De kracht van selectieve onwetendheid

man in een museum kijkt op zijn telefoon - foto niek de greef

Er is een interessante logica te vinden in de Buddhist Noble Truths. Ik parafraseer:

Suffering is caused by desire, attachment, and general craving. Eliminating craving reduces our suffering.

Verlangen neemt af door de oorzaak ervan weg te nemen. Onwetendheid is de hoofdoorzaak. Onwetendheid is een diepgewortelde cognitieve en perceptuele blindheid die ervoor zorgt dat wezens de werkelijkheid verkeerd interpreteren.

Onwetendheid is een interessant woord als je deze context in ogenschouw neemt. Er is onwetendheid in de zin van niet weten, wat de negatieve connotatie heeft van dom zijn, en onwetendheid in de zin van negeren of geen aandacht schenken.

We kunnen dingen negeren die we willen bezitten, interesses negeren die we hebben, zodat we ons kunnen concentreren op de essentiële dingen, en dingen negeren die we denken te moeten weten – waardoor we de meest letterlijke vorm van onwetendheid bereiken. Deze daad van selectieve onwetendheid kan bevrijdend werken en ons bevrijden van de last van onnodige informatie.

Dit concept van onwetendheid kan ook positief worden geherformuleerd als ‘selectieve onwetendheid’: kiezen waar je je op concentreert en wat je negeert om mentale rommel en lijden te verminderen.

Focus en onwetendheid

In onze ambities vergelijken we onszelf met anderen. We observeren en benijden hun prestaties en oordelen. Geen van beide is nuttig.

Robert Greene schrijft in Mastery over hoe de meesters in hun vakgebied – de mensen over wie hij in zijn boek schrijft – zich concentreerden op hun sterke punten. Deze focus op persoonlijke sterke punten geeft hen kracht en het vertrouwen om hun doelen na te streven.

…ignore your weaknesses and resist the temptation to be more like others. Instead… direct yourself toward the small things you are good at.

man jogging on deserted island - foto niek de greef

In Advice for Living deelt Kevin Kelly zijn wijsheid over zorgen over de mening van anderen:

Ignore what others may be thinking of you because they aren’t thinking of you.

Aandacht, media en onwetendheid

In de wereld van vandaag zijn we verslaafd aan nieuws. Als we naar het nieuws kijken, voelen we ons machteloos tegenover de daden van een klein aantal slechte mensen. We verlangen naar beter nieuws, meer updates. Nieuwsagentschappen reageren net als sigarettenfabrikanten: ze stemmen hun producten af op onze verslavende behoeften met een negatieve inslag, sensationele koppen en continu breaking news.

Oliver Burkeman overtuigt ons in Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals dat de media onze aandacht stelen:

The unsettling possibility is that if you’re convinced that none of this is a problem for you-that social media hasn’t turned you into an angrier, less empathetic, more anxious, or more numbed-out version of yourself-that might be because it has. Your finite time has been appropriated without your realizing anything’s amiss.

We zijn verslaafd. Maar we kunnen onszelf helpen door onwetendheid na te streven. We kunnen meldingen negeren en uitschakelen, en minder vaak nieuwsbronnen raadplegen.

Misschien zijn we beter af met een nieuwsbron die niet gedijt op actualiteit, maar op een langetermijnperspectief. Dat zal niet gratis zijn, want het is niet onze aandacht die voor deze diensten betaalt, maar de waarde die ze bieden voor ons geluk, waarvoor we in ruil daarvoor geld betalen. Deze verschuiving in perspectief kan geruststellend zijn, wetende dat we onze aandacht investeren in iets dat er echt toe doet.

All the Lovers in the Night: On Isolation and Connection

All the Lovers in the Night
Mieko Kawakami

A strange mix of loneliness, connection, and love come together in All the Lovers in the Night by Mieko Kawakami.

Fuyuko is a reclusive proofreader at a publishing house. She has virtually no social life.

One day, Fuyuko comes into contact with Hijiri, who persuades her to go freelance. Fuyuko more or less befriends Hijiri and is somewhat taken out of her isolation by this friendship. Fuyuko learns to drink alcohol, but without any measure.

She meets Mr. Mitsutsuka, an older man, when she attempts to enroll them in a course. She starts meeting him more frequently after an initial reluctance. They have special and increasingly intimate conversations. A strange, affectionate relationship develops.

