![]() Good ones create a fizzingly joyful moment of creativity, of people bouncing off each other a “Yes, and”. But when they work, they offer a new vocabulary for an emotion or an experience for something that you know, but have not pinned down or articulated. They seem like a degraded form of culture, viewed from outside the dopamine mines. There was a video of a cow visiting a Spar in Austria today, I enjoyed that. ![]() But no, here are some dogs going down a slide! One day I’ll break free, but, until then, little sparks of intellectual stimulation, connection or fun – the stuff that sucked me in – compensate for no longer being able to concentrate for more than 90 seconds. I imagine its crenellations and folds softened into a grey blur from prolonged bathing in social media’s grim minestrone of outrage, dancing cockatoos, raw sewage footage and the kind of tragedy that should require us to step away and take time to grieve. I know about memes, because while Zadie Smith was creating enduring art, I was blunting the cheap plastic-handled knife of my brain in the dishwasher of Twitter. Zadie Smith does not need to know about memes. Or Zadie Smith, her fine intellect, sharp as a Japanese blade, undulled by scrolling (I think about her and her social media ban often). That makes me imagine my father glaring in disgust at the word and grinding his teeth, like Uncle Matthew in Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love does at the word “weekend”. ![]()
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