It see­med to me that the­re was not­hing new to be disco­ve­red ever again. Our socie­ty was ut­ter­ly, rui­nous­ly de­ri­va­ti­ve […]. We were the first hu­man beings who would ne­ver see anyt­hing for the first time. We sta­re at the won­ders of the world, dull-eyed, un­derw­hel­med. Mona Lisa, the Py­ra­mids, the Em­pi­re Sta­te Buil­ding. Jungle ani­mals on at­tack, ancient ice­bergs col­lap­sing, volca­noes erup­ting. I can’t recall a single amazing thing I have seen first­hand that I didn’t im­me­dia­te­ly re­fe­rence to a mo­vie or TV show. A fuc­king com­mercial. You know the aw­ful sing­song of the blasé: Seeeen it. I’ve li­te­ral­ly seen it all, and the worst thing […] is: The second­hand ex­pe­rience is always bet­ter. The ima­ge is cris­per, the view is kee­ner, the ca­me­ra angle and the soundt­rack ma­ni­pu­la­te my emo­tions in a way rea­li­ty can’t any­mo­re. I don’t know that we are ac­tual­ly hu­man at this point, tho­se of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and mo­vies and now the In­ter­net. If we are bet­rayed, we know the words to say; when a lo­ved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud of the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all wor­king from the same dog-ea­red script.

It’s a very dif­ficult era in which to be a per­son, just a real, ac­tual per­son, ins­tead of a col­lec­tion of per­so­na­li­ty traits se­lec­ted from an end­less au­to­mat of characters.

(Gil­lian Flynn: Gone Girl)


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