Tarzan Research Paper

Charles B. Snoad
December 2001
Revised December 2016

Gentlemen in Distress No More: How Tarzan of the Apes Saved Modern Masculinity

In 1911 Frederick Winslow Taylor made this bold declaration: “In the past the man has been first; in the future the system must be first” (qtd. in Kasson 171). Many men saw this new system as a serious threat to masculinity. One year later, in 1912, Edgar Rice Burroughs responded to Taylor’s troubling proclamation in his novel Tarzan of the Apes this way: “I am Tarzan. I am a great killer. There be none among you as mighty as Tarzan. Let his enemies beware” (192). With Tarzan as his mouthpiece, Burroughs had fired a warning shot. Tarzan summoned the powers of “the wild beast within” over-civilized gentleman in distress. More than just a novel, Tarzan of the Apes saved modern masculinity from the dangers of over-civilization.

In The Incorporation of America: Culture and Society in the Gilded Age, Alan Trachtenberg traces the development of corporate America after the Civil War. Organization, administration, obedience and loyalty were among the many new virtues of corporate life. Company men had to follow company rules, but this put masculinity at risk. “In every celebration of the businessman as the epitome of American individualism, we detect signs of concern that the older individualistic virtues no longer apply, that the ability to mobilize, to concentrate, to incorporate, counted for more than thrift and diligence” (81). Thrift and diligence still mattered, of course, but now men had to cooperate more than ever before, for the good of the company. As they gained power and control, corporations spread the good news of meritocracy, the idea that working hard guarantees success. There were many converts. By 1912, the year Tarzan first appeared in The All-Story magazine, one-fifth of the entire male labor force was comprised of white-collar workers (Kasson 186).

Trachtenberg explains how corporations convinced these suit-and-tie men that working for them was inherently American. “Portraying itself as success, business thus captured the free-labor ideology, convincing the middle classes that in competitive enterprise lay the route to fulfillment, to the true America” (87). Getting that fulfillment, reaching “the true America,” took its toll. Corporate life was by no means a place of respect. During one man’s rise to the top others ultimately had to fall. Individual success was measured not only by what the successful man could do, but also by what his inferior colleagues and competitors failed to do. Office life thus became a battlefield. “Business was a kind of warfare in which all’s fair which succeeds” (81).

After a long day at the office, “taming the wild beast within,” men found release in the pages of Tarzan. Competition had left men battered and bruised, their primal urges unfulfilled. Tarzan was free from this sad fate. He viewed competition in the jungle as a life-or-death struggle. If he fought a bigger beast and lost, Tarzan was a dead man. Businessmen who continually lost clients or failed to close important deals, however, suffered slow, painful deaths. Many checked out long before retirement age. Tarzan, with its harrowing tales of mastery and conquest, gave these “unlucky” businessmen a safe space to vent their frustrations.

By placing Tarzan in life-or-death situations, Burroughs accomplished two goals. First, he transported male readers from the corporate jungle to the real jungle. Second, he criticized the pettiness of corporate competition in which long-term financial planning, not immediate survival, mattered most. In the jungles of Africa, Tarzan knows exactly what to expect from Sabor, the tiger, and Horta, the boar, because he has studied their strengths and weaknesses. Company men knew little about their enemies and their battlefields had no discernable boundaries. Competition came from within one’s company, from other Americans and eventually from all over the globe. As competition grew and technology improved, companies had tons of “new and improved” gadgets and gizmos to sell. Up went the help wanted signs. In walked the door-to-door salesman.

Salesmen required many tools: a quality product; the proper forms; a sharp suit; a catchy sales pitch; a steady handshake. Burroughs’ brief stint as a salesman brought him little satisfaction. “My main objective in life was to get my foot in somebody’s door and then recite my sales talk like a sick parrot” (qtd. in Kasson 166).

Tarzan provided a stark constant to Burroughs’ empty salesman existence. As Burroughs explains Tarzan’s success in the jungle: “To his agility, to his brain and to his long keen knife he owed his supremacy” (127). Burroughs shows how Tarzan has innate warrior strengths (“to his agility, to his brain”) and the right tools (“his long keen knife.”) Tarzan answers to no one. He lets it all hang out. A suit and tie would hide his manhood and hinder his progress. The simplicity with which Tarzan commands his life is a far cry from the pressure to carry the right briefcase or apply the shiniest shoe polish.

