap�cs�and�Immersion,”�Journal�of� Research�in�Reading,�31,�no.�4�(2008):�404–19.

23.�Cory�Doctorow,�“Wri�ng�in�the�Age�of�Distrac�on,”�Locus,�January�2009.

24.�Ben�Sisario,�“Music�Sales�Fell�in�2008,�but�Climbed�on�the�Web,”�New�York� Times,�December�31,�2008.

25.�Ronald�Grover,�“Hollywood�Is�Worried�as�DVD�Sales�Slow,”�BusinessWeek,� February�19,�2009;�Richard�Corliss,�“Why�Ne�lix�S�nks,”�Time,�August�10,�2009.

26.�Chrystal�Szeto,�“U.S.�Gree�ng�Cards�and�Postcards,”�Pitney�Bowes�Background� Paper�No.�20,�November�21,�2005,�www.pos�nsight.com/�les/� Nov21_Gree�ngCards_Final.pdf.

27.�Brigid�Schulte,�“So�Long,�Snail�Shells,”�Washington�Post,�July�25,�2009.

28.�Sco��Jaschik,�“Farewell�to�the�Printed�Monograph,”�Inside�Higher�Ed,�March�23,� 2009,�www.insidehighered.com/�news/2009/03/23/�Michigan.

29.�Arnold�Schwarzenegger,�“Digital�Textbooks�Can�Save�Money,�Improve�Learning,”� Mercury�News,�June�7,�2009.

30.�Tim�Arango,�“Fall�in�Newspaper�Sales�Accelerates�to�Pass�7%,”�New�York�Times,� April�27,�2009.

31.�David�Cook,�“Monitor�Shi�s�from�Print�to�Web-Based�Strategy,”�Chris�an� Science�Monitor,�October�28,�2008.

32.�Tom�Hall,�“‘We�Will�Never�Launch�Another�Paper,’”�PrintWeek,�February�20,� 2009,�www.printweek.com/news/881913/We-will-launch-paper.

33.�Tyler�Cowen,�Create�Your�Own�Economy�(New�York:�Du�on,�2009),�43.

34.�Michael�Scherer,�“Does�Size�Ma�er?,”�Columbia�Journalism�Review,� November/December�2002.

35.�Quoted�in�Carl�R.�Ramey,�Mass�Media�Unleashed�(Lanham,�MD:�Rowman�&� Li�le�eld,�2007),�123.

36.�Jack�Shafer,�“The�Times’�New�Welcome�Mat,”�Slate,�April�1,�2008,� www.slate.com/id/2187884.

37.�Kathleen�Deveny,�“Reinven�ng�Newsweek,”�Newsweek,�May�18,�2009.

38.�Carl�DiOrio,�“Warners�Teams�with�Facebook�for�‘Watchmen,’”�Hollywood� Reporter,�May�11,�2009,�www.hollywoodreporter.com/hr/�content_display/news/� e3i4b5caa365ad73b3a32b7e201b5eae9c0.

39.�Sarah�McBride,�“The�Way�We’ll�Watch,”�Wall�Street�Journal,�December�8,�2008.

40.�Dave�Itzko�,�“A�Di�erent�Tweet�in�Beethoven’s�‘Pastoral,’”�New�York�Times,�July� 24,�2009.

41.�Stephanie�Cli�ord,�“Tex�ng�at�a�Symphony?�Yes,�but�Only�to�Select�an�Encore,”� New�York�Times,�May�15,�2009.

42.�The�nine�hundred–member�Westwinds�Community�Church,�in�Jackson,� Michigan,�has�been�a�pacese�er�in�weaving�social�networking�into�services.�During� sermons,�congregants�send�messages�through�Twi�er,�and�the�tweets�unspool�on� large�video�screens.�One�message�sent�during�a�2009�service�read,�according�to�a� report�in�Time�magazine,�“I�have�a�hard��me�recognizing�God�in�the�middle�of� everything.”�Bonnie�Rochman,�“Twi�ering�in�Church,”�Time,�June�1,�2009.

43.�Chrys�a�Freeland,�“View�from�the�Top:�Eric�Schmidt�of�Google,”�Financial�Times,� May�21,�2009.

44.�John�Carlo�Bertot,�Charles�R.�McClure,�Carla�B.�Wright,�et�al.,�“Public�Libraries� and�the�Internet�2008:�Study�Results�and�Findings,”�Informa�on�Ins�tute�of�the� Florida�State�University�College�of�Informa�on,�2008;�American�Library�Associa�on,� “Libraries�Connect�Communi�es:�Public�Library�Funding�&�Technology�Access�Study� 2008–2009,”�September�25,�2009,�www.ala.org/ala/research/�ini�a�ves/pl�as/� 2008_2009/librariescon�nectcommuni�es3.pdf.

45.�Sco��Corwin,�Elisabeth�Hartley,�and�Harry�Hawkes,�“The�Library�Rebooted,”� Strategy�&�Business,�Spring�2009.�Six�THE�VERY�IMAGE�OF�A�BOOK

1.�Ting-i�Tsai�and�Geo�rey�A.�Fowler,�“Race�Heats�Up�to�Supply�E-Reader�Screens,”� Wall�Street�Journal,�December�29,�2009.

2.�Motoko�Rich,�“Steal�This�Book�(for�$9.99),”�New�York�Times,�May�16,�2009;�Brad� Stone,�“Best�Buy�and�Verizon�Jump�into�E-Reader�Fray,”�New�York�Times,�September� 22,�2009;�Brad�Stone�and�Motoko�Rich,�“Turning�Page,�E-Books�Start�to�Take�Hold,”� New�York�Times,�December�23,�2008.

3.�Jacob�Weisberg,�“Curling�Up�with�a�Good�Screen,”�Newsweek,�March�30,�2009.� The�italics�are�Weisberg’s.

4.�Charles�McGrath,�“By-the-Book�Reader�Meets�the�Kindle,”�New�York�Times,�May� 29,�2009.

5.�L.�Gordon�Crovitz,�“The�Digital�Future�of�Books,”�Wall�Street�Journal,�May�19,� 2008.

6.�Debbie�S�er,�“Are�We�Having�the�Wrong�Conversa�on�about�EBook�Pricing?,”� HarperStudio�blog,�February�26,�2009,�h�p://theharperstudio.com/2009/02/are- we-having-the-wrong-conversa�on-about-ebook-pricing.

7.�Steven�Johnson,�“How�the�E-Book�Will�Change�the�Way�We�Read�and�Write,”�Wall� Street�Journal,�April�20,�2009.

8.�Chris�ne�Rosen,�“People�of�the�Screen,”�New�Atlan�s,�Fall�2008.

9.�David�A.�Bell,�“The�Bookless�Future:�What�the�Internet�Is�Doing�to�Scholarship,”� New�Republic,�May�2,�2005.

10.�John�Updike,�“The�End�of�Authorship,”�New�York�Times�Sunday�Book�Review,� June�25,�2006.

11.�Norimitsu�Onishi,�“Thumbs�Race�as�Japan’s�Best�Sellers�Go�Cellular,”�New�York� Times,�January�20,�2008.�See�also�Dana�Goodyear,�“I� �Novels,”�New�Yorker,♥ � December�22,�2008.

12.�Tim�O’Reilly,�“Reinven�ng�the�Book�in�the�Age�of�the�Web,”�O’Reilly�Radar�blog,� April�29,�2009,�h�p://radar.oreilly.com/2009/04/reinven�ng-the-book-age-of- web.html.

13.�Motoko�Rich,�“Curling�Up�with�Hybrid�Books,�Videos�Included,”�New�York�Times,� September�30,�2009.

14.�Johnson,�“How�the�E-Book�Will�Change.”

15.�Andrew�Richard�Albanese,�“Q&A:�The�Social�Life�of�Books,”�Library�Journal,�May� 15,�2006.

16.�Kevin�Kelly,�“Scan�this�Book!”�New�York�Times�Magazine,�May�14,�2006.

