Somebody, somewhere, has mashed up an internet thinkpiece on bitcoin with weird near-future sci-fi and mind-bending Lovecraftian horror. It is the internet after all.
However many examples of the above already existed (it is the internet after all!), there is one in particular that I read recently, over the course of a roughly two-hour train ride.
Read with caution: https://zerohplovecraft.wordpress.com/2018/05/11/the-gig-economy-2/
I don’t know exactly where it came from or who wrote it; the blog that posted it has no other information and only one other (protected) post, apparently a draft of the public version. This anonymity is suitably in-character and probably deliberate. I found out about the story through this Slate Star Codex post; I would not be at all surprised if Scott Alexander is behind the whole thing and just didn’t want it directly associated with that online identity for some reason.
I won’t go into the story itself really at all, there’s not a lot of it I could do justice to and while “read with caution” is entirely accurate, it is absolutely worth reading. Instead I want to talk about what reading does to us.
For some time after I’ve read something truly absorbing, the imprint of that work stays with me, echoing through not only my thoughts but also my speech patterns, word choice, and something which I struggle to describe other than as “the shape of my consciousness”. For example, I’m a big fan of Patrick Rothfuss’s The Name of the Wind and its sequels (collectively The Kingkiller Chronicle). Rothfuss has a very distinctive, very fluid style of prose, often characterized by lists without the typical join words like “as” or “his”. From the first page of the first chapter of The Name of the Wind:
They had taken his sword and stripped him of his tools: key, coin, and candle were all gone.
Note the lack of repeated “his” before the descriptive list, and also the alliteration. From a few pages later:
It was a spider as large as a wagon wheel, black as slate.
Note the lack of “and as” before the word “black”. I’m not even sure if this sentence as written is technically correct, but it’s clear enough and the overall effect of an entire book constructed this way is beautiful. Language is descriptive not prescriptive anyway.
It’s easy to understand how reading some 1200 pages of this prose might impact one’s own speech patterns. I’ve gone through the available books a couple of times over the years, and every time I’ll spend a week or more afterwards speaking just like Rothfuss writes: terse, eloquent, fluid.
[J]ust like Rothfuss writes: terse, eloquent, fluid.
See? I’m doing it here after just talking about it.
But as I mentioned, it goes beyond just word choice and sentence structure. I already mentioned “the shape of my consciousness” and I stand by that vague gesture towards something I can’t otherwise pin down. Although I do have a small poetic and flowery streak, I am not normally given to purple prose, but for some time after I’ve read Rothfuss I won’t just speak it; I’ll think it. Something about the shape of the sentences, the word choices, demands that adjectives and nouns come in sets, which means I use more of them than I otherwise would. This gives everything more shape than it would otherwise have, and paints a richer picture of the world.
I make different decisions as a result. I am a different person.
This is, I suppose, just a really complicated way of saying “this book changed my life”! That’s not an incorrect interpretation. But really, I’m arguing anecdotally for the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis.
I’m doing that, just to be able to say: that “The Gig Economy” story did some weird things to my brain. I’m glad I didn’t have to interact with other humans for a while afterwards.