Our mourning rituals are being adapted to -- and evolving because of -- our strangely persistent online personas. In this interview, a philosopher tries to make sense of death on the Internet.
Think of how rich and deeply personal your online persona has become. Now think of what will happen to it when you die.
Until very recently, this question used to feel unusual or irrelevant for all but a tiny, ultrawired slice of the population. In a New York Times Magazine feature about online death last year, Rob Walker noted, "For most of us, the fate of tweets and status updates and the like may seem trivial." But in the 15 months between then and now, the question of online death has become inescapable: thousands of Facebook users die each day. Facebook's new Timeline begins with one's birth. There is only one logical way for it to end.
Already, the service allows grieving
loved ones to "memorialize" user profiles. These "In Memory Of"
profiles have become a new mourning space, where memorial services can
be organized, condolences can be collected, and, more interestingly,
where a distinctive version of a person can be experienced and
remembered. People can and do leave wall posts on the profiles of the dead. In this sense, a part of a person lives on online.
But what does that really mean? Philosophers have long struggled with similar questions about identity. They are, in some sense, uniquely disposed to answer
these tricky questions about what becomes of the online dead. Some are beginning to try.
Patrick Stokes, an Australian philosopher from Deakin University,
recently published a paper called "Ghosts in the Machine: Do the Dead Live On In Facebook?"
that addresses many of the issues raised by the survival of the dead
online. What follows is my conversation with Stokes about the slippery
nature of identity and the peculiar ways that we live and die online.
This is a strange and fascinating moment as we develop new rituals for the dead's social media profiles. We are drawing on established traditions, but also developing new ones that take advantage of the technological affordances of the services we use. Facebook's memorial profiles are not in an "online graveyard or cemetery," Stokes says, "Instead we just have these dead people among us."
You open your paper by noting that there is this increasing intersection of online life and offline death. What are some of the more striking examples of that phenomenon?
Stokes: Oh there are plenty of them. Think of when somebody famous dies and then there's this kind of new reaction, where everyone immediately takes to Twitter and has to post some kind of comment on it. There's this interesting kind of ritual that's developed around that, around people saying certain kinds of things about people when they die.
Another example of this intersection---there have been a number of people who have been terminally ill, and who have blogged about their experience with a particular disease, and about their decline, and then had a post deliberately set up to appear after they've died. In some sense, these people are kind of dying online, in the blog format. There are also frequent cases, and you used to see this on LiveJournal all the time, of people who would start to post about how they'd contracted some horrible disease, and then over several months they would post about all of the tragic things that were happening to them, and because there is a community built around these platforms you'd get people giving them sympathy and tips and things like that. And then suddenly it would go quiet, and a few days later a different person would post from the account and say "I'm so and so's brother or husband or girlfriend; I'm really sorry to tell you that they lost their battle with the disease last week." And then you'd have this huge outpouring of grief and sorrow, but unfortunately what was happening in a lot of these cases was that someone making the whole thing up---they were performing this kind of fake death online out of some psychological need for sympathy or validation. A lot of people were genuinely hurt by that; they were investing real emotions in these people and it turns out the whole thing was actually a complete sham.
More disturbingly there's been instances of people committing suicides on webcams and things like that, with people either not intervening or not intervening fast enough or even encouraging them. There's a strange sort of thing with the internet---on the one hand it's very immediate, you can see people's faces across enormous distances, you can interact directly with them as though they were right in front of you, and yet you can also take refuge in the fact that they're not actually directly in front of you, and that creates a kind of distance that allows people to be much more callous than they otherwise would be.
How is it that you see the dead persisting on Facebook and services like it?
Stokes: It's interesting, my impetus for thinking about this actually came from Facebook. Facebook has that panel on the side that suggests people that you might know, and in the list of suggestions that it gives me, there are at least two individuals who are no longer with us---Facebook knows that they're dead, so it's made this little notation that says "in memory of," and it's turned them into memorial pages. And I started thinking that it's kind of weird that here is my list of potential friends, of people I already know, and some of them are already dead. What does that mean, what does that tell us about the persistence of people after death? I started thinking about the fact that there's this split between the self that you experience right now, and the sort of extended physical and social being that you are otherwise.
