action.
Philosophers and linguists have for millennia debated the relationship. To what extent are the words we choose insights into what we think—not what we want to communicate but what we really think ? On one hand, of course, it is very easy to lie about what we’re thinking, making words fundamentally untrustworthy. Clearly, Hitler did intend to invade Russia, despite his protestations otherwise, and George W. Bush did not believe Iraq had weapons of mass destruction. Words, not true thoughts. To that end, Plato and others who engaged in the most powerful early analysis of communication thought of language in terms of rhetoric: not what do we think but what do we want to communicate? Or, put another way, what do we want other people to think we think, or what do we want to persuade them to think?
But where Jeremy thinks the Internet is so powerful is in the way it creates such a huge sample size of language that it betrays what we, the human race, think. All the linguistic data, unprecedented insights into the human psyche, a global inkblot test, a linguistic prism into our collective subconscious, where we’ve been emotionally and where we’re going, a digital augur, or, as Jeremy sometimes prefers, the Freud machine.
Part of a larger embrace of Big Data, aimed at predicting the stock market, of course, but also forecasting political tastes, weather, consumers’ susceptibility to pricing changes and their shopping desires.
Just before Jeremy’s fall from grace, there was a party held in his honor at a two-tone mansion off Fillmore. It was hosted by one of the handful of Silicon Valley socialites with that knack for convening, at a moment’s notice, fifty interesting and smart people, along with journalists. The evite heralded: “Make PC, Not War.” Computers, not conflict.
Partygoers came mostly for the interesting cocktails, using pomegranate juice or fresh leaves picked from such-and-such garden. But also to connect to, or stay connected to, Jeremy, just in case he became the next Zuckerberg. His own vertical, his little satellite world, opportunists, but also, given the highly politicized nature of the quest, ideologues, academics, curious government officials domestic and international and, of course, venture capitalists with military backgrounds—a staple in Silicon Valley going back to the creation of the region by the military brats who started Hewlett-Packard.
What they didn’t know, or some may have only sensed, was that Jeremy soon would be not the next Zuckerberg but, rather, the next Hindenburg . A week before the party, the Pentagon had told him the conflict algorithm had failed. He was waiting for Andrea to call to tell him when he could get on an airplane to Iraq, or Afghanistan, to check the results for himself, do the field research. He’d already packed a bag so, per Andrea and the Pentagon’s admonitions, he could pick up and climb on a plane at any moment.
Meantime, he pacified himself with figs and goat cheese and high-potency frozen vodka.
Drunk, in the shadows, he overheard the half dozen late-night stragglers descend into an argument about whether Big Data could be used to predict individual behaviors, like the likelihood of suicide. For instance, could someone’s communications or movement patterns—as measured by a mobile phone—be a predictor of whether the person is getting depressed or uncommunicative, suggesting eventual suicidal ideations?
Could it predict whether someone is becoming hostile, or even homicidal?
Jeremy heard one of them say: “I have a prediction. Sometime soon, Stillwater will let loose with a hostile outburst.”
Another said: “You don’t even need a calculator to tell you that.”
Lots of hushed laughter.
Jeremy, unseen, receded to the basement, to a guest room. He called Emily, who told him to calm down. He hung up and slammed the iPhone down on the bed. I’ll fucking show them.
He passed out that night, furious, with an idea, the
Philosophers and linguists have for millennia debated the relationship. To what extent are the words we choose insights into what we think—not what we want to communicate but what we really think ? On one hand, of course, it is very easy to lie about what we’re thinking, making words fundamentally untrustworthy. Clearly, Hitler did intend to invade Russia, despite his protestations otherwise, and George W. Bush did not believe Iraq had weapons of mass destruction. Words, not true thoughts. To that end, Plato and others who engaged in the most powerful early analysis of communication thought of language in terms of rhetoric: not what do we think but what do we want to communicate? Or, put another way, what do we want other people to think we think, or what do we want to persuade them to think?
But where Jeremy thinks the Internet is so powerful is in the way it creates such a huge sample size of language that it betrays what we, the human race, think. All the linguistic data, unprecedented insights into the human psyche, a global inkblot test, a linguistic prism into our collective subconscious, where we’ve been emotionally and where we’re going, a digital augur, or, as Jeremy sometimes prefers, the Freud machine.
Part of a larger embrace of Big Data, aimed at predicting the stock market, of course, but also forecasting political tastes, weather, consumers’ susceptibility to pricing changes and their shopping desires.
Just before Jeremy’s fall from grace, there was a party held in his honor at a two-tone mansion off Fillmore. It was hosted by one of the handful of Silicon Valley socialites with that knack for convening, at a moment’s notice, fifty interesting and smart people, along with journalists. The evite heralded: “Make PC, Not War.” Computers, not conflict.
Partygoers came mostly for the interesting cocktails, using pomegranate juice or fresh leaves picked from such-and-such garden. But also to connect to, or stay connected to, Jeremy, just in case he became the next Zuckerberg. His own vertical, his little satellite world, opportunists, but also, given the highly politicized nature of the quest, ideologues, academics, curious government officials domestic and international and, of course, venture capitalists with military backgrounds—a staple in Silicon Valley going back to the creation of the region by the military brats who started Hewlett-Packard.
What they didn’t know, or some may have only sensed, was that Jeremy soon would be not the next Zuckerberg but, rather, the next Hindenburg . A week before the party, the Pentagon had told him the conflict algorithm had failed. He was waiting for Andrea to call to tell him when he could get on an airplane to Iraq, or Afghanistan, to check the results for himself, do the field research. He’d already packed a bag so, per Andrea and the Pentagon’s admonitions, he could pick up and climb on a plane at any moment.
Meantime, he pacified himself with figs and goat cheese and high-potency frozen vodka.
Drunk, in the shadows, he overheard the half dozen late-night stragglers descend into an argument about whether Big Data could be used to predict individual behaviors, like the likelihood of suicide. For instance, could someone’s communications or movement patterns—as measured by a mobile phone—be a predictor of whether the person is getting depressed or uncommunicative, suggesting eventual suicidal ideations?
Could it predict whether someone is becoming hostile, or even homicidal?
Jeremy heard one of them say: “I have a prediction. Sometime soon, Stillwater will let loose with a hostile outburst.”
Another said: “You don’t even need a calculator to tell you that.”
Lots of hushed laughter.
Jeremy, unseen, receded to the basement, to a guest room. He called Emily, who told him to calm down. He hung up and slammed the iPhone down on the bed. I’ll fucking show them.
He passed out that night, furious, with an idea, the
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