Did you know that in 2014 two rats shared one mind over a wire three thousand miles long? Have you heard that a man in Japan can read your dreams from your head with a machine? No. You sit reading news that has nothing new in it, telling yourself that because you hold in your hand some glossy skeumorphic lozenge you are technologically au fait, and that because you know where in the endless repetition of tribal politics and fairy dust economics your world is, or have consumed many of those books published in pale cream jackets by university presses, you are somehow informed about what is important.
You are not. Meaning is being made in the saccades and the interstitial space you ignore. When the miracles begin, you will declare that the world has taken a great leap forward, and—wearing the amazed expression of a pantomime clown—you will quote Proust as tomorrow’s children make jokes that derive their humour from puns invoking senses you do not have. You will wear your bewilderment first as modish nostalgia and then as politically charged performance art, and finally as a proud, doomed ethical position whose idiot gravity you cannot escape. You will go to your grave protesting that everyone else has misunderstood. Oh, bravo. Bravo.
From Gnomon by Nick Harkaway.