The Australian philosopher Mark Johnson talks about this a lot, and what he says is that when you fear death, what you fear is not the extinction of this extended physical and social being, but rather you fear that the sense of self that you experience right now is going to be extinguished. And that's a split that I'm really interested in---the split between our projected first personal outlook on life and our sense of ourselves as a being that extends across time. Looking at these Facebook pages of dead people, what struck me was the way that people continue to interact with them, and that's because Facebook is one of the main technologies that we use to communicate our identity. You go to someone's Facebook page and it says "here I am" and "this is what I like" and "here's a bunch of photos of me" and "here's a bunch of interactions between me and my friends that you can see on my wall." When that person dies all of that stuff is still left there and though the profile has become in some sense unresponsive, it's still existent and people continue to interact with it. The social identity of this person continues.
How do these Facebook profiles help the bereaved?
Stokes: There evidence that they really do help them. In the paper I quote the sister of an Australian soldier who had been killed in Afghanistan as saying "it's almost like it's brought him back to life a little bit, you can hear his voice." And that is something that is useful for people, it can, to some extent, preserve something of the distinctive phenomenal presence of that person---the way they say things, what they looked like, the way they tended to communicate with people. Insofar as it preserves that, I think it probably does help bereaved people, in the same sort of way as reading old letters and things like that helps grieving people.
One of the things that we do when somebody dies is we immediately start telling stories about how they were, we immediately start swapping anecdotes about things they did and things they said, and part of what we're doing there I think is trying to preserve the distinctive presence of that person. We're trying to preserve what made them lovable; that's part of how we keep the dead alive on a moral level, and I think to that extent things like online profiles can be a very useful memory aid for bereaved people. Not a memory aid in the sense that they're in danger of forgetting the person, but a memory aid in the sense of something you can look at that will give you a rich, Proustian rush of memory, and will bring that person back to you as the distinctive person that they were.
Patrick Stokes is a philosopher from Deakin University in Melbourne, Australia.
You say that the dead live on online as objects of duty---what do you mean by that?
Stokes: After I put the paper together I came across the work of a psychologist in London named Elaine Kasket, and she talks a lot about how on these online memorials people tend to talk to the deceased person in a kind of personal way, and often in a way that implies that the person can hear them. I thought that was really interesting. On one level, our online identity captured a huge chunk of our social and relational identity and preserved it, and that it continues to exist in some way. That's really important because I think that it captures the way we really have continuing moral duties to dead people even though they don't exist anymore; they exist as objects of duty. That's something Kierkegaard talks about, the fact that we have these duties to dead people, like the duty to remember them, or the duty not to slander them, and so forth. We live with this very profound ontological ambiguity with dead people: they both absolutely don't exist anymore, and yet they exist as these people that we have to love and care about.
But persisting as an object of moral duty isn't persisting as a self. If I said to you "Would you like to live on inside your Facebook profile?" you'd almost certainly say "No, that doesn't count as any sort of survival that I'd wish for." Whatever survival you achieve through your online presence is a very thin form of survival; it's still some kind of survival, and it's enough to build up a kind of community around it, and enough to serve as a focus of mourning attention, but it's nowhere near as rich as somebody's active living presence in the world. It's a radically diminished form of survival. And so there is this tension that comes up between the self that is this physical and social identity that exists through time and even after death, although in a diminished form, and your sense of the self as being who you are right now, because that self cannot survive death, unless posthumous existence turns out to be correct. Facebook lets you survive for everyone else, but you can't survive for yourself, which is disheartening in a way. It goes back to that old quote from Woody Allen: "I don't want to live on in the hearts of my countrymen, I want to live on in my apartment. I don't want to achieve immortality through my writings, I want to achieve immortality through not dying."
And that's sort of the gut punch of your paper.
Stokes: It is, and it's sort of depressing, but then again working on the philosophy of death usually is. But there are interesting things afoot. In the paper I talk about this website called Virtual Eternity, where you can upload a photo of yourself, and fill in a bit of a script, and then the website creates an avatar of you that, with the use of artificial intelligence, can answer questions as if it were you---based on the short script you've supplied. The idea is that years from now your descendants, or whoever, can go online and have a kind of chat with you through this avatar. The technology isn't very advanced now, but you can imagine one day that it might be, and again, that's great for everyone else, because it does give you a kind of persistence, but it doesn't help you any because the person you experience yourself as being right now can't be inside that avatar.
Haven't the dead always lived on in various kinds of media, in autobiographies and wills and that sort of thing---is the difference here only a kind of democratization of this kind of media-assisted afterlife?
Stokes: You're absolutely right---the dead have persisted in things like graves and books and memories and movies and things like that. There's nothing new here. On one level you can look at something like Facebook and say this is really just a kind of diary or a photo album, but on another level it's a bit richer than that. For one, on Facebook people are consciously presenting or performing their identity, and that hasn't always been true of these previous forms of posthumous identity.
