La novela de 1910 que predijo la era de Internet – El Mostrador

El mundo futurístico retratado por el escritor británico Edward Morgan Forster en su cuento de ciencia ficción “La máquina se detiene” (1909) resulta inquietantemente familiar.Las personas se comunican entre sí a través de pantallas, las interacciones cara a cara se han convertido en algo extraño, y el conocimiento y las ideas se comparten a través un sistema que vincula cada hogar.

Fuente: La novela de 1910 que predijo la era de Internet – El Mostrador


We need an internet that leaves space in our heads to enjoy creative peace | Technology | The Guardian

We need an internet that leaves space in our heads to enjoy creative peace | Technology | The Guardian.

Jemima Kiss spent long days in the hills, meditating and rediscovering the simplest of pleasures.

 Jemima Kiss spent long days in the hills, meditating and rediscovering the simplest of pleasures. Photograph: Bernard Jaubert/incamerastock/Corbis

I was sitting on my own in the room I had for the week, looking out over a steep Spanish hillside of almond blossom and holm oak and olive trees. It was sunny but cold, and I sat at the table with a large cup of tea and a blanket over my legs. Beside me lay a broken internet router. It was very, very quiet. No TV, no music, no radio, no children. Not even a book. Dogs barking in a distant house, echoing down the valley. The house dog, Pablo, padding around outside. A faint rustle of the wind in the carob tree branches overhead. And a hum, like the hum of a refrigerator, which I do believe was the hum of my own mind.

This is luxury calm. At the end of my tether a month ago, I felt the internet had stolen my creativity. I came here out of necessity, for exactly this moment, to reset my restless, relentless, internet-saturated mind. I thought I might struggle when faced with so few choices, with so little input – but it was bliss, like slipping into an old pair of slippers. I opened my sketchbook. I started to draw. I wrote a letter to someone who’ll never receive it. I had an idea for a novel. I had an idea for an essay on artists and their muses. I made plans, reprioritised. I started to think again. The days in those hills started with long, chilly, muddy walks with dogs, scrambling off road, up hillsides and through olive groves. Goat bells tinkled in the distance. The dogs ran off and ran back again, but I was walking at my own pace. No discussion about the route, and I knew the way instinctively. My route, my pace.