17.�Caleb�Crain,�“How�Is�the�Internet�Changing�Literary�Style?,”�Steamboats�Are� Ruining�Everything�blog,�June�17,�2008,�www.steamthing.com/2008/06/how-is-the- inte.html.

18.�Some�Kindle�owners�received�a�startling�lesson�in�the�ephemerality�of�digital�text� when,�on�the�morning�of�July�17,�2009,�they�awoke�to��nd�that�the�e-book�versions� of�George�Orwell’s�1984�and�Animal�Farm�they�had�purchased�from�Amazon.com� had�disappeared�from�their�devices.�It�turned�out�that�Amazon�had�erased�the� books�from�customers’�Kindles�a�er�discovering�that�the�edi�ons�were� unauthorized.

19.�Up�to�now,�concerns�about�the�in�uence�of�digital�media�on�language�have� centered�on�the�abbrevia�ons�and�emo�cons�that�kids�use�in�instant�messaging�and�

tex�ng.�But�such�a�ecta�ons�will�probably�prove�benign,�just�the�latest�twist�in�the� long�history�of�slang.�Adults�would�be�wiser�to�pay�a�en�on�to�how�their�own� facility�with�wri�ng�is�changing.�Is�their�vocabulary�shrinking�or�becoming�more� hackneyed?�Is�their�syntax�becoming�less��exible�and�more�formulaic?�Those�are�the� types�of�ques�ons�that�ma�er�in�judging�the�Net’s�long-run�e�ects�on�the�range�and� expressiveness�of�language.

20.�Wendy�Griswold,�Terry�McDonnell,�and�Nathan�Wright,�“Reading�and�the� Reading�Class�in�the�Twenty-First�Century,”�Annual�Review�of�Sociology,�31�(2005):� 127–41.�See�also�Caleb�Crain,�“Twilight�of�the�Books,”�New�Yorker,�December�24,� 2007.

21.�Steven�Levy,�“The�Future�of�Reading,”�Newsweek,�November�26,�2007.

22.�Alphonse�de�Lamar�ne,�Ouvres�Diverses�(Brussels:�Louis�Hauman,�1836),�106–7.� Transla�on�by�the�author.

23.�Philip�G.�Hubert,�“The�New�Talking�Machines,”�Atlan�c�Monthly,�February�1889.

24.�Edward�Bellamy,�“With�the�Eyes�Shut,”�Harper’s,�October�1889.

25.�Octave�Uzanne,�“The�End�of�Books,”�Scribner’s�Magazine,�August�1894.

26.�George�Steiner,�“Ex�Libris,”�New�Yorker,�March�17,�1997.

27.�Mark�Federman,�“Why�Johnny�and�Janey�Can’t�Read,�and�Why�Mr.�and�Mrs.� Smith�Can’t�Teach:�The�Challenge�of�Mul�ple�Media�Literacies�in�a�Tumultuous� Time,”�undated,�h�p://individual.utoronto.ca/�markfederman/� WhyJohnnyandJaneyCantRead.pdf.

28.�Clay�Shirky,�“Why�Abundance�Is�Good:�A�Reply�to�Nick�Carr,”�Encyclopaedia� Britannica�Blog,�July�17,�2008,�www.britannica.com/blogs/2008/07/why-abundance- is-good-a-reply-to-nick-carr.

29.�Alberto�Manguel,�The�Library�at�Night�(New�Haven,�CT:�Yale�University�Press,� 2008),�218.

30.�David�M.�Levy,�Scrolling�Forward:�Making�Sense�of�Documents�in�the�Digital�Age� (New�York:�Arcade,�2001),�101–2.�Seven�THE�JUGGLER’S�BRAIN

1.�Ka�e�Hafner,�“Tex�ng�May�Be�Taking�a�Toll,”�New�York�Times,�May�25,�2009.

2.�Torkel�Klingberg,�The�Over�owing�Brain:�Informa�on�Overload�and�the�Limits�of� Working�Memory,�trans.�Neil�Be�eridge�(Oxford:�Oxford�University�Press,�2009),� 166–67.

3.�Ap�Dijksterhuis,�“Think�Di�erent:�The�Merits�of�Unconscious�Thought�in� Preference�Development�and�Decision�Making,”�Journal�of�Personality�and�Social� Psychology,�87,�no.�5�(2004):�586–98.

4.�Marten�W.�Bos,�Ap�Dijksterhuis,�and�Rick�B.�van�Baaren,�“On�the�Goal- Dependency�of�Unconscious�Thought,”�Journal�of�Experimental�Social�Psychology,� 44�(2008):�1114–20.

5.�Stefanie�Olsen,�“Are�We�Ge�ng�Smarter�or�Dumber?,”�CNET�News,�September� 21,�2005,�h�p://news.cnet.com/Are-we-ge�ng-smarter-or-dumber/2008-1008_3- 5875404.html.

6.�Michael�Merzenich,�“Going�Googly,”�On�the�Brain�blog,�August�11,�2008,� h�p://merzenich.positscience.com/?p=177.

7.�Gary�Small�and�Gigi�Vorgan,�iBrain:�Surviving�the�Technological�Altera�on�of�the� Modern�Mind�(New�York:�Collins,�2008),�1.

8.�G.�W.�Small,�T.�D.�Moody,�P.�Siddarth,�and�S.�Y.�Bookheimer,�“Your�Brain�on� Google:�Pa�erns�of�Cerebral�Ac�va�on�during�Internet�Searching,”�American�Journal� of�Geriatric�Psychiatry,�17,�no.�2�(February�2009):�116–26.�See�also�Rachel� Champeau,�“UCLA�Study�Finds�That�Searching�the�Internet�Increases�Brain� Func�on,”�UCLA�Newsroom,�October�14,�2008,� h�p://newsroom.ucla.edu/portal/ucla/ucla-study-�nds-that-searching-64348.aspx.

9.�Small�and�Vorgan,�iBrain,�16–17.

10.�Maryanne�Wolf,�interview�with�the�author,�March�28,�2008.

11.�Steven�Johnson,�Everything�Bad�Is�Good�for�You:�How�Today’s�Popular�Culture�Is� Actually�Making�Us�Smarter�(New�York:�Riverhead�Books,�2005),�19.

12.�John�Sweller,�Instruc�onal�Design�in�Technical�Areas�(Camberwell,�Australia:� Australian�Council�for�Educa�onal�Research,�1999),�4.

13.�Ibid.,�7.

14.�Ibid.

15.�Ibid.,�11.

16.�Ibid.,�4–5.�For�a�broad�review�of�current�thinking�on�the�limits�of�working� memory,�see�Nelson�Cowan,�Working�Memory�Capacity�(New�York:�Psychology� Press,�2005).

17.�Klingberg,�Over�owing�Brain,�39�and�72–75.

18.�Sweller,�Instruc�onal�Design,�22.

19.�George�Landow�and�Paul�Delany,�“Hypertext,�Hypermedia�and�Literary�Studies:� The�State�of�the�Art,”�in�Mul�media:�From�Wagner�to�Virtual�Reality,�ed.�Randall� Packer�and�Ken�Jordan�(New�York:�Norton,�2001),�206–16.

20.�Jean-Francois�Rouet�and�Jarmo�J.�Levonen,�“Studying�and�Learning�with� Hypertext:�Empirical�Studies�and�Their�Implica�ons,”�in�Hypertext�and�Cogni�on,�ed.� Jean-Francois�Rouet,�Jarmo�J.�Levonen,�Andrew�Dillon,�and�Rand�J.�Spiro�(Mahwah,� NJ:�Erlbaum,�1996),�16–20.

21.�David�S.�Miall�and�Teresa�Dobson,�“Reading�Hypertext�and�the�Experience�of� Literature,”�Journal�of�Digital�Informa�on,�2,�no.�1�(August�13,�2001).