Many people believed that not just corporate life, but civilization itself had weakened the male body. In Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880-1917, Gail Bederman discusses neurasthenia, a disease of over-civilization. No longer recognized as an official disorder, from 1870 until about 1915 neurasthenia was a common diagnosis. Doctors had no problem determining its cause. “Neurasthenia resulted when a highly evolved person seriously overtaxed his body’s infinite supply of nerve force” (85).

There were both male and female neurasthenics, but symptoms were gender-specific. Over-worked women succumbed to the stresses of a rapidly changing home life. Men, however, fell ill in the office, drowning in paperwork. Work diminished free time, those precious moments when men tended to their masculine needs. “Men became neurasthenics because the mental labors of advanced civilization drained them of the nervous energy necessary to build a strong, masculine body” (130). All men were at risk for neurasthenia, but a certain type of man was more susceptible. “The men most in danger of developing neurasthenia were middle- and upper-class businessmen and professionals whose highly evolved bodies had been physically weakened by advances in civilization” (87).

Neurasthenia affected “thinking” men. Symptoms included headaches, dyspepsia, muscle spasms, impotence, involuntary emissions and spermatorrhea. Their bodies were small and feeble, “more like women’s than men’s” (87). A cultural crisis had thus emerged. Men were in physical and mental pain, but civilization was to blame, not defective genes or poor eating habits. “Neurasthenia thus expressed the cultural weakness of civilized, manly self-restraint in medical terms” (88). The medical “evidence” for neurasthenia calmed patients’ nerves and reassured their loved ones. A new diagnosis brought hope for a new cure.

Tarzan of the Apes had many healing powers. Who needs shots and pills when a healthy dose of satire will do the trick? A couple of secondary characters, Professor Porter and Samuel T. Philander, are good for some laughs. After landing on the same African shore where Tarzan’s parents had arrived many years before, Porter and Philander are met with numerous dangers. Tarzan saves them each time.

In one scene Porter and Philander are walking through the jungle discussing politics and history when a lion approaches, ready to pounce. Talk of Ferdinand and Isabella’s victories over the fifteenth-century Moors in Spain (a discussion, ironically, about civilization) comes to a halt when Philander points out the lion. Porter, annoyed with his colleague, responds:

“Tut, tut, Mr. Philander,” he chided. “How often must I urge you to seek that absolute concentration of your mental faculties which alone may permit you to bring to bear the highest powers of intellectuality upon the momentous problems which naturally fall to the lot of great minds?” (Burroughs 138)

Saying a line of this length and intellectual weight would tax any man’s nerve force. Caught up in his thoughts, Porter neglects his physical safety. “That absolute concentration of your mental faculties” to which Porter refers is a direct connection to Bederman’s description of “the mental labors of advanced civilization” that weakened male bodies. Porter’s line of work requires mental, not physical, toughness. Although he resides in the stuffy realm of academe, his life resembles the confined non-existence of the toiling middleclass businessman. Porter’s body, his brute existence, has nothing to feel. The size of his brain has gone to his head.

Tarzan’s jungle life, on the other hand, is full of adventure. He has no need for discussing the events of fifteenth-century Spain because he has to focus on staying alive right here, right now. Professors peddle theories like salesman peddle encyclopedias. But to drive home his point, to really sell the narrative, Burroughs must do more than mock fools like Porter. He must show Tarzan’s disgust for over-civilized weaklings.

In one such example, Tarzan observes Kulonga, an African tribesman, spear a boar to death. Kulonga, adverse to eating raw boar, builds a fire. After filling his belly to the brim, the tribesman leaves behind a substantial portion of uncooked meat. A slick opportunist, Tarzan moves in for a taste. He has no use for fire. Roasting the meat would kill the flavor. And so we see how Tarzan of the Apes feasts in the jungle, followed by a description of his long lost uncle’s impeccable table manners:

And then Lord Greystoke [Tarzan] wiped his greasy fingers upon his naked thighs and took up the trail of Kulonga, the son of Mbonga, the king; while in far-off London another Lord Greystoke, the younger brother of the real Lord Greystoke’s father, sent back his chops to the club’s chef because they were underdone, and when he had finished his repast he dipped his finger-ends into a silver bowl of scented water and dried them upon a piece of snowy damask. (Burroughs 78)

The evidence is clear: Tarzan, far removed from civilization, “wiped his greasy fingers upon his naked thighs,” while the effeminate Londoner “dipped his finger-ends into a silver bowl of scented water and dried them upon a piece of snowy damask.” Tarzan’s description implies action and determination; Burroughs devotes only eight words to it. The Londoner, however, is prim and proper. His “actions,” a combination of calculated maneuvers, require nineteen words. Over-civilized male bodies, Burroughs argues throughout Tarzan, are a real drag.

