What happens when you make humans into vessels for ideas.
Forgive me for being late to Jonah Lehrer's transgressions and resignation. It's a sad story. I did not know quite what to say.
I don't want to delve too deeply into the media scrum, but I do want to note how neatly this kind of narrative conforms to the arc Bill Wasik laid out in And Then There's This, his book on viral culture from 2009.
Wasik tells the story of Blair Hornstine, a kid who sued her high school when she found out it was going to allow a boy with a slightly lower GPA to be co-valedictorian. The media got hold of the story and things got ugly: Hornstine was found to have plagiarized several papers and Harvard rescinded her acceptance.
I would like to propose a new term to encompass all these miniature spikes, these vertiginous rises and falls: the nanostory. We allow ourselves to believe that a narrative is larger than itself, that it holds some portent for the long-term future; but soon enough we come to our senses, and the story, which cannot bear the weight of what we have heaped on it, dies almost as suddenly as it was born. The gift we so graciously gave Blair Horstine in 2003 was her fifteen minutes not of fame but of meaning.
Unfortunately for Lehrer, he has to keep making meaning every day out of what he's done. We'll all get to use him in our long-running rhetorical battles and move on. Until the day, of course, when something we do -- good or bad -- pushes us into the meaningsphere and we're judged by the crowd.