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<h1 class="css-12oljxu">The Twittering Machine by
Richard Seymour review – our descent into a digital
dystopia</h1>
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<div class="css-7kp13n">By</div>
<div class="css-7ol5x1"><span class="css-1q5ec3n">Peter
Conrad</span></div>
<div class="css-8rl9b7">theguardian.com</div>
<div class="css-zskk6u">4 min</div>
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<figure> <img
src="https://pocket-image-cache.com//filters:no_upscale()/https%3A%2F%2Fi.guim.co.uk%2Fimg%2Fmedia%2F440663500707ac97327e2e48032340e5279f1e4d%2F0_546_5474_3284%2Fmaster%2F5474.jpg%3Fwidth%3D300%26quality%3D85%26auto%3Dformat%26fit%3Dmax%26s%3Df14ed750c4f3e3c6fedad4a636734262"
alt="‘People today are the slaves of
their fetishised, deified smartphones.’
Photograph: Getty Images"> <figcaption>‘People
today are the slaves of their
fetishised, deified smartphones.’
Photograph: Getty Images</figcaption> </figure>
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<p><span><span>B</span></span>ack in
the blissed-out 1960s, <a
href="https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2011/jul/26/marshall-mcluhan-conservatism-medium-is-message"
title="" data-link-name="in body
link" target="_blank"
rel="noopener noreferrer">Marshall
McLuhan</a> evangelised for the
new electronic media by instructing
us to <a
href="https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=TIh52np9OP8C&pg=PA54&lpg=PA54&dq=Marshall+McLuhan+%E2%80%9Cserve+these+objects,+these+extensions+of+ourselves,+as+gods+or+minor+religions%E2%80%9D&source=bl&ots=Fm2UjxOIvH&sig=ACfU3U3k4-U1HpKYPJrhMW_ZlQWFNUaAXQ&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwiUg5fg_O3jAhVUr3EKHZFbCrwQ6AEwAXoECAkQAQ#v=onepage&q=Marshall%20McLuhan%20%E2%80%9Cserve%20these%20objects%2C%20these%20extensions%20of%20ourselves%2C%20as%20gods%20or%20minor%20religions%E2%80%9D&f=false"
title="" data-link-name="in body
link" target="_blank"
rel="noopener noreferrer">“serve
these objects, these extensions of
ourselves, as gods or minor
religions”</a>. It was a prophetic
glimpse of a future that has now
arrived. People today are the slaves
of their fetishised, deified
smartphones; the religion is no
longer minor, and, like the
discredited cults it replaced, it
doses the faithful with opium.</p>
<p>Technology, as <a
href="https://www.theguardian.com/profile/richard-seymour"
title="" data-link-name="in body
link" target="_blank"
rel="noopener noreferrer">Richard
Seymour</a> says, always boasts of
possessing superhuman powers, which
is why it arouses our wary paranoia.
In earlier times, industrial engines
seemed like monstrous Molochs that
gobbled up workers; nowadays we are
unsure whether the magical gadget we
hold in our hand is “a benevolent
genie or a tormenting demon”. The
twittering machine, as Seymour calls
it, has no innate morality, but it
preys on our weaknesses to
monopolise our attention and modify
our behaviour. We are left jangled,
needy, constantly alert for the
chirp that announces some new and
unnecessary missive, ever ready to
resume our chore of clicking the
“like” button, surrendering to the
advertisers who gather up the
personal data we so guilelessly
provide.</p>
<div id="RIL_IMG_2" class="RIL_IMG">
<figure> <img
src="https://pocket-image-cache.com//filters:no_upscale()/https%3A%2F%2Fi.guim.co.uk%2Fimg%2Fmedia%2Fa95cf9e97e6973421753d8443b3a4d61676e3a6b%2F0_0_1918_2605%2Fmaster%2F1918.jpg%3Fwidth%3D300%26quality%3D85%26auto%3Dformat%26fit%3Dmax%26s%3Dce8081863f0065bb40e68129d37d706a"
alt="Twittering Machine, 1922,
by Paul Klee. Photograph: The
Picture Art Collection/Alamy
Stock Photo"> <figcaption>Twittering
Machine, 1922, by Paul Klee.