In another scene, as Tarzan jumps from treetop to treetop with his cousin, William Cecil Clayton, on his back, the difference between primitive and civilized man is obvious. “High into bending and swaying branches he was borne with what seemed to him incredible swiftness, while Tarzan chafed at the slowness of his progress” (Burroughs 134). In the heart of the African jungle an over-civilized male body is maladaptive. We see this principle at work again when Tarzan returns from modern society. Swinging through those familiar vines, Tarzan gets in touch again with his hyper-masculine side:

This was life! Ah, how he loved it! Civilization held nothing like this in its narrow and circumscribed sphere, hemmed in by restrictions and conventionalities. Even clothes were a hindrance and a nuisance.

At last he was free. He had not realized what a prisoner he had been. (Burroughs 247)

White-collar life “created” neurasthenia. To combat the disease of over-civilization doctors should have prescribed some quality Tarzan reading time.

John Kasson, in Houdini, Tarzan and the Perfect Man: The White Male Body and the Challenge of Modernity in America, gives a detailed account of Burroughs’ frequent childhood illnesses. The youngest of four boys, Burroughs realized the power of storytelling at an early age, reciting tales to his mother from his sickbed. His overprotective mother, anxious to shield him from negative experiences, increased his misery. In his unfinished autobiography, Burroughs describes the uneventful nature of his life: “Nothing interesting ever happened to me in my life. I never went to a fire but that it was out before I arrived. None of my adventures happened. They should have because I went places and did things that invited disaster; yet the results were always blah” (qtd. in Kasson 160).

Making matters worse, Burroughs lived in the shadows of his father and more masculine older brothers. His father, George T. Burroughs, was a cavalry officer during the Civil War, and two of his brothers, George and Harry, after graduating from Yale in 1889, bought a cattle ranch in Idaho. Burroughs watched from the sidelines, unfit to compete. “Ed grew up a straggler, always far to the rear of his father’s expectations and his brothers’ example” (162).

To prove his worth as a man, Burroughs tried following in his father’s military footsteps. Heartache ensued. Burroughs flunked out of Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts, after just one semester. He then attended the Michigan Military Academy, graduating in 1895. After failing his entrance exams at West Point, Burroughs enlisted in the army and hated it (Kasson 164-65). Ten months into his assignment, Burroughs got dysentery and begged his father for help. The old Civil War hero came to his son’s rescue, securing the necessary papers for an early discharge. Bewildered, Burroughs returned home, anxious for a new life. As much as he tried to fight it, Edgar Rice Burroughs became a lowly, middle-class businessman.

He worked as a timekeeper at a construction site and sold lead-pencil sharpeners and scratch pads. Nearing poverty, Burroughs found himself in a terrible bind. The births of his first two children, in 1908 and 1909, were burdens, not joys. Soon Burroughs began suffering major headaches like those described by neurasthenics (Kasson 166-67).

Finally, in 1911, the year he began writing Tarzan of the Apes, Burroughs secured a promising position at the Chicago-based magazine System, his last job before becoming a successful (self-employed) fiction writer. A.W. Shaw, the editor of System, subtitled his publication: “The Magazine of Business.” And System was exactly that, a handy, thirty-five-cent guidebook for businessmen hanging upside down in the trees of the corporate jungle. System writers gave advice on pressing topics such as how to pick the best stock options, how to improve efficiency, and how to dress like a professional.

Burroughs, however, found his work dull and his suggestions ill-advised. Those around him provided little comfort. Shaw was a fraud in Burroughs’ eyes. “I never so thoroughly disliked any employer as I did Shaw,” he wrote in his autobiography (qtd. in Kasson 170). The magazine reminded Burroughs of his own failures as a businessman. Kasson’s description of the magazine’s content explains why Burroughs was so troubled by his job: “As a whole, the articles in System depicted a world of big, energetic, masterly leaders—and, implicitly, of smaller, unexceptional followers” (175).