Another thing you see is that despite the warnings of philosophers like Hubert Dreyfus that the disembodiment of the internet cuts us off from certain corporeal aspects of our existence, what we're seeing more and more on online social networks is people being directly connected to their corporeality, or at least more connected to their corporeality than in other online forums---photos are a big part of that, videos as well.
I mention in the paper that there's work being done on the way that people call out other users on social networks for taking very flattering pictures of themselves by holding a camera at a certain angle, what people call the "MySpace angle." And people are policing that by saying "hey, that's a doctored photo, you don't really look that good," which is a fairly unpleasant and misogynistic way of reconnecting people to their corporeality online. An even more unpleasant and misogynistic example of this is a website---and I won't mention the name because I don't want to give them oxygen---where people submit nude photos that people have taken of themselves, and then the site connects them with their social network profiles so you can see the person's name, where they live, and the nude photos of them.
One of the things about that sort of practice is that, in a way, in a very invasive and violent way, it's connecting people with the most basic level of their corporeality, which is that we don't show our naked bodies to most people, and we have control over that. People losing control over that aspect of their corporeality shows the extent to which we do live our bodies online much more than we did even a few years ago. It's still fundamentally a disembodied space, but we're much more connected to our bodies with technologies like Facebook than we were with purely textual sorts of technologies.
But you're right that we've always persisted in these different kinds of media, and interestingly the idea of communication with the dead in modern Western culture has always been associated with electricity as well. There's a sense in which we're already primed by our folklore to accept this idea of the dead living in a kind of disembodied electronic netherworld, which in some way began with the idea of animal magnetism. It's funny when Morse went to seek funding from Congress for the telegraph, some Congressman said "this is just animal magnetism--we're not going to fund this." And there's a thread that leads from that to the little girl being sucked into the TV in Poltergeist, which is something Jeffrey Sconce has written about very eloquently---this sense of an electronic medium for the dead.
This isn't the first time we've imagined the dead living on in electronic mediums.
Facebook has elected to allow relatives to keep the profiles of departed loved ones intact, with a little notation that says "in memory of." Do you think that could be the first step towards a formalized cemetery on Facebook? I've often thought that might give Facebook a considerable, maybe even permanent, market advantage as the ultimate repository of our online identities.
Stokes: Well, online memorials have been around for a very long time. All Facebook has done is start to turn people's actual profiles into online memorials. What's interesting about it is that offline we physically create places, specially demarcated places, where we put dead people, but on Facebook these aren't demarcated---they exist side by side with living profiles. So in that sense, what we have now is not so much like an online graveyard or cemetery; instead we just have these dead people among us.
Right, but that's now. It seems to me very easy to imagine, especially with the advent of Facebook Timeline, that you could soon have this formalized, separate cemetery-like space you would go to on Facebook. Especially if Facebook ends up retaining the cultural impact that it has now over the next several decades. I'm not so sure that media entities like Facebook have that kind of staying power anymore, but if it did, at some point a decent-sized portion of its first generation of adopters is going to die, and you might think that a Facebook cemetery would be a natural outgrowth of that.
Stokes: Possibly, but the funny thing about this is---when we think about our relationships to dead people, we don't really have a kind of categorical way that we relate to them the way we do when we talk about relating to our friends or our family. It's a bit different when you're talking about dead people, because it's more of a one on one relationship. And yet, the cemetery example is in some sense valid, because, one thing Kasket found was that people are actually going back to people's memorial profiles and telling them what's been happening in the six months or one year since they've died, in the same way that some people now go to cemeteries to talk to dead people at the actual gravesite. So in that sense these profiles have become similar to cemeteries, they have become this sort of liminal space, to use a very pretentious word, a space between the living and the dead where you can communicate with them, and yet now you can do it in the privacy of your own home, sitting in bed in your underwear if that's your thing.
As I said before, the central dilemma of your paper, the gut punch of it, is this sense that increasingly some virtual embodiment of ourselves is now going to persist beyond death, but that our internal selves won't. In the transhumanist community there is a lot of discussion about the uploading of the mind. To the extent that may one day be possible, is that our only way around this dilemma?
