and now they can sell it back to me via tastefully unobtrusive text ads
Illustration by Ricardo Fumanal.
“As for his plan, we profess to be able to demonstrate that there is no such thing, that he writes almost at random, mixing up facts, reporting them incoherently and out of order; confounding, when he treats of one era, that which pertains to another; disdaining to justify either his accusations or his eulogies; adopting without examination and the critical spirit so necessary to a historian the false judgements of prejudice, rivalry or enmity, and the exaggerations of ill humour or malevolence; attributing to some people actions and to others speeches that are incompatible with their characters; never citing any witness but himself or any other authority but his own assertions.” — General Gourgaud, “Examen critique de l’ouvrage de M. le comte Philippe de Ségur”
Among the small number of things that I have liked and known how to do well, what I have assuredly known how to do best is drink. Even though I have read a lot, I have drunk even more. I have written much less than most people who write; but I have drunk much more than most people who drink. I can count myself among those of whom Baltasar Gracián, thinking about an elite distinguishable only among the Germans — but here very unfair, to the detriment of the French, as I think I have shown — could say: “There are those who have got drunk only once, but it has lasted them a lifetime.” »
“The otaku, the passionate obsessive, the information age’s embodiment of the connoisseur, more concerned with the accumulation of data than of objects, seems a natural crossover figure in today’s interface of British and Japanese cultures. I see it in the eyes of the Portobello dealers, and in the eyes of the Japanese collectors: a perfectly calm train-spotter frenzy, murderous and sublime. Understanding otaku-hood, I think, is one of the keys to understanding the culture of the web. There is something profoundly post-national about it, extra-geographic. We are all curators, in the post-modern world, whether we want to be or not.” — William Gibson, April 2001 edition of The Observer
From Wired:
As an ex-Brit, I’m well aware of the authorities’ love of surveillance and snooping, but even I, a pessimistic cynic, am amazed by the governments latest plan: to install Orwell’s telescreens in 20,000 homes.
£400 million ($668 million) will be spend on installing and monitoring CCTV cameras in the homes of private citizens. Why? To make sure the kids are doing their homework, going to bed early and eating their vegetables. The scheme has, astonishingly, already been running in 2,000 family homes. The government’s “children’s secretary” Ed Balls is behind the plan, which is aimed at problem, antisocial families. The idea is that, if a child has a more stable home life, he or she will be less likely to stray into crime and drugs. »
As a starting point, we considered the need of having a minimal house that a person could carry with them. It could be either a house owned by that person, so it might be carried by any means (even by air), or a part of a mobile dwelling system made available for citizens in any city. »
“Romantic Old Maids Can Hear the Words of Love They Long For” (1928); cited in Paleo-Future:
At the same rate of progress it should not require more than a decade or so before a person can go to a store and pick out from the show case most any kind of automatic man or woman he or she might fancy — an ideal servant or workman who would ask no food or wages but a little current and an occasional drop of oil; or even a flattering admirer could be purchased who would whisper in a neglected wife’s ear, all the nice things that a busy husband forgets to say.
In this happy future, no old maid need look under the bed for a man, in vain. He would always be there and such a nice man, a perfect imitation of her favorite matinee idol or film star, with blond or dark hair, moustache or clean shaven, anything her heart desired. These would be stock models, turned out in quantity production and quite reasonable in price. This year probably a “Lindy” model would have been a big seller. Or, if the customer is willing to pay a little more and have one made to order, the manufacturer might send artists and photographers to some notorious lounge-lizard and deliver a perfect counterfeit of him. She could order the late Rudolf Valentine’s face and John Barrymore’s voice or most any other combination.
The present crude automations can be made to start on most any combination of tones, therefore the man under the bed might be set to react at the words:
“Sir! What are you doing there?”
At that cue he would crawl out and on bended knees, pour out words from 1,000 feet of phonofilm, revealing his hopeless passion for the love-starved old maid, telling her how beautiful she is and all the other sweet things that somebody ought to have said but no mortal had bothered to.
When she tired of hearing this over and over, a word of encouragement would be the end to slide into place in his manly chest, another reel and at the same time he could sit beside her on the couch or take her on his substantial knees, embracing her with a tireless mechanical arm. The introduction of this kind of automation would throw out of work a small army of “gigolos,” young men who in Europe, pay attention to old and unattractive ladies of wealth, for a consideration.