22.�D.�S.�Niederhauser,�R.�E.�Reynolds,�D.�J.�Salmen,�and�P.�Skolmoski,�“The�In�uence� of�Cogni�ve�Load�on�Learning�from�Hypertext,”�Journal�of�Educa�onal�Compu�ng� Research,�23,�no.�3�(2000):�237–55.

23.�Erping�Zhu,�“Hypermedia�Interface�Design:�The�E�ects�of�Number�of�Links�and� Granularity�of�Nodes,”�Journal�of�Educa�onal�Mul�media�and�Hypermedia,�8,�no.�3� (1999):�331–58.

24.�Diana�DeStefano�and�Jo-Anne�LeFevre,�“Cogni�ve�Load�in�Hypertext�Reading:�A� Review,”�Computers�in�Human�Behavior,�23,�no.�3�(May�2007):�1616–41.�The�paper� was�originally�published�online�on�September�30,�2005.

25.�Steven�C.�Rockwell�and�Loy�A.�Singleton,�“The�E�ect�of�the�Modality�of� Presenta�on�of�Streaming�Mul�media�on�Informa�on�Acquisi�on,”�Media� Psychology,�9�(2007):�179–91.

26.�Helene�Hembrooke�and�Geri�Gay,�“The�Laptop�and�the�Lecture:�The�E�ects�of� Mul�tasking�in�Learning�Environments,”�Journal�of�Compu�ng�in�Higher�Educa�on,� 15,�no.�1�(September�2003):�46–64.

27.�Lori�Bergen,�Tom�Grimes,�and�Deborah�Po�er,�“How�A�en�on�Par��ons�Itself� during�Simultaneous�Message�Presenta�ons,”�Human�Communica�on�Research,�31,� no.�3�(July�2005):�311–36.

28.�Sweller,�Instruc�onal�Design,�137–47.

29.�K.�Renaud,�J.�Ramsay,�and�M.�Hair,�“‘You’ve�Got�Email!’�Shall�I�Deal�with�It� Now?,”�Interna�onal�Journal�of�Human-Computer�Interac�on,�21,�no.�3�(2006):�313– 32.

30.�See,�for�example,�J.�Gregory�Tra�on�and�Christopher�A.�Monk,�“Task� Interrup�ons,”�Reviews�of�Human�Factors�and�Ergonomics,�3�(2008):�111–26.� Researchers�believe�that�frequent�interrup�ons�lead�to�cogni�ve�overload�and� impair�the�forma�on�of�memories.

31.�Maggie�Jackson,�Distracted:�The�Erosion�of�A�en�on�and�the�Coming�Dark�Age� (Amherst,�NY:�Prometheus,�2008),�79.

32.�Karin�Foerde,�Barbara�J.�Knowlton,�and�Russell�A.�Poldrack,�“Modula�on�of� Compe�ng�Memory�Systems�by�Distrac�on,”�Proceedings�of�the�Na�onal�Academy� of�Sciences,�103,�no.�31�(August�1,�2006):�11778–83;�and�“Mul�-Tasking�Adversely� A�ects�Brain’s�Learning,”�University�of�California�press�release,�July�7,�2005.

33.�Christopher�F.�Chabris,�“You�Have�Too�Much�Mail,”�Wall�Street�Journal,� December�15,�2008.�The�italics�are�Chabris’s.

34.�Sav�Shrestha�and�Kelsi�Lenz,�“Eye�Gaze�Pa�erns�While�Searching�vs.�Browsing�a� Website,”�Usability�News,�9,�no.�1�(January�2007),�www.surl.� org/usabilitynews/91/eyegaze.asp.

35.�Jakob�Nielsen,�“F-Shaped�Pa�ern�for�Reading�Web�Content,”�Alertbox,�April�17,� 2006,�www.useit.com/alertbox/reading_pa�ern.html.

36.�Jakob�Nielsen,�“How�Li�le�Do�Users�Read?,”�Alertbox,�May�6,�2008,� www.useit.com/alertbox/percent-text-read.html.

37.�Harald�Weinreich,�Hartmut�Obendorf,�Eelco�Herder,�and�Ma�hias�Mayer,�“Not� Quite�the�Average:�An�Empirical�Study�of�Web�Use,”�ACM�Transac�ons�on�the�Web,� 2,�no.�1�(2008).

38.�Jakob�Nielsen,�“How�Users�Read�on�the�Web,”�Alertbox,�October�1,�1997,�

www.useit.com/alertbox/9710a.html.

39.�“Puzzling�Web�Habits�across�the�Globe,”�ClickTale�blog,�July�31,�2008,� www.clicktale.com/2008/07/31/puzzling-web-habits-across-the-globe-part-1/.

40.�University�College�London,�“Informa�on�Behaviour�of�the�Researcher�of�the� Future,”�January�11,�2008,�www.ucl.ac.uk/slais/research/ciber/down� loads/ggexecu�ve.pdf.

41.�Merzenich,�“Going�Googly.”

42.�Ziming�Liu,�“Reading�Behavior�in�the�Digital�Environment,”�Journal�of� Documenta�on,�61,�no.�6�(2005):�700–712.

43.�Shawn�Green�and�Daphne�Bavelier,�“Ac�on�Video�Game�Modi�es�Visual� Selec�ve�A�en�on,”�Nature,�423�(May�29,�2003):�534–37.

44.�Elizabeth�Sillence,�Pam�Briggs,�Peter�Richard�Harris,�and�Lesley�Fishwick,�“How� Do�Pa�ents�Evaluate�and�Make�Use�of�Online�Health�Informa�on?,”�Social�Science� and�Medicine,�64,�no.�9�(May�2007):�1853–62.

45.�Klingberg,�Over�owing�Brain,�115–24.

46.�Small�and�Vorgan,�iBrain,�21.

47.�Sam�Anderson,�“In�Defense�of�Distrac�on,”�New�York,�May�25,�2009.

48.�Quoted�in�Don�Tapsco�,�Grown�Up�Digital�(New�York:�McGraw-Hill,�2009),�108– 9.

49.�Quoted�in�Jackson,�Distracted,�79–80.

50.�Quoted�in�Sharon�Begley�and�Janeen�Interlandi,�“The�Dumbest�Genera�on?� Don’t�Be�Dumb,”�Newsweek,�June�2,�2008.

51.�Lucius�Annaeus�Seneca,�Le�ers�from�a�Stoic�(New�York:�Penguin�Classics,�1969),� 33.

52.�Patricia�M.�Green�eld,�“Technology�and�Informal�Educa�on:�What�Is�Taught,� What�Is�Learned,”�Science,�323,�no.�5910�(January�2,�2009):�69–71.

53.�Eyal�Ophir,�Cli�ord�Nass,�and�Anthony�D.�Wagner,�“Cogni�ve�Control�in�Media�

Mul�taskers,”�Proceedings�of�the�Na�onal�Academy�of�Sciences,�August�24,�2009,� www.pnas.org/content/�early/2009/08/21/�0903620106.full.pdf.�See�also�Adam� Gorlick,�“Media�Mul�taskers�Pay�Mental�Price,�Stanford�Study�Shows,”�Stanford� Report,�August�24,�2009,�h�p://news.stanford.edu/�news/2009/august24/� mul�task-research-study-082409.html.

54.�Michael�Merzenich,�interview�with�the�author,�September�11,�2009.

55.�James�Boswell,�The�Life�of�Samuel�Johnson,�LL.�D.�(London:�Bell,�1889),�331–32.�a� digression�ON�THE�BUOYANCY�OF�IQ�SCORES

1.�Don�Tapsco�,�Grown�Up�Digital�(New�York:�McGraw-Hill,�2009),�291.

2.�College�Board,�“PSAT/NMSQT�Data�&�Reports,”�h�p://professionals.col� legeboard.com/data-reports-research/psat.

3.�Naomi�S.�Baron,�Always�On:�Language�in�an�Online�and�Mobile�World�(Oxford:� Oxford�University�Press,�2008),�202.