Stokes: Yes, theoretically at least that would be a way around the problem---upload your consciousness somehow into a computer and so continue to exist subjectively in that way. But for that to work you would have to be able to anticipate having the experiences the computer would have. So there would have to be some sort of experience going on inside the computer, and it would have to be continuous with your present experience. Maybe we could meet that second condition; certainly philosophers like Barry Dainton have argued that's at least logically possible for computer-generated consciousness to be phenomenally continuous with our organic experience. But that depends on there being such a thing as "computer-generated consciousness" in the first place, which gets us into the dark territory of questions of "qualia," of the phenomenal feel of consciousness, what it's like to be a particular conscious subject. It's just really unclear, I think, whether anything going on inside a computer could count as an experience that I could anticipate having.
Black poverty is fundamentally distinct from white poverty—and so cannot be addressed without grappling with racism.
There have been a number of useful entries in the weeks since Senator Bernie Sanders declared himself against reparations. Perhaps the most clarifying comes from Cedric Johnson in a piece entitled, “An Open Letter To Ta-Nehisi Coates And The Liberals Who Love Him.” Johnson’s essay offers those of us interested in the problem of white supremacy and the question of economic class the chance to tease out how, and where, these two problems intersect. In Johnson’s rendition, racism, in and of itself, holds limited explanatory power when looking at the socio-economic problems which beset African Americans. “We continue to reach for old modes of analysis in the face of a changed world,” writes Johnson. “One where blackness is still derogated but anti-black racism is not the principal determinant of material conditions and economic mobility for many African Americans.”
As Coldplay blandly strained for the universal, she and Bruno Mars pulled off something more specific and more daring.
What a perfect Beyoncésong name: “Formation.” All great pop involves people acting in formation. So does all great change. And while fans scream that Beyoncé’s a “queen” and “goddess,” her core appeal really is as a drill sergeant. With Beyoncé in command, greatness is scalable, achievable, for the collective. Everyone waves their hands to the same beat. Everyone walks around like they have hot sauce in their bag.
But in pop and in politics, “everyone” is a loaded term. Stars as ubiquitous as Beyoncé have haters, the “albino alligators” who “Formation” informs us she twirls upon. And in a more general historical sense, “everyone” can be a dangerous illusion that elevates one point of view as universal while minimizing others. Beyoncé gets all of this, it seems. As a pop star, she surely wants to have as broad a reach as possible. But as an artist, she has a specific message, born of a specific experience, meaningful to specific people. Rather than pretend otherwise, she’s going to make art about the tension implied by this dynamic. She’s going to show up to Super Bowl with a phalanx of women dressed as Black Panthers.
Most people in the U.S. believe their country is going to hell. But they’re wrong. What a three-year journey by single-engine plane reveals about reinvention and renewal.
When news broke late last year of a mass shooting in San Bernardino, California, most people in the rest of the country, and even the state, probably had to search a map to figure out where the city was. I knew exactly, having grown up in the next-door town of Redlands (where the two killers lived) and having, by chance, spent a long period earlier in the year meeting and interviewing people in the unglamorous “Inland Empire” of Southern California as part of an ongoing project of reporting across America.
Some of what my wife, Deb, and I heard in San Bernardino before the shootings closely matched the picture that the nonstop news coverage presented afterward: San Bernardino as a poor, troubled town that sadly managed to combine nearly every destructive economic, political, and social trend of the country as a whole. San Bernardino went into bankruptcy in 2012 and was only beginning to emerge at the time of the shootings. Crime is high, household income is low, the downtown is nearly abandoned in the daytime and dangerous at night, and unemployment and welfare rates are persistently the worst in the state.
In Homs, Syria, where entire city blocks have been reduced to rubble by years of civil war, a Syrian wedding photographer thought of using the destruction of the city as a backdrop for pictures of newlywed couples “to show that life is stronger than death.”
In Homs, Syria, where entire city blocks have been reduced to rubble by years of civil war, a Syrian wedding photographer thought of using the destruction of the city as a backdrop for pictures of newlywed couples “to show that life is stronger than death,” according to AFP photographer Joseph Eid. Here, Nada Merhi, 18, and her husband, Syrian army soldier Hassan Youssef, 27, pose for a series of wedding pictures amid heavily damaged buildings in Homs on February 5, 2016.
For decades the Man of Steel has failed to find his groove, thanks to a continual misunderstanding of his strengths.
Superman should be invincible. Since his car-smashing debut in 1938, he’s starred in at least one regular monthly comic, three blockbuster films, and four television shows. His crest is recognized across the globe, his supporting cast is legendary, and anybody even vaguely familiar with comics can recount the broad strokes of his origin. (The writer Grant Morrison accomplished it in eight words: “Doomed Planet. Desperate Scientists. Last Hope. Kindly Couple.”) He’s the first of the superheroes, a genre that’s grown into a modern mass-media juggernaut.
