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Patricia Lockwood created a Twitter account in 2011. Right away, she knew what to do with it. Free in the knowledge that no one was listening, I mostly used it to tweet absurdities like Touch it, Mr. Quiddity moaned. Touch Mr. Quidditys thing, she writes, in her memoir Priestdaddy (2017). Back in those days, people tended either to dismiss Twitter as one of the stupider things to have happened in human historythe whole world should care what you had for lunch?or to celebrate it as a revolution that would usher in a golden age of democracy and peace. Tuna-fish sandwiches versus the Arab Spring: that was the crux of the debate. Fewer saw that the form could be a kind of fiction, an exercise in pure persona sprung from the manacles of story, or even sense. All you needed was style, and Lockwood had it. (It helped that she was a poet, a fondler and compressor of language.) Her best tweets were tonally filthy but textually clean, like a clothed flasher, their voice so intrinsic to the new medium, so obviously online, that if you tried to explain to a parent or an offline friend what you were laughing at you ended up sounding like a fool. Tweeting is an art form, Lockwood tells her skeptical mother, in Priestdaddy. Like sculpture, or honking the national anthem under your armpit. She made it seem like it was.

A decade has passed since those happy days. Twitter did not usher in a definitive dawn of democracy abroad. Democracy in America has barely survived it. Meanwhile, much of the mediums fun has gone sour and sharp. Twitter is still a comedy club and a speakers corner, the cozy back booth at an all-night diner. Its also a stoning square, a rave on bad acid, an eternal Wednesday in a high-school cafeteria, an upside-down Tower of Babel pointing straight to human hell. What began as one of the biggest literary experiments since the birth of the world, everyone invited to shoot out words from their fingers at any time, has calcified into a genre clogged with clichs, one of which Lockwood has taken as the title of her first novel, No One Is Talking About This (Riverhead). To translate for the offline: this is what someone says in a clutch of outrage upon discovering a topic or bit of newsone which, it is safe to assume, many people are already talking about.

Why are we still On Here? Twitter users often ask with the desperation of the damned, and the answer that Lockwoods book immediately gives is that we are addicts. What opium did to the minds of the nineteenth century is no different than what the Internetthe portal, as Lockwood calls itis doing to the minds of the twenty-first. We know this from science, some of us from experience, but Lockwood is out to describe that sensation of dependency, the feeling of possessing a screen-suckled brainor of being possessed by it. Thomas De Quincey, plugged full of poppy, reported sitting at a window from sunset to sunrise, motionless, and without wishing to move, and something similar happens to Lockwoods unnamed protagonist when she sits in front of her computer screen:

Her husband would sometimes come up behind her while she was repeatingthe words no, no, no or help, help, help under her breath, and laya hand on the back of her neck like a Victorian nursemaid. Are youlocked in? he would ask, and she would nod and then do the thing thatalways broke her out somehow, which was to google beautiful brownpictures of roast chickensmaybe because thats what women used to dowith their days.

A digital ailment demands a digital cure: this is funny, sad, and right, as is the telling grammatical slip at the end of the paragraph, which implies that women used to Google chickens rather than cook them. Lockwood is sending a bulletin from the future, when, horrifyingly, such things will be said of her generation, and be true.

That historical anxiety, directed both at the past and the future, is acutely felt by Lockwoods protagonist, who, like Lockwood herself, is a married woman in her late thirties who has found real-world eminence by being very online. She is a kind of diplomat from the digital world, paid to travel around the globe to give lectures and appear on panels, at which she tries to explain things like why it was objectively funnier to spell it sneazing. Her public is not always receptive to such meditations. At an appearance in Bristol, an audience member brandishes a printout of the post that shot her to fameCan a dog be twins?and tears it in two. This is your contribution to society? he asks, stomping out.

Here is a reply guy in the flesh, a sneering man who reminds the protagonist that she is silly, unserious, a womana fact that Lockwoods protagonist, in spite of professing no particular attachment to what the portal has taught her to call her pronoun, knows all too well. Digital optimists like to say that social media is just a supercharged update of Enlightenment caf culture, with tweets passed around instead of pamphlets. But Lockwoods protagonist knows that she is excluded from that vision of the past. While the men, class permitting, read and debated, she would have been doing the washing and birthing the children; as recently as the fifties, a friend reminds her, the two of them would likely have been housewives. So what does it mean that she, a woman in the historically anomalous position of determining the course of her own life (notably, she is childless), is choosing to spend her days and nights glued to the portal, looking at a tarantulas compound eyes, a storm like canned peaches on the surface of Jupiter, Van Goghs The Potato Eaters, a chihuahua perched on a mans erection? What is her contribution to society?