4.�David�Schneider,�“Smart�as�We�Can�Get?,”�American�Scien�st,�July–August�2006.

5.�James�R.�Flynn,�“Requiem�for�Nutri�on�as�the�Cause�of�IQ�Gains:�Raven’s�Gains�in� Britain�1938–2008,”�Economics�and�Human�Biology,�7,�no.�1�(March�2009):�18–27.

6.�Some�contemporary�readers�may��nd�Flynn’s�choice�of�words�insensi�ve.�He� explains,�“We�are�in�a�transi�onal�period�in�which�the�term�‘mentally�retarded’�is� being�replaced�by�the�term�‘mentally�disabled’�in�the�hope�of��nding�words�with�a� less�nega�ve�connota�on.�I�have�retained�the�old�term�for�clarity�and�because� history�has�shown�that�nega�ve�connota�ons�are�simply�passed�on�from�one�label� to�another.”�James�R.�Flynn,�What�Is�Intelligence?�Beyond�the�Flynn�E�ect� (Cambridge:�Cambridge�University�Press,�2007),�9–10.

7.�Ibid.,�9.

8.�Ibid.,�172–73.

9.�“The�World�Is�Ge�ng�Smarter,”�Intelligent�Life,�December�2007.�See�also�Ma�� Nipert,�“Eureka!”�New�Zealand�Listener,�October�6–12,�2007.

10.�Patricia�M.�Green�eld,�“Technology�and�Informal�Educa�on:�What�Is�Taught,� What�Is�Learned,”�Science,�323,�no.�5910�(January�2,�2009):�69–71.

11.�Denise�Gellene,�“IQs�Rise,�but�Are�We�Brighter?,”�Los�Angeles�Times,�October�27,� 2007.�Eight�THE�CHURCH�OF�GOOGLE

1.�For�an�account�of�Taylor’s�life,�see�Robert�Kanigel,�One�Best�Way:�Frederick� Winslow�Taylor�and�the�Enigma�of�E�ciency�(New�York:�Viking,�1997).

2.�Frederick�Winslow�Taylor,�The�Principles�of�Scien��c�Management�(New�York:� Harper,�1911),�25.

3.�Ibid.,�7.

4.�Google�Inc.�Press�Day�Webcast,�May�10,�2006,� h�p://google.client.shareholder.com/�Visitors/event/build2/� MediaPresenta�on.cfm?�MediaID=20263&Player=1.

5.�Marissa�Mayer,�“Google�I/O�’08�Keynote,”�YouTube,�June�5,�2008,� www.youtube.com/watch?v=6x0cAzQ7PVs.

6.�Bala�Iyer�and�Thomas�H.�Davenport,�“Reverse�Engineering�Google’s�Innova�on� Machine,”�Harvard�Business�Review,�April�2008.

7.�Anne�Aula�and�Kerry�Rodden,�“Eye-Tracking�Studies:�More�than�Meets�the�Eye,”� O�cial�Google�Blog,�February�6,�2009,�h�p://googleblog.blogspot.com/� 2009/02/eye-�tracking-studies-more-than-meets.html.

8.�Helen�Walters,�“Google’s�Irene�Au:�On�Design�Challenges,”�BusinessWeek,�March� 18,�2009.

9.�Mayer,�“Google�I/O�’08�Keynote.”

10.�Laura�M.�Holson,�“Pu�ng�a�Bolder�Face�on�Google,”�New�York�Times,�February� 28,�2009.

11.�Neil�Postman,�Technopoly:�The�Surrender�of�Culture�to�Technology�(New�York:� Vintage,�1993),�51.

12.�Ken�Aule�a,�Googled:�The�End�of�the�World�as�We�Know�It�(New�York:�Penguin,� 2009),�22.

13.�Google,�“Company�Overview,”�undated,�www.google.com/corporate.

14.�Kevin�J.�Delaney�and�Brooks�Barnes,�“For�Soaring�Google,�Next�Act�Won’t�Be�So�

Easy,”�Wall�Street�Journal,�June�30,�2005.

15.�Google,�“Technology�Overview,”�undated,� www.google.com/corporate/tech.html.

16.�Academy�of�Achievement,�“Interview:�Larry�Page,”�October�28,�2000,� www.achievement.org/autodoc/page/pag0int-1.

17.�John�Ba�elle,�The�Search:�How�Google�and�Its�Rivals�Rewrote�the�Rules�of� Business�and�Transformed�Our�Culture�(New�York:�Por�olio,�2005),�66–67.

18.�Ibid.

19.�See�Google,�“Google�Milestones,”�undated,� www.google.com/corporate/history.html.

20.�Sergey�Brin�and�Lawrence�Page,�“The�Anatomy�of�a�Large-Scale�Hypertextual� Web�Search�Engine,”�Computer�Networks,�30�(April�1,�1998):�107–17.

21.�Walters,�“Google’s�Irene�Au.”

22.�Mark�Zuckerberg,�“Improving�Your�Ability�to�Share�and�Connect,”�Facebook�blog,� March�4,�2009,�h�p://blog.facebook.com/�blog.php?post=57822962130.

23.�Saul�Hansell,�“Google�Keeps�Tweaking�Its�Search�Engine,”�New�York�Times,�June� 3,�2007.

24.�Brennon�Sla�ery,�“Google�Ca�einates�Its�Search�Engine,”�PC�World,�August�11,� 2009,�www.pcworld.com/ar�cle/169989.

25.�Nicholas�Carlson,�“Google�Co-Founder�Larry�Page�Has�Twi�er-Envy,”�Silicon�Alley� Insider,�May�19,�2009,�www.businessinsider.com/google-cofounder-larry-page-has- twi�er-envy-2009-5.

26.�Kit�Eaton,�“Developers�Start�to�Surf�Google�Wave,�and�Love�It,”�Fast�Company,� July�21,�2009,�www.fastcompany.com/blog/�kit-eaton/technomix/�developers-start- surf-google-wave-and-love-it.

27.�Doug�Caverly,�“New�Report�Slashes�YouTube�Loss�Es�mate�by�$300M,”� WebProNews,�June�17,�2009,�www.webpronews.com/topnews/�2009/06/17/new-� report-slashes-youtube-loss-es�mate-by-300m.

28.�Richard�MacManus,�“Store�100%—Google’s�Golden�Copy,”�ReadWriteWeb,� March�5,�2006,�www.readwriteweb.com/archives/�store_100_googl.php.

29.�Je�rey�Toobin,�“Google’s�Moon�Shot,”�New�Yorker,�February�5,�2007.

30.�Jen�Grant,�“Judging�Book�Search�by�Its�Cover,”�O�cial�Google�Blog,�November� 17,�2005,�h�p://googleblog.blogspot.com/2005/11/judging-book-search-by-its- cover.html.

31.�See�U.S.�Patent�no.�7,508,978.

32.�Google,�“History�of�Google�Books,”�undated,� h�p://books.google.com/googlebooks/history.html.

33.�Authors�Guild,�“Authors�Guild�Sues�Google,�Ci�ng�‘Massive�Copyright� Infringement,’”�press�release,�September�20,�2005.

34.�Eric�Schmidt,�“Books�of�Revela�on,”�Wall�Street�Journal,�October�18,�2005.

35.�U.S.�District�Court,�Southern�District�of�New�York,�“Se�lement�Agreement:�The� Authors�Guild,�Inc.,�Associa�on�of�American�Publishers,�Inc.,�et�al.,�Plain��s,�v.� Google�Inc.,�Defendant,”�Case�No.�05�CV�8136-JES,�October�28,�2008.

36.�American�Library�Associa�on,�“Library�Associa�on�Comments�on�the�Proposed� Se�lement,”��ling�with�the�U.S.�District�Court,�Southern�District�of�New�York,�Case� No.�05�CV�8136-DC,�May�4,�2009.

37.�Robert�Darnton,�“Google�and�the�Future�of�Books,”�New�York�Review�of�Books,� February�12,�2009.