Desperate for a way out, Burroughs began researching pulp fiction magazines, which paid little money but had strong, cult-like followings. Finally, a breakthrough. Pulp fiction provided a forum for deepest fantasies. There was something inherently masculine about the medium. “Pulp magazines were fiction factories dominated by big publishers that demanded from their authors a combination of literary facility, stamina, and speed” (167).

On his days off from System, Burroughs crafted his first story, A Princess of Mars, in July 1911, which he wrote on “leftover stationery from his failed enterprises” (168). After The Argosy rejected it, Burroughs sent the manuscript to The All-Story, which quickly published it. After gaining confidence but no riches, Burroughs began writing Tarzan of the Apes on December 1, 1911.

In a nod to the corporate values of maximum efficiency and attention to detail, Burroughs kept a graph of his novel’s physical production over his desk. With each word, each sentence, each chapter, Burroughs laid his past failures to rest. Kasson makes the transformation clear. “Burroughs thus wrote Tarzan as an act of self-liberation. He hoped to cast off the humiliations of a frustrated, insignificant white-collar worker for the independence of a commercial author with a mass readership” (159).

And Burroughs did just that. Following the huge success of Tarzan, he started Edgar Rice Burroughs Incorporated in 1923. He was finally in charge, a literary systems builder rising from the ashes of burned-out business cards.

Tarzan of the Apes was more than just a novel. Edgar Rice Burroughs created a hyper-masculine, jungle-dwelling hero to release modern man—and himself—from the bondage of over-civilization. Frederick Winslow Taylor had the story backwards. The system was closing in, but Tarzan, naked and with spear in hand, was ready to rumble.

Works Cited

Bederman, Gail. Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880-1917. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1996. Print.

Burroughs, Edgar Rice. Tarzan of the Apes. 1912. New York: Ballantine, 1990. Print.

Kasson, John F. Houdini, Tarzan, and the Perfect Man: The White Male Body and the Challenge of Modernity in America. New York: Hill, 2001. Print. 

Trachtenberg, Alan. The Incorporation of America: Culture and Society in the Gilded Age. New York: Hill, 1982. Print.

Person To Person

“I’m not your magazine
I’m not your television
I’m not your movie screen
I’m not commodity
I’m not commodity
I’m not commodity”

Like all good little boys raised in the Consumer Society, I was taught to have needs that only capitalism can fulfill. I’m a rational human being free to choose the best detergent, the best cell phone data plan, the best sexual partner. If I work hard enough I can be the Best Me.

We all buy into the myth of purchasing power. You are what you want. You want more. You can have more, and when that’s not enough try having more.

But I don’t know myself in the first place. I have vague ideas, but as Baudrillard writes, “I am definitively other.”

People are mysteries to me, but I’m divided in my own body, my own mind—a mystery to myself. The Consumer Society sees me as a product to be bought and sold, optimized, cleansed of impurities. I must exercise. I must have a family. I must shop incessantly.

I see myself as a commodity because that’s how you see me, and how you see yourself. But deep down I know things aren’t so bleak. There are brief moments when I find self-worth beyond my net worth.

Laughing through tears, Freudian slips, smiling at strangers, falling in love—these are acts of defiance. To admit I’m vulnerable, and recognize your vulnerability as my own—there’s no greater gift than connecting, person to person.

Bullet Spoof

After Obama took away my guns, I sobered up, hopped in my truck and went straight to Walmart to reload. I’m a family man, after all.

My cell phone’s a weapon too. I text militia buddies between tactical drills in my backyard, posing for selfies in my finest fatigues.

Imagine both in one convenient package: the cell phone gun. Shit just got real.

Cell phone guns would have all the killer apps. Folks could sign up for the Don’t Tread On Me plan, brought to you by your independent concealed-carry mobile carrier.

Cue Wayne LaPierre, the voice of the NRA: Act now. Before Hillary assumes the throne.

Dash Bored

Last week Amazon announced a new way to structure our lives around buying shit from Amazon: the Dash button. To avoid a detergent crisis place the Dash with the Tide logo on your washer. When you’re nearing your last load simply press the Dash to order more soap. Of course, you’ll still need to verify the purchase on a smartphone, tablet or (if you’re old-fashioned like me) a laptop.

This is great news for people with busy lives and no time to waste. Sorry, Mr. Keats, but efficiency—not truth—is beauty.

But more free time increases our chances for boredom. To combat consumer angst I hereby announce the Stash button, your on-the-spot vice shop.

