Quotes About Communication

I mean, all this stuff you're involved in, it's all gossip. It's people talking about each other behind their backs. That's the vast majority of this social media, all these reviews, all these comments. Your tools have elevated gossip, hearsay and conjecture to the level of valid, mainstream communication. And besides that, it's fucking dorky.

Every time my brain parks the car neatly in the driveway, my mouth drives through the back of the garage.

my problem with paper is that all communication dies with it. It holds no possibility of continuity.

When we pass by another person without telling them we love them it's cruel and wrong and we all know this.

Under the guise of having every voice heard, you create mob rule, a filterless society where secrets are crimes.

And it's eliminated my ability to just talk to you." He was still talking. "I mean, I can't send you emails, because you immediately forward them to someone else. I can't send you a photo, because you post it on your own profile. And meanwhile, your company is scanning all of our messages for information they can monetize. Don't you think this is insane?

The idea we came up with, well before we left, was something we coined Performance Literature. Excuse the use of that second word, because I realize it's presumptuous. Also, excuse the first word, and the term in general.

She pulls away, pats me on the shoulder with three mini-pats, like those used to pet reptiles.

You and I read the same books and hear the same sermons and we come away with different messages. That has to be evidence of some serious problem, right?

You better [start writing] now because you know how to write, and you have fingers, and you have this one life, and during this one life, you should put your words down, and make your voice heard, and then let others hear your voice. And the only way any of that's going to happen is if you actually do it. People can't read the thoughts in your head. They can only read the thoughts you put down, carefully and with great love, on the page. So you have to do it, goddamnit.

Then why are you talking about exhibitionism? It's a ridiculous term. Someone wants to celebrate their existence and you call it exhibitionism. It's niggardly. If you don't want anyone to know about your existence, you might as well kill yourself. You're taking up space, air.

This is the peculiar problem of constant connectivity: any silence of more than a few hours provokes apocalyptic thoughts.

Your tools have elevated gossip, hearsay and conjecture to the level of valid, mainstream communication.

Animals howl, he had been told, to declare their existence.

You willingly tie yourself to these leashes. And you willingly become utterly socially autistic. You no longer pick up on basic human communication clues. You're at a table with three humans, all of whom are looking at you and trying to talk to you, and you're staring at a screen

Infocommunism.

Carol turned around quickly as if stifling an urge to lunge at Max. He turned back to Max, straining to appear genial. Okay, he said, but will you come over here and put your head in my mouth again? Max continued to back up, No, Carol. I don't want to right now.

and because total non-communication in a place like the Circle was so difficult, it felt like violence.

The only explanation was that she was receiving instructions from extraplanetary overlords.

They downloaded another customer query, and Mae scrolled through the boilerplates, found the appropriate answer, personalized it, and sent it back.

No, I mean, this is a tangent, but my problem with paper is that all communication dies with it. It holds no possibility of continuity. You look at your paper brochure and that's where it ends. It ends with you. Like you're the only one who matters.

Prayers to God were rarely answered, while shouts into cyberspace always receive a response, even if misspelled and hateful.

In terms of your own zinging, we'd expect about ten or so a day, but that's sort of a minimum. I'm sure you'll have more to say than that.

Ecco lo strano problema della costante connettività: ogni silenzio che duri più di qualche ora suscita pensieri apocalittici.