38.�Richard�Koman,�“Google,�Books�and�the�Nature�of�Evil,”�ZDNet�Government� blog,�April�30,�2009,�h�p://government.zdnet.com/?p=4725.

39.�In�what�may�be�a�harbinger�of�the�future,�a�pres�gious�Massachuse�s�prep� school,�Cushing�Academy,�announced�in�2009�that�it�was�removing�all�the�books� from�its�library�and�replacing�them�with�desktop�computers,��at-screen�TVs,�and�a� score�of�Kindles�and�other�e-readers.�The�school’s�headmaster,�James�Tracy,� proclaimed�the�bookless�library�“a�model�for�the�21st-century�school.”�David�Abel,� “Welcome�to�the�Library.�Say�Goodbye�to�the�Books,”�Boston�Globe,�September�4,� 2009.

40.�Alexandra�Alter,�“The�Next�Age�of�Discovery,”�Wall�Street�Journal,�May�8,�2009.

41.�Adam�Mathes,�“Collect,�Share,�and�Discover�Books,”�O�cial�Google�Blog,� September�6,�2007,�h�p://googleblog.blogspot.com/2007/09/collect-share-and- discover-books.html.

42.�Manas�Tungare,�“Share�and�Enjoy,”�Inside�Google�Books�blog,�September�6,� 2007,�h�p://booksearch.blogspot.com/2007/08/share-and-enjoy.html.

43.�Bill�Schilit�and�Okan�Kolak,�“Dive�into�the�Meme�Pool�with�Google�Book�Search,”� Inside�Google�Books�blog,�September�6,�2007,�h�p://booksearch.� blogspot.com/2007/09/dive-into-meme-pool-with-google-book.html;�and�Diego� Puppin,�“Explore�a�Book�in�10�Seconds,”�Inside�Google�Books�blog,�July�1,�2009,� h�p://booksearch.blogspot.com/2009/06/explore-book-in-10-seconds.html.

44.�Passages�from�Hawthorne’s�notebooks�are�quoted�in�Julian�Hawthorne,� Nathaniel�Hawthorne�and�His�Wife:�A�Biography,�vol.�1�(Boston:�James�R.�Osgood,� 1885),�498–503.

45.�Leo�Marx,�The�Machine�in�the�Garden:�Technology�and�the�Pastoral�Ideal�in� America�(New�York:�Oxford�University�Press,�2000),�28–29.

46.�Quoted�in�Will�Durant�and�Ariel�Durant,�The�Age�of�Reason�Begins�(New�York:� Simon�&�Schuster,�1961),�65.

47.�Vannevar�Bush,�“As�We�May�Think,”�Atlan�c�Monthly,�July�1945.

48.�David�M.�Levy,�“To�Grow�in�Wisdom:�Vannevar�Bush,�Informa�on�Overload,�and� the�Life�of�Leisure,”�Proceedings�of�the�5th�ACM/IEEE-CS�Joint�Conference�on�Digital� Libraries,�2005,�281–86.

49.�Ibid.

50.�Ralph�Waldo�Emerson,�“Books,”�Atlan�c�Monthly,�January�1858.

51.�Larry�Page,�keynote�address�before�AAAS�Annual�Conference,�San�Francisco,� February�16,�2007,�h�p://news.cnet.com/1606-2_3-6160334.html.

52.�Academy�of�Achievement,�“Interview:�Larry�Page.”

53.�Rachael�Hanley,�“From�Googol�to�Google:�Co-founder�Returns,”�Stanford�Daily,� February�12,�2003.

54.�Academy�of�Achievement,�“Interview:�Larry�Page.”

55.�Steven�Levy,�“All�Eyes�on�Google,”�Newsweek,�April�12,�2004.

56.�Spencer�Michaels,�“The�Search�Engine�That�Could,”�NewsHour�with�Jim�Lehrer,� November�29,�2002.

57.�See�Richard�MacManus,�“Full�Text�of�Google�Analyst�Day�Powerpoint�Notes,”� Web�2.0�Explorer�blog,�March�7,�2006,�h�p://blogs.zdnet.com/web2explorer/? p=132.

58.�Quoted�in�Jean-Pierre�Dupuy,�On�the�Origins�of�Cogni�ve�Science:�The� Mechaniza�on�of�the�Mind�(Cambridge,�MA:�MIT�Press,�2009),�xiv.

59.�George�B.�Dyson,�Darwin�among�the�Machines:�The�Evolu�on�of�Global� Intelligence�(Reading,�MA:�Addison-Wesley,�1997),�10.

60.�George�Dyson,�“Turing’s�Cathedral,”�Edge,�October�24,�2005,� www.edge.org/3rd_culture/�dyson05/dyson_�05index.html.

61.�Greg�Jarboe,�“A�‘Fireside�Chat’�with�Google’s�Sergey�Brin,”�Search�Engine�Watch,� October�16,�2003,�h�p://searchenginewatch.com/3081081.

62.�See�Pamela�McCorduck,�Machines�Who�Think:�A�Personal�Inquiry�into�the� History�and�Prospects�of�Ar��cial�Intelligence�(Na�ck,�MA:�Peters,�2004),�111.

63.�Lewis�Mumford,�The�Myth�of�the�Machine:�Technics�and�Human�Development� (New�York:�Harcourt�Brace�Jovanovitch,�1967),�29.

64.�David�G.�Stork,�ed.,�HAL’s�Legacy:�2001’s�Computer�as�Dream�and�Reality� (Cambridge,�MA:�MIT�Press,�1996),�165–66.

65.�John�von�Neumann,�The�Computer�and�the�Brain,�2nd�ed.�(New�Haven,�CT:�Yale� University�Press,�2000),�82.�The�italics�are�von�Neumann’s.

66.�Ari�N.�Schulman,�“Why�Minds�Are�Not�like�Computers,”�New�Atlan�s,�Winter� 2009.�Nine�SEARCH,�MEMORY

1.�Quoted�in�Alberto�Manguel,�A�History�of�Reading�(New�York:�Viking,�1996),�49.

2.�Umberto�Eco,�“From�Internet�to�Gutenberg,”�lecture�presented�at�Columbia� University’s�Italian�Academy�for�Advanced�Studies�in�America,�November�12,�1996,�

www.umbertoeco.com/en/from-internet-to-gutenberg-1996.�html.

3.�Quoted�in�Ann�Moss,�Printed�Commonplace-Books�and�the�Structuring�of� Renaissance�Thought�(Oxford:�Oxford�University�Press,�1996),�102–4.

4.�Erika�Rummel,�“Erasmus,�Desiderius,”�in�Philosophy�of�Educa�on,�ed.�J.�J.� Chambliss�(New�York:�Garland,�1996),�198.

5.�Quoted�in�Moss,�Printed�Commonplace-Books,�12.

6.�Ann�Moss�writes�that�“the�commonplace-book�was�part�of�the�ini�al�intellectual� experience�of�every�schoolboy”�in�the�Renaissance.�Printed�Commonplace-Books,� viii.

7.�Francis�Bacon,�The�Works�of�Francis�Bacon,�vol.�4,�ed.�James�Spedding,�Robert� Leslie�Ellis,�and�Douglas�Denon�Heath�(London:�Longman,�1858),�435.

8.�Naomi�S.�Baron,�Always�On:�Language�in�an�Online�and�Mobile�World�(Oxford:� Oxford�University�Press,�2008),�197.

9.�Clive�Thompson,�“Your�Outboard�Brain�Knows�All,”�Wired,�October�2007.

10.�David�Brooks,�“The�Outsourced�Brain,”�New�York�Times,�October�26,�2007.

11.�Peter�Suderman,�“Your�Brain�Is�an�Index,”�American�Scene,�May�10,�2009,� www.theamericanscene.com/2009/05/11/your-brain-is-an-index.