Not saying a word, just standing there, Mitsutsuka looked like he was waiting patiently for my tears to settle. I heard a car go by, not very far away from us. Using my palm, I wiped the tears dripping down my chin, then rubbed my eyes, covered my face, and started crying again. Mitsutsuka lifted his free hand and rested it on the crown of my head. I thought I could feel the heat of his hand entering my skin. With his palm still on my head, I asked Mitsutsuka if he would spend my birthday with me, in a voice that was almost all sob. Will you walk through the night with me? And will you listen to that song with me, just the two of us?

The character Fuyuko bears resemblance to the strangely named Natsuke in Earthlings by Sayaka Murata. Women who cannot ground themselves in this world, or at least in Japanese society, and live socially isolated lives. Where in Earthlings an unbearable burden develops in the protagonist Natsuke, Kawakami’s story is more loving, and Fuyuko manages to maintain a certain lightness and optimism.

Nassim Nicholas Taleb on the artisanal and techno-dissatisfaction

Douglas Coupland predicted that the crafted object might become the emerging “technology” of modern art. Analog experiences are where art is enjoyed.

In Antifragile, Nassim Nicholas Taleb explores technology and art from the perspective of fragility. Technology is designed to replace older, inferior technology.

Technology is at its best when it is invisible. I am convinced that technology is of greatest benefit when it displaces the deleterious, unnatural, alienating, and, most of all, inherently fragile preceding technology.
…
So it may be a natural property of technology to only want to be displaced by itself.

But not all technology disappears. The Lindy effect applies to technology.

For the nonperishable, every additional day may imply a longer life expectancy. So the longer a technology lives, the longer it can be expected to live.
…
But in general, the older the technology, not only the longer it is expected to last, but the more certainty I can attach to such a statement.

People experience new technology like a treadmill effect.

People acquire a new item, feel more satisfied after an initial boost, then rapidly revert to their baseline of well-being. So, when you “upgrade,” you feel a boost of satisfaction with changes in technology. But then you get used to it and start hunting for the new new thing.

Taleb states that this effect does not apply to classical art, as well as to analog and physical experiences. These experiences appear to be exempt from men’s hedonic decline in satisfaction.

But it looks as though we don’t incur the same treadmilling techno-dissatisfaction with classical art, older furniture—whatever we do not put in the category of the technological.
…
I have never heard anyone address the large differences between e-readers and physical books, like smell, texture, dimension (books are in three dimensions), color, ability to change pages, physicality of an object compared to a computer screen, and hidden properties causing unexplained differences in enjoyment.

The big differentiator, according to Taleb, is the infusion of the maker’s love in the created art object.

But consider the difference between the artisanal—the other category—and the industrial. What is artisanal has the love of the maker infused in it, and tends to satisfy—we don’t have this nagging impression of incompleteness we encounter with electronics. It also so happens that whatever is technological happens to be fragile. Articles made by an artisan cause fewer treadmill effects. And they tend to have some antifragility—recall how my artisanal shoes take months before becoming comfortable.

The medicine against our technology addiction is not the upgrade to the latest. The medicine is the downgrade to the analog, real-life experience, and the physical object.

Neil Postman on Huxley and Orwell: the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy

In Amusing Ourselves to Death, Neil Postman discusses the consequences of a culture transitioning from orality to literacy to visual media.

The number of hours the average American watches TV has remained steady, at about four and a half hours a day, every day (by age sixty-five, a person will have spent twelve uninterrupted years in front of the TV).

The Internet and smart phones have shifted the focus from TV to the Internet, but not the total amount of time spent on these media.

Postman looks at the great literary dystopians Orwell and Huxley, who must have foreseen such developments and the dangers they bring along.

Orwell warns that we will be overcome by an externally imposed oppression. But in Huxley’s vision, no Big Brother is required to deprive people of their autonomy, maturity and history. As he saw it, people will come to love their oppression, to adore the technologies that undo their capacities to think.
…
What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one.
…
Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture, preoccupied with some equivalent of the feelies, the orgy porgy, and the centrifugal bumblepuppy. As Huxley remarked in Brave New World Revisited, the civil libertarians and rationalists who are ever on the alert to oppose tyranny “failed to take into account man’s almost infinite appetite for distractions.”