And yet, for a character who gains his power from the light of the sun, Superman is curiously eclipsed by other heroes. According to numbers provided by Diamond Distributors, the long-running Superman comic sold only 55,000 copies a month in 2015, down from around 70,000 in 2010—a mediocre showing even for the famously anemic comic-book market. That’s significantly less than his colleague Batman, who last year moved issues at a comparatively brisk 150,000 a month. Mass media hasn’t been much kinder: The longest-running Superman television show, 2001’s Smallville, kept him out of his iconic suit for a decade. Superman Returns recouped its budget at the box office, but proved mostly forgettable.2013’s Man of Steel drew sharp criticism from critics and audiences alike for its bleak tone and rampaging finale. Trailers for the sequel, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, have shifted the focus (and top billing) to the Dark Knight. Worst of all, conventional wisdom puts the blame on Superman himself. He’s boring, people say; he’s unrelatable, nothing like the Marvel characters dominating the sales charts and the box office. More than anything, he seems embarrassing. Look at him. Truth? Justice? He wears his underwear on the outside.
Humbled by his struggling presidential campaign, can the once-mighty New Jersey governor vault back into contention after Saturday’s debate?
SALEM, New Hampshire—Chris Christie was accustomed to being a big man: a man of stature, a man of power, a man who demands and gets his way.
But recently, the big man (this is a description of his personality, not his size) was seeming awfully small.
On Friday evening here, the governor of New Jersey was desperately trying to talk some sense into the people of New Hampshire, a couple hundred of whom had come out to see him on a snowy night. The night before, Christie’s rival Marco Rubio had played the same venue, filling a larger room of the elementary school beyond its capacity. Christie was begging the crowd not to pile on the bandwagon of the apparent winner, but instead, to show some courage.
The Islamic State is no mere collection of psychopaths. It is a religious group with carefully considered beliefs, among them that it is a key agent of the coming apocalypse. Here’s what that means for its strategy—and for how to stop it.
What is the Islamic State?
Where did it come from, and what are its intentions? The simplicity of these questions can be deceiving, and few Western leaders seem to know the answers. In December, The New York Times published confidential comments by Major General Michael K. Nagata, the Special Operations commander for the United States in the Middle East, admitting that he had hardly begun figuring out the Islamic State’s appeal. “We have not defeated the idea,” he said. “We do not even understand the idea.” In the past year, President Obama has referred to the Islamic State, variously, as “not Islamic” and as al-Qaeda’s “jayvee team,” statements that reflected confusion about the group, and may have contributed to significant strategic errors.
Will the Democratic Party nominate a candidate who hasn’t been a member of their party, and who has long denounced it?
When a party chooses its presidential candidate, it also chooses its party leader in the election. This year the Democrats face an unusual situation. Bernie Sanders isn’t just an outsider to the party establishment; he’s not even been a member of the party, and has long excoriated it in unsparing language. Although the media haven’t much focused on this history, the early signs suggest it could become a problem for Sanders in getting the nomination—and a problem for the party if he does get it.
According to the entrance polls at the Iowa caucuses, there was a 30-percentage-point split between self-identified Democrats and independents in their support for Sanders. Hillary Clinton won 56 percent of self-identified Democrats but only 26 percent of independents, while Sanders won only 39 percent of Democrats but 69 percent of independents.
The number of American teens who excel at advanced math has surged. Why?
On a sultry evening last July, a tall, soft-spoken 17-year-old named David Stoner and nearly 600 other math whizzes from all over the world sat huddled in small groups around wicker bistro tables, talking in low voices and obsessively refreshing the browsers on their laptops. The air in the cavernous lobby of the Lotus Hotel Pang Suan Kaew in Chiang Mai, Thailand, was humid, recalls Stoner, whose light South Carolina accent warms his carefully chosen words. The tension in the room made it seem especially heavy, like the atmosphere at a high-stakes poker tournament.
Stoner and five teammates were representing the United States in the 56th International Mathematical Olympiad. They figured they’d done pretty well over the two days of competition. God knows, they’d trained hard. Stoner, like his teammates, had endured a grueling regime for more than a year—practicing tricky problems over breakfast before school and taking on more problems late into the evening after he completed the homework for his college-level math classes. Sometimes, he sketched out proofs on the large dry-erase board his dad had installed in his bedroom. Most nights, he put himself to sleep reading books like New Problems in Euclidean Geometry and An Introduction to Diophantine Equations.