Jonesing for chocolate? Stash has teamed with Nabisco, Keebler and Hershey’s to help send you into a diabetic coma at the flick of the wrist.

Down to your last Oxy? Out of Zoloft? Stash knows a guy who knows a guy. With a little help from your friends at Pfizer you’ll be riding the wave in no time.

Traditional porn too soft? Stash has you covered. One click and we’ll deposit thousands of kink links into your spank bank, available for immediate withdrawal.

We’re working with the FDA, FBI and DEA to help smart shoppers secure the best deals on American staples like alcohol, tobacco and firearms. Lawyers and lobbyists (many of whom are lawyers) are pounding the pavement to help you get off.

In this age of over-stimulation there’s no limit to our capacity for numbness. Paper towels are nice, but when life gets messy I’m anxious for a bounty only Stash provides.

Bound In The USA

American Sniper and Fifty Shades of Grey have captivated American moviegoers. Military prowess and sexual prowess—one and the same? Both films glorify power (of the white male variety). Chris Kyle kills. Christian Grey thrills.

But it’s their impotence that fascinates us. Kyle needs to shoot his toys. Grey needs his toys to shoot. To each his conquests, to each his violence. In the name of freedom we submit.

Grad(e) School

001From: Kasson, John F. Houdini, Tarzan, and the Perfect Man: The White Male Body and the Challenge of Modernity in America. New York: Hill and Wang, 2001.

“How big a man are you? Your weekly pay envelope will answer this question. The dollars per week you earn prove your bigness or littleness–your importance or unimportance–whether trained or untrained.” –From an advertisement for a correspondence school in System, November 1911. Courtesy of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. (Kasson 176)

“Tarzan of the Apes: A Romance of the Jungle” from the October 1912 issue of The All-Story. Illustration by Clinton Pettee. Courtesy of the Edgar Rice Burroughs Memorial Collection, University of Louisville. (Kasson 206)

Left side (my writing): “In the past, the man has been first; in the future, the system must be first.” –Frederick Winslow Taylor (1911)

Right side (my writing): “I am Tarzan. I am a great killer. There be none among you as mighty as Tarzan. Let his enemies beware.” –Edgar Rice Burroughs (1912)


This is the handout accompanying my senior thesis at Elmhurst College presented in December 2001. My thesis: Tarzan of the Apes provided a hyper-masculine alternative to what many people thought were the emasculating effects of modern American culture in the early twentieth century.

I used this paper as a writing sample in my applications to various graduate schools in 2003 and 2004. Apparently my Tarzan research didn’t move administrators enough to accept me.

My Favorite Martian

Yesterday the Supreme Court ruled unanimously that the content of cell phones can’t be searched without a warrant. It turns out that some people pulled over by the police have incriminating information on their phones, which upon inspection, leads to charges for other offenses.

The decision is being hailed as a victory for freedom. I’m not here to argue that, although I will say the ruling gives me the freedom to be just another asshole with a cell phone committing crimes against the burden of human contact. I’m more interested in an amusing quote from Chief Justice John Roberts on the matter.

Cell phones, the Chief Justice writes, are “such a pervasive and insistent part of daily life that the proverbial visitor from Mars might conclude they were an important feature of human anatomy.”

We don’t need Martians to point out the fusion between our phones and our bodies (both contain some form of the word “cell” after all). Earthlings who spot another earthling without a smartphone attached to his ear or extending from his hand think he’s an alien, find his conduct unbecoming, his way of life obscene.

On earth, where only savages and infants go without a data plan, Martians would serve as our last moralists. They’d remind us that smartphones are a recent addition to the human anatomy. Only aliens retain hope we’ll one day cut the wireless cord, if only for a second, to recall what it means to be human.

Breaking News

An event, especially a painful experience, feels most intense to the person or people directly involved in it. Hearing about something that happened to someone else can be troubling, but pales in comparison to the discomfort the sufferer endures.

Say I break my leg. As news of my accident spreads to people in my immediate circle, the impact of the event carries weight, but its magnitude decreases as the story passes through the grapevine and filters out away from me. I matter to a small group of family and friends, but beyond them my suffering means little, save for the doctors and nurses who treat my injury.

