On the net, you have public, or you have secrets. The private intermediate sphere, with its careful buffering. is shattered. E-mails are forwarded verbatim. IRC transcripts, with throwaway comments, are preserved forever. You talk to your friends online, you talk to the world.
This is why, incidentally, why people hate blogs so much. My God, people say, how can Livejournallers be so self-obsessed? Oh, Christ, is Xeni talking about LA art again? Why won’t they all shut up?
The answer why they won’t shut up is – they’re not talking to you. They’re talking in the private register of blogs, that confidential style between secret-and-public. And you found them via Google. They’re having a bad day. They’re writing for friends who are interested in their hobbies and their life. Meanwhile, you’re standing fifty yards away with a sneer, a telephoto lens and a directional microphone. Who’s obsessed now?
Interessante notare che se uno spende quattro ore a imbesuirsi davanti alla televisione è un bravo cittadino, ma se spende un’ora al giorno (e va bene, due) interattivamente sul suo blog è un perdigiorno.
Zia Irene, grande lettrice, mi raccontava sempre di quella sua cognata che trovandola con un libro in mano le diceva invariabilmente “Senti, visto che non hai niente da fare…”.