The fate of the blogless

This post has been scheduled in advance to be published during my digital detox period. Don't worry, I probably won't be wailing ... I think. But as I was rereading this text, I couldn't resist posting it.

"The Buribunks" is a uncannily prescient satire about a world where everyone is required to publish diaries about everything they experience. They are perfectly free to write that they have nothing to write, or that they hate writing—but if they actually stop writing, they fall into social oblivion.

An English translation is in the works, and I plan on contributing an essay to an anthology of buribunkological studies.

The Buribunks: Facebook in 1918

 





PS: I was reminded of this photoshop I created a couple of years ago by another line from Schmitt's story: "The death of an individual is also nothing but such a rat second, which has no content in itself--whether one of happiness or grief--but only in its historical registration."

PPS: "F.K." in the quote about ghosts refers to Franz Kafka, not Friedrich Kittler.