But what happens when Harrison Ford breaks his leg, as he did earlier this month on the set of the new Star Wars film? The media pick up the story, turning coverage of the event into an event in itself. First it’s reported he broke his ankle; it matters not that a few days later we learn it’s his leg. As word spreads, the truth of Ford’s experience undergoes profound shifts. Our attention quickly turns to questions like: How does this affect filming? Will this delay the film’s release? What scene was he shooting? What more might I learn about this blockbuster-in-waiting?

I break news of my mishap on Twitter and Facebook or look for sympathy on my blog. I post a video of me falling, the snapping of the bone ready at the click of “play.” The personal is public. A lot less people care about my misfortunes than Ford’s fans do about his, but strangers whom I’ll never meet find out that I’m in pain thanks to the gospel of gossip: social media.

As information accelerates—as we share and overshare detail after detail—the lived experience of individual events gets discounted, forgotten, displaced. My truth, as it passes from person to person—and Ford’s truth, as it cycles from news outlet to news outlet—gathers false details and suffers from serious omissions, such that appearances trump the Real. But nobody cares about the truth; we simply need to know everything all the time without considering sources or fussing over facts.

It’s like saying “orange” over and over in a short span to the point of exhaustion. The tongue turns “orange” inside out, perverting its sound, stretching it into nonsense. The media repeat (reproduce) stories many times over, draining them of substance, erasing all traces of human suffering. Lost in the business of its global display, tragedy becomes spectacle. Remember: we’re only considering a famous actor’s broken leg; what might we say about America’s recent reentry into Iraq or the VA scandal that resulted in the deaths of veterans waiting for medical care?

Every accident becomes spectacle. Pain becomes mundane. When everything’s covered, when no moment escapes the watchful eye of real-time “expert analysis,” the spectacle itself is breaking news.

Did You Find Everything OK?

A man wants everything but has only wishes that never come true—that can’t come true—because Satisfaction is insatiable. He is never happy with himself. At his peak he yearns to extend the climb. Climax portends disappointment.

The Super Bowl MVP celebrating his victory declares he’ll return next year for another title. On the surface it appears he wants to improve, to secure fulfillment, to activate hidden potential. But this is a humanist viewpoint in need of a consumerist perspective.

Mankind has advanced to the point where artificial needs are introduced to us, enlarged to show texture. Manufactured desires, fabricated passions: with many of our basic needs met, we’re left with suggested servings and product reviews. Energies spent, our solution is to Spend.

There’s no transcending the marketplace. It’s no longer a matter of Good versus Evil, but excellent versus poor credit. Besides, Utopia would get boring quickly. There would be no drama, no free shipping, no need to clip Groupons.

Consumer-man is a fretting optimist. He has faith in a culture that assumes he’s never good enough. Discontent is built into the system. There’s a market for every deficiency and each cure restores his health in time for the nausea to settle in again.

The purchase fails to soothe me. At the point of sale I look to exchange my choice, guilty for the price I’ve paid. But I’ve misplaced my receipt. Out of line, back in line. Every day a step closer to checkout.

I, Phone (Part Two)

Everyone requires a cell phone now; to debate this point is akin to doubting gravity or arguing that time moves in reverse. My iPhone distinguishes me from all non-iPhone users. It expresses me. It’s an extension of my being, a form of identification on my person at all times.

The iPhone as fashion statement. The lucky hipster at the front of the Best Buy line shouting, “I have the latest model.” He’s bought a device for communicating, but he’s actually consuming Communication. He has messages to get across, but it’s not their content that matters: he has to send and share and speak because everybody’s doing it. Everybody has a voice. Who cares what you say as long as you say it.

But with everybody talking at the same time my voice sounds like a whisper into a jet engine. Our world of hyper-communication is built on harmony and dissonance. Our bodies are overloaded, our minds frazzled: hyper-communicating leaves us vulnerable to nonsense, noise and nuisance.

We get away from the Conversation by conversing with our mobile devices. The iPhone user talks to his iPhone as it talks to him. He is mesmerized by all the bells and whistles and in touching/tapping/scrolling leaves the moment. The very thing that connects him to others allows him to disconnect temporarily; it’s a coping mechanism, survival mode. A pocket of air on a sinking ship.

It’s family dinner. Father playing Angry Birds. Mom amused by Grumpy Cat. Children tuning out with Spotify playlists.

Being in touch all day makes us want to lose touch. My iPhone brings the world to me one minute and takes me out of it the next. It speaks volumes about me without conveying my disgust at feeling forced to communicate all the time, even when there’s nothing left to say.