Digital grief isn’t necessarily insincere
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Version 0 of 1. Life moves pretty fast. Grief, too. We now mourn publicly, collectively and very, very quickly. Sheryl Sandberg’s husband died suddenly last Friday. On Tuesday, the day of his memorial service, she posted a moving eulogy on Facebook, the site of which she is chief operating officer. Twelve hours later, it had 250,000 likes. On Sunday Ryan McHenry, the man behind the jokey, lo-fi Vine series Ryan Gosling Won’t Eat His Cereal (six-second clips from Gosling movies with a real-life spoonful waggled fruitlessly in front of the screen), died from cancer, aged 27. Within 36 hours, Gosling had opened his own Vine account and posted a video of himself eating cornflakes, raising his spoon in salute. A quarter of a million likes for that, too. And counting. Very few of those who clicked the thumbs-up button would have known the deceased. Some would have cared a great deal; most would have been only fleetingly touched. It’s impossible to tell. And it no longer matters. We are now in a era in which a little effort from a lot of people – in this case showing sympathy in the twitch of the finger – is much more powerful than a lot of effort from a few. Want to get a company to change its corporate policy? Gone are the days where three dedicated activists would plug away for years, writing letters, maybe attempting court action, manning the brazier, courting the press. Just start a tidal wave on Twitter and watch the business flinch. Want to find a new pop star? Forget the scout at the back of the hall: put it straight to text-message vote. For anyone born before this century, the idea of a shallow yet broad human experience instinctively seems fishy In the past, the way you showed that you cared about a cause was through your exertions. Today, such puff is regarded as naff. The fans so invested in the monarchy they camped outside the Lindo Wing for a month before baby Charlotte was born had their dedication rewarded with sneers. In his new book, So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed, Jon Ronson says: “We are defining the boundaries of normality by tearing apart the people outside of it.” Proving passion through your physical presence, offline and in-your-face, isn’t now just felt to be redundant; it grates. For anyone born before this century, the idea of a shallow yet broad human experience instinctively seems fishy. Even if more people do get involved, the instantaneity itself surely risks falsifying feelings that take time to process. Can profound emotions really be crunched and published at once? At best, doing so must prescript reactions, make subtleties bland and trends tame; at worst, it’s poison. Rio Ferdinand’s wife died the same day as Sandberg’s husband. His grieving process has involved dealing with people calling her death “karma” and “better than winning the Premier League”. “The snowflake never needs to feel responsible for the avalanche,” says Ronson – and the destructive leverage of the casual crowd, insulated by each other as well as their own anonymity, can’t be underestimated. And yet the world has irreversibly changed – and what we’re left with is, at least, an actual participatory society. Everyone’s click counts the same amount, no matter how much they mean it, and such enfranchisement means almost all of us are involved in civic life, if only mildly. Sure, you might have thought it was better to have two real friends than 2,000 on Facebook. But what’s best: to bore a handful of family members with your holiday snaps or to make them available to thousands, a few of whom might actually like them? Related: How do you grieve when you lose an internet friend? | Nicky Woolf Maybe we’re only now truly expanding upon the structure of a democracy whose principle has long held that the minor impulses of the many are more valid – and less readily manipulated – than the strongly held views of a small lobby. The problem is, of course, that tech has overtaken theory. Actually registering to vote and schlepping to the polling station feels a much greater ask than it might have five years ago, before we could opine on a dozen topics before breakfast. Voting used to be a slow process of gradual identification with a party, expressed ultimately in a single vote. Now, communities have moved online (on my street of 150 houses there are only two campaigning posters), and sites such as VoteMatch show how elections ought to be decided. As well as securing greater participation, clicking can ensure more profound involvement. This bespoke approach could allow people to express different opinions on different issues instead of just plumping for one party. Eighteen years ago, on election day 1997, one of my schoolfriends, 21 days too young to vote, died suddenly. Every year, her closest friends post to Facebook messages on the anniversary; then others chip in with comments and emoticons. I’m glad they do. You can’t judge how the depth of feeling behind an upturned thumb, or a yellow blob with a cartoon tear. But some has to be better than none. • This article was amended on 7 May 2015. It originally stated that Sheryl Sandberg is CEO of Facebook. In fact, she is chief operating officer. |