The novel itself is one answer. Stream-of consciousness was long ago conquered by a man who wanted his wife to fart all over him, the protagonist tells the audience at one of her events. But what about the stream-of-consciousness that is not entirely your own? One that you participate in, but that also acts upon you? The comparison to Joyce, the man who wanted his wife to fart all over him, is bold, and telling. Lockwood has set out to portray not merely a mind through language, as Joyce did, but what she calls the mind, the molting collective consciousness that has melded with her protagonists singular one. And, as Joyce did, she sets about doing it through form. No One Is Talking About This is structured as a kind of riff on the tweet scroll, discrete paragraphs (many two hundred and eighty characters or less) arranged one after another to simulate, on the fixed page, the rhythm of a digital feed. This methoddense bulletins of text framed by clean white spaceis not revolutionary, or even innovative. It was used in the seventies to great effect by novelists like Renata Adler and Elizabeth Hardwick, and it has become newly popular over the past decade as a way to mimic a fragmented, flitting modern consciousnessoften that of a woman who is harried by competing demands on her attention. It is a permissive form, tempting to use and easy to abuse, since, paradoxically, the arrangement of disconnected beats implies a unity of meaning that the text itself may not do enough to earn.

The critic Lauren Oyler, a skeptic of the fragmented method, parodies it in a long section of her own novel, Fake Accounts, another recent dbut about life lived in the shadow of the Internet. Why would I want to make my book like Twitter? Oylers narrator asks. If I wanted a book that resembled Twitter, I wouldnt write a book; I would just spend even more time on Twitter. The question of how to represent the digital world in language has become only more interesting, and more urgent, as it has become clearer that the Internet is not just a device but an atmosphere, a state of being. Were always online, even when were off, our profiles standing sentry for us at all hours, our minds helplessly tuned to the ironic, mocking register of well-defended Internet speak. That is exactly the voice of Oylers narrator, who, like Lockwoods protagonist, is a young white millennial woman who resembles her author in sundry particulars, as a digital avatar might. Oylers narrator is entertainingly critical of digital life even as she is formed by it; it is her milieu, and the novel confronts its artifice, in part, by confessing its own. Sections of the book are labelled with the equivalent of highway signage (MIDDLE (Something Happens)); its title, which is seemingly descriptivethe novels nominal plot is launched by the narrators discovery that her boyfriend has an alt-right persona on Instagramdoubles, usefully, as a definition of fiction itself. When she is feeling cheeky, the narrator addresses her presumed readers, a silent gaggle of ex-boyfriends: the same audience that she might imagine checking out her social media accounts, keeping tabs.

Lockwood is up to something more sincere. She embraces the fragment because she has set herself the challenge of depiction; the medium becomes the message, the very point. Thoughts about fatbergs, videos of police brutality (the protagonist is trying to hate the policenot easy, given that her father is a retired cop), baby Hitler, the word normalize, and on and on and on, all of it sluiced together and left to lodge in the hive mind: that is what Lockwood wants to show us, and wants to see more clearly for herself. Someone could write it, Lockwoods protagonist tells a fellow panellist, a man who has earned fame by posting increasing amounts of his balls online. It would have to be done, she thinks, as a social novel, a documentation of the mores and habits of the portal collective. Already when people are writing about it, theyre getting it all wrong, she says. But Lockwood gets it right, mimicking the medium while shrewdly parodying its ethos:

P-p-p-perfect p-p-p-politics! She hooted into a hot microphone at apublic library. She had been lightly criticized for her incompleteunderstanding of the Spanish Civil War that week, and the memory of itstill smarted. P-p-p-perfect p-p-p-politics will manifest on earth asa racoon with a scab for a face!

Every day we were seeing new evidence that suggested it was the portal that had allowed the dictator to rise to power. This was humiliating. It would be like discovering that the Vietnam War was secretly caused by ham radios, or that Napoleon was operating exclusively on the advice of a parrot named Brian.

Some people were very excited to care about Russia again. Others were not going to do it no matter what. Because above all else, the Cold War had been embarrassing.

More here:
Patricia Lockwood, Lauren Oyler, and the Voices That Get Lost Online - The New Yorker