I want my anti-smartphone books to be red-hot and flaming Molotov cocktails thrown uncompromisingly at the algo silo surveillance mental ice age. 🔥🍾
I want The Interior Castle. The Conspiracy Against the Human Race. Zen Flesh, Zen Bones (and The Treasury of the Dharma Eye). Days of War, Nights of Love. A Pattern Language. Desolation Angels.
Books printed on pure dynamite that straight out scream how the growth treadmill to deadworld is lies and poison. Is illusion. Sickening treacle.
I don’t want no weaksauce “it’s unreasonable to have fewer than ninety Facebook friends”. I want to pipe Facebook and WhatsApp and Line and Instagram and all the rest to /dev/null/smithereens. Rumspringa is over. The soma is bitter. Time to get sober.
Screens aren’t the problem. Or screens aren’t the only problem. The gilded pittrap of dark pattern algo silo vendor lock-in Huis Clos is the problem. Books that fall short of condemning that whole broken infernal machine are better used as bricks thrown through the glass labyrinth.