Photograph: The Picture Art
Collection/Alamy Stock Photo</figcaption>
</figure>
</div>
<p>The title of Seymour’s inflamed
polemic comes from <a
href="https://www.paulklee.net/twittering-machine.jsp"
title="" data-link-name="in body
link" target="_blank"
rel="noopener noreferrer">a
painting by Paul Klee</a>, in
which a row of avian predators
“squawk discordantly”, enticing
victims into a bloody pit. As
Seymour hears it, what ought to be a
lyrical dawn chorus has become a
“cyborg roar”, boosted by Trump’s
latest warmongering tweets or the
screech of some anonymous adolescent
mob persecuting a luckless
schoolgirl; the whole apparatus
exists “for the purpose of human
damnation”.</p>
<p>This theological trope is not used
lightly. McLuhan, a Catholic
convert, believed that electronic
media had endowed us with
world-encircling eyes and ears, and
thought we would soon be ushered
into a benign, enlightened “global
village”. Seymour’s view is starker
and bleaker, and has no room for any
divine dispensation. McLuhan
bizarrely claimed that the universal
consciousness sponsored by computers
was “a new interpretation of the
body of Christ”. But the algorithms
that operate out of sight on
Facebook or in the margins on Gmail
are designed to snare customers, not
to save souls: their creed, Seymour
says, is “automated agnosticism,
digital nihilism”.</p>
<p>As Seymour promises, his book is “a
horror story”. Teenagers livestream
their suicides, and trolls later
jeer on RIP sites set up to mourn
them. <a
href="https://www.theguardian.com/technology/2019/aug/05/8chan-far-right-message-board-hosting"
title="" data-link-name="in body
link" target="_blank"
rel="noopener noreferrer">Message
boards such as 8chan</a> allow
terrorists to cheer one another on.
So-called “swarms” of protesters
rejoice in a sense of “despotic
rectitude” that reminds Seymour of
fascist street gangs in the 1930s.
Utopians used to insist that the
internet would be a paradise of
connectivity, “where minds, doors
and lives open up”. Instead, it is,
at best, a virtual Las Vegas casino,
enticing us to enrich the big tech
behemoths by playing their inane
games; at worst, it has become a
sickbay for neurotics addicted to
“cyber-crack”, a training camp for
alt-right crazies and a battlefield.</p>
<p>Seymour has a conspiracy theory to
explain the belligerence of these
supposedly convivial platforms. The
Wall Street firms that supplied
capital to Silicon Valley envisaged
the internet as “a stock market of
status”, powered by “unequal
relationships” that would inevitably
explode into violence: “racism and
riots, class struggles and
countercultures, mobsters and
McCarthyism”. Financial markets
thrive on such aggression, since
“volatility adds value” and chaos is
excellent clickbait. The social
media industry is happy to function
as Trump’s enabler because his
projectile-vomited bile maximises
profits: in 2017 his account “was
worth about $2.5bn to Twitter, a
fifth of its share value at the
time”.</p>
<p>Seymour’s book is dedicated to the
Luddites, saboteurs who wrecked
machinery during the industrial
revolution, but he at once admits
that we can hardly smash a machine
that is a global abstraction,
existing only in the wifi-tingling
air. Righteously infuriated, he
fires off volleys of angry
aphorisms, yet he blunts their force
by citing so many obscure,
jargon-ridden academic experts as
backup, and a sense of futility
enfeebles his demand for change.</p>
<p>No technology can be uninvented, so
Seymour’s pessimism leads him to a
conclusion that feels merely
wistful. The worst offence of social
media, he argues, is “the theft of
the capacity for reverie”. Time
spent online is time deducted from
our lives, just as taking a selfie
is an excuse to not be yourself. By
way of escape, all Seymour can
whimsically suggest is to go for a
walk in the park, making sure you
leave all your “devices” behind. In
his last sentence, he even
recommends lolling on a lily pad. I
have some more earnest advice: if
you really want to set yourself
free, you should read a book –
preferably this one.</p>
<p><em><span>•</span> The Twittering
Machine</em> is published by
Indigo Press (£12.99). To order a
copy go to <a
href="https://guardianbookshop.com/twittering-machine-9781999683382.html?utm_source=editoriallink&utm_medium=merch&utm_campaign=article"
title="" data-link-name="in body
link" target="_blank"
rel="noopener noreferrer">guardianbookshop.com</a>
or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK
p&p over £15, online orders
only. Phone orders min p&p of
£1.99</p>
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