12.�Alexandra�Frean,�“Google�Genera�on�Has�No�Need�for�Rote�Learning,”�Times� (London),�December�2,�2008;�and�Don�Tapsco�,�Grown�Up�Digital�(New�York:� McGraw-Hill,�2009),�115.

13.�Saint�Augus�ne,�Confessions,�trans.�Henry�Chadwick�(New�York:�Oxford� University�Press,�1998),�187.

14.�William�James,�Talks�to�Teachers�on�Psychology:�And�to�Students�on�Some�of� Life’s�Ideals�(New�York:�Holt,�1906),�143.

15.�See�Eric�R.�Kandel,�In�Search�of�Memory:�The�Emergence�of�a�New�Science�of� Mind�(New�York:�Norton,�2006),�208–10.

16.�Ibid.,�210–11.

17.�Louis�B.�Flexner,�Josefa�B.�Flexner,�and�Richard�B.�Roberts,�“Memory�in�Mice� Analyzed�with�An�bio�cs,”�Science,�155�(1967):�1377–83.

18.�Kandel,�In�Search�of�Memory,�221.

19.�Ibid.,�214–15.

20.�Ibid.,�221.

21.�Ibid.,�276.

22.�Ibid.

23.�Ibid.,�132.

24.�Un�l�his�name�was�disclosed�upon�his�death�in�2008,�Molaison�was�referred�to�in� the�scien��c�literature�as�H.M.

25.�See�Larry�R.�Squire�and�Pablo�Alvarez,�“Retrograde�Amnesia�and�Memory� Consolida�on:�A�Neurobiological�Perspec�ve,”�Current�Opinion�in�Neurobiology,�5� (1995):�169–77.

26.�Daniel�J.�Siegel,�The�Developing�Mind�(New�York:�Guilford,�2001),�37–38.

27.�In�a�2009�study,�French�and�American�researchers�found�evidence�that�brief,� intense�oscilla�ons�that�ripple�through�the�hippocampus�during�sleep�play�an� important�role�in�storing�memories�in�the�cortex.�When�the�researchers�suppressed� the�oscilla�ons�in�the�brains�of�rats,�the�rats�were�unable�to�consolidate�long-term� spa�al�memories.�Gabrielle�Girardeau,�Karim�Benchenane,�Sidney�I.�Wiener,�et�al.,� “Selec�ve�Suppression�of�Hippocampal�Ripples�Impairs�Spa�al�Memory,”�Nature� Neuroscience,�September�13,�2009,�www.nature.com/neuro/� journal/vaop/ncurrent/�abs/nn.2384.html.

28.�University�of�Haifa,�“Researchers�Iden��ed�a�Protein�Essen�al�in�Long�Term� Memory�Consolida�on,”�Physorg.com,�September�9,�2008,� www.physorg.com/news140173258.html.

29.�See�Jonah�Lehrer,�Proust�Was�a�Neuroscien�st�(New�York:�Houghton�Mi�in,� 2007),�84–85.

30.�Joseph�LeDoux,�Synap�c�Self:�How�Our�Brains�Become�Who�We�Are�(New�York:� Penguin,�2002),�161.

31.�Nelson�Cowan,�Working�Memory�Capacity�(New�York:�Psychology�Press,�2005),� 1.

32.�Torkel�Klingberg,�The�Over�owing�Brain:�Informa�on�Overload�and�the�Limits�of� Working�Memory,�trans.�Neil�Be�eridge�(Oxford:�Oxford�University�Press,�2009),�36.

33.�Sheila�E.�Crowell,�“The�Neurobiology�of�Declara�ve�Memory,”�in�John�H.� Schumann,�Shelia�E.�Crowell,�Nancy�E.�Jones,�et�al.,�The�Neurobiology�of�Learning:� Perspec�ves�from�Second�Language�Acquisi�on�(Mahwah,�NJ:�Erlbaum,�2004),�76.

34.�See,�for�example,�Ray�Hembree�and�Donald�J.�Dessart,�“E�ects�of�Handheld� Calculators�in�Precollege�Mathema�cs�Educa�on:�A�Meta-analysis,”�Journal�for� Research�in�Mathema�cs�Educa�on,�17,�no.�2�(1986):�83–99.

35.�Kandel,�In�Search�of�Memory,�210.

36.�Quoted�in�Maggie�Jackson,�Distracted:�The�Erosion�of�A�en�on�and�the�Coming� Dark�Age�(Amherst,�NY:�Prometheus,�2008),�242.

37.�Kandel,�In�Search�of�Memory,�312–15.

38.�David�Foster�Wallace,�This�Is�Water:�Some�Thoughts,�Delivered�on�a�Signi�cant� Occasion,�about�Living�a�Compassionate�Life�(New�York:�Li�le,�Brown,�2009),�54�and� 123.

39.�Ari�N.�Schulman,�correspondence�with�the�author,�June�7,�2009.

40.�Lea�Winerman,�“The�Culture�of�Memory,”�Monitor�on�Psychology,�36,�no.�8� (September�2005):�56.

41.�Pascal�Boyer�and�James�V.�Wertsch,�eds.,�Memory�in�Mind�and�Culture�(New� York:�Cambridge�University�Press,�2009),�7�and�288.

42.�Richard�Foreman,�“The�Pancake�People,�or,�‘The�Gods�Are�Pounding�My�Head,’”� Edge,�March�8,�2005,�www.edge.org/3rd_culture/�foreman05/fore� man05_index.html.�a�digression�ON�THE�WRITING�OF�THIS�BOOK

1.�Benjamin�Kunkel,�“Lingering,”�n+1,�May�31,�2009,� www.nplusonemag.com/lingering.�The�italics�are�Kunkel’s.�Ten�A�THING�LIKE�ME

1.�Joseph�Weizenbaum,�“ELIZA—A�Computer�Program�for�the�Study�of�Natural�

Language�Communica�on�between�Man�and�Machine,”�Communica�ons�of�the� Associa�on�for�Compu�ng�Machinery,�9,�no.�1�(January�1966):�36–45.

2.�David�Golumbia,�The�Cultural�Logic�of�Computa�on�(Cambridge,�MA:�Harvard� University�Press,�2009),�42.

3.�Quoted�in�Golumbia,�Cultural�Logic,�37.

4.�Ibid.,�42.

5.�Weizenbaum,�“ELIZA.”

6.�Ibid.

7.�Joseph�Weizenbaum,�Computer�Power�and�Human�Reason:�From�Judgment�to� Calcula�on�(New�York:�Freeman,�1976),�5.

8.�Ibid.,�189.

9.�Ibid.,�7.

10.�Quoted�in�Weizenbaum,�Computer�Power,�5.

11.�Kenneth�Mark�Colby,�James�B.�Wa�,�and�John�P.�Gilbert,�“A�Computer�Method� of�Psychotherapy:�Preliminary�Communica�on,”�Journal�of�Nervous�and�Mental� Disease,�142,�no.�2�(1966):�148–52.

12.�Weizenbaum,�Computer�Power,�8.

13.�Ibid.,�17–38.

14.�Ibid.,�227.

15.�John�McCarthy,�“An�Unreasonable�Book,”�SIGART�Newsle�er,�58�(June�1976).

16.�Michael�Balter,�“Tool�Use�Is�Just�Another�Trick�of�the�Mind,”�Science-NOW,� January�28,�2008,�h�p://sciencenow.sciencemag.org/�cgi/content/full/�2008/128/2.

