In the novella 'The Machine
Stops' (1909), E.M. Forster described a system that very closely resembles
the internet and modern life. Amazing to remember that this was written 5 years
from THE MACHINE STOPS
Vashanti's online lecture, which "lasted ten minutes, (and) was well received" sounds a bit like TED, though more high-brow:
by E.M. Forster (1909)
Then she generated the light, and the sight of her room, flooded with radiance and studded with electric
buttons, revived her. There were buttons and switches everywhere - buttons to call for food for music,
for clothing. There was the hot-bath button, by pressure of which a basin of (imitation) marble rose out
of the floor, filled to the brim with a warm deodorized liquid. There was the cold-bath button. There was
the button that produced literature. and there were of course the buttons by which she communicated with
her friends. The room, though it contained nothing, was in touch with all that she cared for in the world.
Vashanti"s next move was to turn off the isolation switch, and all the accumulations of the last three
minutes burst upon her. The room was filled with the noise of bells, and speaking-tubes. What was the new
food like? Could she recommend it? Has she had any ideas lately? Might one tell her one's own ideas? Would
she make an engagement to visit the public nurseries at an early date? - say this day month.
To most of these questions she replied with irritation - a growing quality in that accelerated age.
She said that the new food was horrible. That she could not visit the public nurseries through press of
engagements. That she had no ideas of her own but had just been told one-that four stars and three in the middle
were like a man: she doubted there was much in it. Then she switched off her correspondents, for it was time to
deliver her lecture on Australian music.
The clumsy system of public gatherings had been long since abandoned; neither Vashti nor her audience stirred
from their rooms. Seated in her armchair she spoke, while they in their armchairs heard her, fairly well, and
saw her, fairly well. She opened with a humorous account of music in the pre Mongolian epoch, and went on to
describe the great outburst of song that followed the Chinese conquest. Remote and primæval as were the methods
of I-San-So and the Brisbane school, she yet felt (she said) that study of them might repay the musicians of
today: they had freshness; they had, above all, ideas. Her lecture, which lasted ten minutes, was
well received, and at its conclusion she and many of her audience listened to a lecture on the sea;
there were ideas to be got from the sea; the speaker had donned a respirator and visited it lately. Then she
fed, talked to many friends, had a bath, talked again, and summoned her bed.
Today, these are called 'First-World problems':
The bed was not to her liking. It was too large, and she had a feeling for a small bed. Complaint was useless,
for beds were of the same dimension all over the world, and to have had an alternative size would have involved
vast alterations in the Machine. Vashti isolated herself-it was necessary, for neither day nor night existed
under the ground-and reviewed all that had happened since she had summoned the bed last. Ideas? Scarcely any.
Events-was Kuno"s invitation an event?
And just as today, the worship of the machine. Forster's imagination couldn't have run far enough to foresee the 'I f*cking love science' Facebook group, but this is pretty close!
By her side, on the little reading-desk, was a survival from the ages of litter-one book. This was the Book of
the Machine. In it were instructions against every possible contingency. If she was hot or cold or dyspeptic or
at a loss for a word, she went to the book, and it told her which button to press. The Central Committee published
it. In accordance with a growing habit, it was richly bound.
Even more impressive was Forster's prediction of the effect of the internet on human culture - which like own seems incapable of creating much that's original, with the exception of the occasional spiderman or x-men or star wars or star trek reboot prequel sequel.
Sitting up in the bed, she took it reverently in her hands. She glanced round the glowing room as if some one
might be watching her. Then, half ashamed, half joyful, she murmured "O Machine!" and raised the volume to her
lips. Thrice she kissed it, thrice inclined her head, thrice she felt the delirium of acquiescence.
"Beware of first- hand ideas!" exclaimed one of the most advanced of them. "First-hand ideas do not really exist.
They are but the physical impressions produced by life and fear, and on this gross foundation who could erect a
philosophy? Let your ideas be second-hand, and if possible tenth-hand, for then they will be far removed from that
disturbing element - direct observation. Do not learn anything about this subject of mine - the French Revolution.
Learn instead what I think that Enicharmon thought Urizen thought Gutch thought Ho-Yung thought Chi-Bo-Sing thought
LafcadioHearn thought Carlyle thought Mirabeau said about the French Revolution. Through the medium of these ten
great minds, the blood that was shed at Paris and the windows that were broken at Versailles will be clarified to
an idea which you may employ most profitably in your daily lives. But be sure that the intermediates are many and
varied, for in history one authority exists to counteract another. Urizen must counteract the scepticism of Ho-Yung
and Enicharmon, I must myself counteract the impetuosity of Gutch. You who listen to me are in a better position
to judge about the French Revolution than I am. Your descendants will be even in a better position than you, for
they will learn what you think I think, and yet another intermediate will be added to the chain. And in time" -
his voice rose - "there will come a generation that had got beyond facts, beyond impressions, a generation absolutely
colourless, a generation
And Orwell, a couple of decades later, on the debasement of culture and food that was well underway even at that time (for those who need reminding that historical processes are usually longer than a single human lifespan):
From taint of personality,
which will see the French Revolution not as it happened, nor as they would like it to have happened, but as
it would have happened, had it taken place in the days of the Machine."
from “The Road to Wigan Pier”
by George Orwell, 1937
To begin with, there is the frightful debauchery of taste that has already been effected by a century of mechanisation.
This is almost too obvious and too generally admitted to need pointing out. But as a single instance, take taste in its
narrowest sense – the taste for decent food. In the highly mechanical countries, thanks to tinned food, cold
storage, synthetic flavouring matters, etc., the palate is almost a dead organ. As you can see by looking at any
greengrocer’s shop, what the majority of English people mean by an apple is a lump of highly-coloured cotton wool
from America or Australia; they will devour these things, apparently with pleasure, and let the English apples rot under
the trees. It is the shiny, standardized, machine-made look of the American apple that appeals to them; the superior
taste of the English apple is something they simply do not notice. Or look at the factory-made, foil wrapped cheeses
and ‘blended’ butter in an grocer’s; look at the hideous rows of tins which usurp more and more of
the space in any food-shop, even a dairy; look at a sixpenny Swiss roll or a twopenny ice-cream; look at the filthy
chemical by-product that people will pour down their throats under the name of beer.
Wherever you look you will see some slick machine-made article triumphing over the old-fashioned article that still
tastes of something other than sawdust. And what applies to food applies also to furniture, houses, clothes, books,
amusements and everything else that makes up our environment. These are now millions of people, and they are increasing
every year, to whom the blaring of a radio is not only a more acceptable but a more normal background to their thoughts
than the lowing of cattle or the song of birds. The mechanisation of the world could never proceed very far while taste,
even the taste-buds of the tongue, remained uncorrupted, because in that case most of the products of the machine would
be simply unwanted. In a healthy world there would be no demand for tinned food, aspirins, gramophones, gas-pipe chairs,
machine guns, daily newspapers, telephones, motor-cars, etc. etc.; and on the other hand there would be a constant
demand for the things the machine cannot produce. But meanwhile the machine is here, and its corrupting effects are
almost irresistible. One inveighs against it, but one goes on using it. Even a bare-arse savage, given the change, will
learn the vices of civilisation within a few months. Mechanisation leads to the decay of taste, the decay of taste leads
to demand for machine-made articles and hence to more mechanisation, and so a vicious circle is established.”