Seymour - The Twittering Machine

THE

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THE TWITTERING MACHINE

THE

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The Twittering Machine, Paul Klee, 1922

The Museum of Modern Art Photo SCALA, Florence.

RICHARD SEYMOUR

THE

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THE INDIGO PRESS

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COPYRIGHT RICHARD SEYMOUR 2019

Richard Seymour asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

eBook ISBN 978-1-911648-03-1

ISBN 978-1-9996833-8-2

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Paul Klee image: Klee, Paul (18791940):

Twittering Machine (Zwitscher-Maschine), 1922. New York, Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). Watercolour, and pen and ink on oil transfer drawing on paper, mounted on cardboard; comp. sheet 16 1/4 x 12" (41.3 x 30.5 cm), mount sheet 25 1/4 x 19" (63.8 x 48.1 cm). Purchase. 564.1939. 019. Digital image 2019, The Museum of Modern Art, New York/Scala, Florence

To the Luddites

Everything on the computer is writing. Everything on the net is writing in sites, files and protocols.

Sandy Baldwin, The Internet Unconscious

The Twittering Machine is a horror story, even though it is about technology that is in itself neither good nor bad.

We tend to ascribe magical powers to technologies: the smartphone is our golden ticket, the tablet our mystic writing pad. In technology, we find our own alienated powers in a moralized form: either a benevolent genie or a tormenting demon. These are paranoid fantasies, whether or not they seem malign, because in them we are at the mercy of the devices. So, if this is a horror story, the horror must partly lie in the user: a category that includes me, and probably most of the people reading this book.

If the Twittering Machine confronts us with a string of calamities addiction, depression, fake news, trolls, online mobs, alt-right subcultures it is only exploiting and magnifying problems that are already socially pervasive. If weve found ourselves addicted to social media, in spite or because of its frequent nastiness, as I have, then there is something in us that is waiting to be addicted. Something that social media potentiates. And if, with all these problems, we still inhabit the social media platforms as over half the worlds population does we must be getting something out of it. The dreary moral-panic literature excoriating the shallows and the post-truth society must be missing a vital truth about their subject.

Those who enjoy the social media platforms tend to like the fact that they give them a shot at being heard. It weakens the monopoly on culture and meaning formerly enjoyed by media and entertainment companies. Access isnt equal reach is bought and paid for by corporate users, PR agencies, celebrities, and so on, who also have better-funded content but it can still give marginalized voices a chance where previously they had none. And it rewards quickness, wit, cleverness, play, and certain types of creativity even if it also rewards darker pleasures, such as sadism and spite.

And if the use of social media unsettles political systems, this isnt entirely bad news for those traditionally excluded by those systems. The once-hyped idea of Twitter revolutions vastly exaggerated the role of social media in popular uprisings, and these have since been overtaken by darker forces embedded in social media, from ISIS to Mens Rights Activists (MRA) killers. But there are times when the flow of information between citizens makes all the difference; times when the traditional news media cant be relied on; times when the possibilities of social media can be put to good use. Times, generally, of crisis.

Nonetheless, the crucial part of Kranzbergs observation is that technology is never neutral. And the crucial technology, in this story, is writing. A practice that binds humans and machines in a pattern of relationships, without which most of what we call civilization is impossible. Writing technologies, being foundational to our ways of life, are never socially or politically neutral in their effects. Anyone who has lived through the rise of the internet, the spread of the smartphone and the ascent of social media platforms will have seen a remarkable shift taking place. As writing has morphed from analogue to digital, it has become massively ubiquitous. Never before in human history have people written so much, so frantically: texting, tweeting, thumb-typing on public transport, updating statuses during work breaks, scrolling and clicking in front of glowing screens at 3 a.m. To some extent, this is an extension of changes in the workplace, where computer-mediated communication means that writing takes up an ever-larger share of production. And, indeed, there is an important sense in which the writing were doing now is work, albeit unpaid. But it is also indicative of new, or unleashed, passions.

We are, abruptly, scripturient possessed by a violent desire to write, incessantly. So, this is a story about desire and violence, as well as writing. It is also a story about what we might be writing ourselves into, culturally and politically. It is not an authoritative account: that is impossible this early in the evolution of a radically new techno-political system. This book is an attempt, as much as anything else, to work out a new language for thinking about what is coming into being. And finally, if we are all going to be writers, it is a story that asks the minimal utopian question: what else could we be doing with writing, if not this?

There is in our future a TV or Internet populism, in which the emotional response of a selected group of citizens can be presented and accepted as the Voice of the People.

Umberto Eco, Ur-Fascism

I n 1922, the surrealist Paul Klee invented the Twittering Machine. In the painting, a row of stick-figure birds clutches an axle, turned by a crank. Below the device where the voices squawk discordantly is a reddened pit. Somehow, the holy music of birdsong has been mechanized, deployed as a lure, for the purpose of human damnation.

I n the beginning was the knot. Before text, there was textiles.

From about five thousand years ago, the Inca civilization used quipus, coloured strands of knotted string, to store information, usually for accounting purposes. They were sometimes called talking knots, and they were read with practised motions of the hand, much as Braille is today. But every beginning is, to some extent, arbitrary. We could just as well start with cave painting.