17.�The�Le�ers�of�T.�S.�Eliot,�vol.�1,�1898–1922,�ed.�Valerie�Eliot�(New�York:�Harcourt� Brace�Jovanovich,�1988),�144.�As�for�Nietzsche,�his�a�air�with�the�Malling-Hansen� Wri�ng�Ball�turned�out�to�be�as�brief�as�it�was�intense.�Like�many�of�the�early� adopters�of�new�gadgets�who�would�follow�in�his�eager�footsteps,�he�became�

frustrated�with�the�typewriter’s��aws.�The�wri�ng�ball,�it�turned�out,�was�buggy.� When�the�Mediterranean�air�grew�humid�with�the�arrival�of�spring,�the�keys�started� to�jam�and�the�ink�began�to�run�on�the�page.�The�contrap�on,�Nietzsche�wrote�in�a� le�er,�“is�as�delicate�as�a�li�le�dog�and�causes�a�lot�of�trouble.”�Within�months�he� had�given�up�on�the�wri�ng�ball,�trading�the�balky�device�for�a�secretary,�the�young� poet�Lou�Salomé,�who�transcribed�his�words�as�he�spoke�them.�Five�years�later,�in� one�of�his�last�books,�On�the�Genealogy�of�Morals,�Nietzsche�made�an�eloquent� argument�against�the�mechaniza�on�of�human�thought�and�personality.�He�praised� the�contempla�ve�state�of�mind�through�which�we�quietly�and�willfully�“digest”�our� experiences.�“The�temporary�shu�ng�of�the�doors�and�windows�of�consciousness,� the�relief�from�the�clamant�alarums,”�he�wrote,�allows�the�brain�“to�make�room� again�for�the�new,�and�above�all�for�the�more�noble�func�ons.”�Friedrich�Nietzsche,� The�Genealogy�of�Morals�(Mineola,�NY:�Dover,�2003),�34.

18.�Norman�Doidge,�The�Brain�That�Changes�Itself:�Stories�of�Personal�Triumph�from� the�Fron�ers�of�Brain�Science�(New�York:�Penguin,�2007),�311.

19.�John�M.�Culkin,�“A�Schoolman’s�Guide�to�Marshall�McLuhan,”�Saturday�Review,� March�18,�1967.

20.�Marshall�McLuhan,�Understanding�Media:�The�Extensions�of�Man,�cri�cal�ed.,� ed.�W.�Terrence�Gordon�(Corte�Madera,�CA:�Gingko�Press,�2003),�63–70.

21.�Lewis�Mumford,�Technics�and�Civiliza�on�(New�York:�Harcourt�Brace,�1963),�15.

22.�Weizenbaum,�Computer�Power,�25.

23.�Roger�Dobson,�“Taxi�Drivers’�Knowledge�Helps�Their�Brains�Grow,”�Independent,� December�17,�2006.

24.�Doidge,�Brain�That�Changes�Itself,�310–11.

25.�Jason�P.�Mitchell,�“Watching�Minds�Interact,”�in�What’s�Next:�Dispatches�on�the� Future�of�Science,�ed.�Max�Brockman�(New�York:�Vintage,�2009),�78–88.

26.�Bill�Thompson,�“Between�a�Rock�and�an�Interface,”�BBC�News,�October�7,�2008,� h�p://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/technology/7656843.stm.

27.�Christof�van�Nimwegen,�“The�Paradox�of�the�Guided�User:�Assistance�Can�Be� Counter-e�ec�ve,”�SIKS�Disserta�on�Series�No.�2008-09,�Utrecht�University,�March� 31,�2008.�See�also�Christof�van�Nimwegen�and�Herre�van�Oostendorp,�“The� Ques�onable�Impact�of�an�Assis�ng�Interface�on�Performance�in�Transfer�

Situa�ons,”�Interna�onal�Journal�of�Industrial�Ergonomics,�39,�no.�3�(May�2009):� 501–8.

28.�Ibid.

29.�Ibid.

30.�“Features:�Query�Sugges�ons,”�Google�Web�Search�Help,�undated,� h�p://labs.google.com/sugges�aq.html.

31.�James�A.�Evans,�“Electronic�Publica�on�and�the�Narrowing�of�Science�and� Scholarship,”�Science,�321�(July�18,�2008):�395–99.

32.�Ibid.

33.�Thomas�Lord,�“Tom�Lord�on�Ritual,�Knowledge�and�the�Web,”�Rough�Type�blog,� November�9,�2008,�www.roughtype.com/archives/2008/11/tom_�lord_on_rit.php.

34.�Marc�G.�Berman,�John�Jonides,�and�Stephen�Kaplan,�“The�Cogni�ve�Bene�ts�of� Interac�ng�with�Nature,”�Psychological�Science,�19,�no.�12�(December�2008):�1207– 12.

35.�Carl�Marziali,�“Nobler�Ins�ncts�Take�Time,”�USC�Web�site,�April�14,�2009,� h�p://college.usc.edu/news/stories/547/nobler-ins�ncts-take-�me.

36.�Mary�Helen�Immordino-Yang,�Andrea�McColl,�Hanna�Damasio,�and�Antonio� Damasio,�“Neural�Correlates�of�Admira�on�and�Compassion,”�Proceedings�of�the� Na�onal�Academy�of�Sciences,�106,�no.�19�(May�12,�2009):�8021–26.

37.�Marziali,�“Nobler�Ins�ncts.”

38.�L.�Gordon�Crovitz,�“Informa�on�Overload?�Relax,”�Wall�Street�Journal,�July�6,� 2009.

39.�Sam�Anderson,�“In�Defense�of�Distrac�on,”�New�York,�May�25,�2009.

40.�Tyler�Cowen,�Create�Your�Own�Economy�(New�York:�Du�on,�2009),�10.

41.�Jamais�Cascio,�“Get�Smarter,”�Atlan�c,�July/August�2009.

42.�Mar�n�Heidegger,�Discourse�on�Thinking�(New�York:�Harper�&�Row,�1966),�56.� The�italics�are�Heidegger’s.

43.�Mar�n�Heidegger,�The�Ques�on�Concerning�Technology�and�Other�Essays�(New� York:�Harper�&�Row,�1977),�35.�Epilogue�HUMAN�ELEMENTS

1.�William�Stewart,�“Essays�to�Be�Marked�by�‘Robots,’”�Times�Educa�on� Supplement,�September�25,�2009.

Further�Reading

This�book�scratches�many�surfaces.�To�the�reader�who�would�like�to�explore�the� topics�further,�I�recommend�the�following�books,�all�of�which�I�found�illumina�ng� and�many�of�which�I�found�inspiring.

THE�BRAIN�AND�ITS�PLASTICITY

Buller,�David�J.�Adap�ng�Minds:�Evolu�onary�Psychology�and�the�Persistent�Quest� for�Human�Nature.�MIT�Press,�2005.

Cowan,�Nelson.�Working�Memory�Capacity.�Psychology�Press,�2005.

Doidge,�Norman.�The�Brain�That�Changes�Itself:�Stories�of�Personal�Triumph�from� the�Fron�ers�of�Brain�Science.�Penguin,�2007.

Dupuy,�Jean-Pierre.�On�the�Origins�of�Cogni�ve�Science:�The�Mechaniza�on�of�the� Mind.�MIT�Press,�2009.

Flynn,�James�R.�What�Is�Intelligence?�Beyond�the�Flynn�E�ect.�Cambridge�University� Press,�2007.

Golumbia,�David.�The�Cultural�Logic�of�Computa�on.�Harvard�University�Press,�2009.

James,�William.�The�Principles�of�Psychology.�Holt,�1890.

Kandel,�Eric�R.�In�Search�of�Memory:�The�Emergence�of�a�New�Science�of�Mind.� Norton,�2006.

Klingberg,�Torkel.�The�Over�owing�Brain:�Informa�on�Overload�and�the�Limits�of� Working�Memory.�Oxford�University�Press,�2008.

LeDoux,�Joseph.�Synap�c�Self:�How�Our�Brains�Become�Who�We�Are.�Penguin,�2002.

Martensen,�Robert�L.�The�Brain�Takes�Shape:�An�Early�History.�Oxford�University�

Press,�2004.

Schwartz,�Je�rey�M.,�and�Sharon�Begley.�The�Mind�and�the�Brain:�Neuroplas�city� and�the�Power�of�Mental�Force.�Harper�Perennial,�2002.

Sweller,�John.�Instruc�onal�Design�in�Technical�Areas.�Australian�Council�for� Educa�onal�Research,�1999.

Wexler,�Bruce�E.�Brain�and�Culture:�Neurobiology,�Ideology,�and�Social�Change.�MIT� Press,�2006.

Young,�J.�Z.�Doubt�and�Certainty�in�Science:�A�Biologist’s�Re�ec�ons�on�the�Brain.� Oxford�University�Press,�1951.�THE�HISTORY�OF�THE�BOOK

Chappell,�Warren.�A�Short�History�of�the�Printed�Word.�Knopf,�1970.

Diringer,�David.�The�Hand-Produced�Book.�Philosophical�Library,�1953.

Eisenstein,�Elizabeth�L.�The�Prin�ng�Press�as�an�Agent�of�Change.�Cambridge� University�Press,�1980.�An�abridged�edi�on,�with�a�useful�a�erword,�has�been� published�as�The�Prin�ng�Revolu�on�in�Early�Modern�Europe�(Cambridge�University� Press,�2005).

Kilgour,�Frederick�G.�The�Evolu�on�of�the�Book.�Oxford�University�Press,�1998.

Manguel,�Alberto.�A�History�of�Reading.�Viking,�1996.

Nunberg,�Geo�rey,�ed.�The�Future�of�the�Book.�University�of�California�Press,�1996.

Saenger,�Paul.�Space�between�Words:�The�Origins�of�Silent�Reading.�Stanford� University�Press,�1997.�THE�MIND�OF�THE�READER

Birkerts,�Sven.�The�Gutenberg�Elegies:�The�Fate�of�Reading�in�an�Electronic�Age.� Faber�and�Faber,�1994.

Dehaene,�Stanislas.�Reading�in�the�Brain:�The�Science�and�Evolu�on�of�a�Human� Inven�on.�Viking,�2009.

Goody,�Jack.�The�Interface�between�the�Wri�en�and�the�Oral.�Cambridge�University� Press,�1987.

Havelock,�Eric.�Preface�to�Plato.�Harvard�University�Press,�1963.

Moss,�Ann.�Printed�Commonplace-Books�and�the�Structuring�of�Renaissance� Thought.�Oxford�University�Press,�1996.

Olson,�David�R.�The�World�on�Paper:�The�Conceptual�and�Cogni�ve�Implica�ons�of� Wri�ng�and�Reading.�Cambridge�University�Press,�1994.

Ong,�Walter�J.�Orality�and�Literacy:�The�Technologizing�of�the�Word.�Routledge,� 2002.

Wolf,�Maryanne.�Proust�and�the�Squid:�The�Story�and�Science�of�the�Reading�Brain.� Harper,�2007.�MAPS,�CLOCKS,�AND�SUCH

Aitken,�Hugh�G.�J.�The�Con�nuous�Wave:�Technology�and�American�Radio,�1900– 1932.�Princeton�University�Press,�1985.

Harley,�J.�B.,�and�David�Woodward,�eds.�The�History�of�Cartography,�vol.�1.� University�of�Chicago�Press,�1987.

Headrick,�Daniel�R.�When�Informa�on�Came�of�Age:�Technologies�of�Knowledge�in� the�Age�of�Reason�and�Revolu�on,�1700–1850.�Oxford�University�Press,�2000.

Landes,�David�S.�Revolu�on�in�Time:�Clocks�and�the�Making�of�the�Modern�World,� rev.�ed.�Harvard�University�Press,�2000.

Robinson,�Arthur�H.�Early�Thema�c�Mapping�in�the�History�of�Cartography.� University�of�Chicago�Press,�1982.

Thrower,�Norman�J.�W.�Maps�and�Civiliza�on:�Cartography�in�Culture�and�Society.� University�of�Chicago�Press,�2008.

Virga,�Vincent,�and�the�Library�of�Congress.�Cartographia:�Mapping�Civiliza�ons.� Li�le,�Brown,�2007.�TECHNOLOGY�IN�INTELLECTUAL�HISTORY

Heidegger,�Mar�n.�The�Ques�on�concerning�Technology�and�Other�Essays.�Harper�&� Row,�1977.�Heidegger’s�essay�on�technology�was�originally�published�in�the� collec�on�Vorträge�und�Aufsätze�in�1954.

Innis,�Harold.�The�Bias�of�Communica�on.�University�of�Toronto�Press,�1951.

Ki�ler,�Friedrich�A.�Gramophone,�Film,�Typewriter.�Stanford�University�Press,�1999.

Marx,�Leo.�The�Machine�in�the�Garden:�Technology�and�the�Pastoral�Ideal�in� America.�Oxford�University�Press,�2000.

McLuhan,�Marshall.�The�Gutenberg�Galaxy:�The�Making�of�Typographic�Man.� University�of�Toronto�Press,�1962.

McLuhan,�Marshall.�Understanding�Media:�The�Extensions�of�Man,�cri�cal�ed.� Gingko,�2003.

Mumford,�Lewis.�Technics�and�Civiliza�on.�Harcourt�Brace,�1934.

Postman,�Neil.�Technopoly:�The�Surrender�of�Culture�to�Technology.�Vintage,�1993.� COMPUTERS,�THE�INTERNET,�AND�ARTIFICIAL�INTELLIGENCE

Baron,�Naomi�S.�Always�On:�Language�in�an�Online�and�Mobile�World.�Oxford� University�Press,�2008.

Crystal,�David.�Language�and�the�Internet,�2nd�ed.�Cambridge�University�Press,�2006.

Dyson,�George�B.�Darwin�among�the�Machines:�The�Evolu�on�of�Global�Intelligence.� Addison-Wesley,�1997.

Jackson,�Maggie.�Distracted:�The�Erosion�of�A�en�on�and�the�Coming�Dark�Age.� Prometheus,�2008.

Kemeny,�John�G.�Man�and�the�Computer.�Scribner,�1972.

Levy,�David�M.�Scrolling�Forward:�Making�Sense�of�Documents�in�the�Digital�Age.� Arcade,�2001.

Von�Neumann,�John.�The�Computer�and�the�Brain,�2nd�ed.�Yale�University�Press,� 2000.

Wiener,�Norbert.�The�Human�Use�of�Human�Beings.�Houghton�Mi�in,�1950.

Weizenbaum,�Joseph.�Computer�Power�and�Human�Reason:�From�Judgment�to� Calcula�on.�Freeman,�1976.

Acknowledgments

This�book�grew�out�of�an�essay�I�wrote�for�the�Atlan�c�called�“Is�Google�Making�Us� Stupid?,”�which�appeared�in�the�magazine’s�July–August�2008�issue.�I�thank�the�

Atlan�c’s�James�Bennet,�Don�Peck,�James�Gibney,�Timothy�Lavin,�and�Reihan�Salam� for�their�help�and�encouragement.�My�discussion�of�Google’s�strategy�in�chapter�8� draws�on�material�that�originally�appeared�in�“The�Google�Enigma,”�an�ar�cle�I� wrote�for�Strategy�&�Business�in�2007.�I�am�grateful�to�Art�Kleiner�and�Amy� Bernstein�at�that�magazine�for�their�expert�edi�ng.�For�their�generosity�in�taking� �me�to�answer�my�ques�ons,�I�thank�Mike�Merzenich,�Maryanne�Wolf,�Jim�Olds,� Russell�Poldrack,�Gary�Small,�Ziming�Liu,�Clay�Shirky,�Kevin�Kelly,�Bruce�Friedman,� Ma��Cu�s,�Tom�Lord,�Caleb�Crain,�Bill�Thompson,�and�Ari�Schulman.�I�owe�par�cular� thanks�to�my�editor�at�W.�W.�Norton,�Brendan�Curry,�and�his�talented�colleagues.�I� am�also�indebted�to�my�agent,�John�Brockman,�and�his�associates�at�Brockman�Inc.� Finally,�I�salute�the�book’s�intrepid��rst�readers:�my�wife�Ann�and�my�son�Henry.� They�made�it�to�the�end.