Rule by gadgets: demonstrating the Apple Watch. Photo: Jacopo Raule/Getty Images
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Anarchic Apple watches? Face it: we like rules

The latest book by anarchist anthropologist David Graeber reveals the technological age as one of total bureacracy.

The Utopia of Rules: on Technology, Stupidity and the Secret Joys of Bureaucracy
David Graeber
Melville House, 261pp, £18.99

What is the Apple Watch for? By all reports it is not very good as a watch, because it takes a moment for the display to light up when you turn your wrist to look at it. Perversely, the gizmo’s main selling point right now seems to be that it is an iPhone accessory that will help you look at your iPhone less often. Notifications that ordinarily could tempt you to take your phone from your pocket can now be dismissed (or answered, with canned responses) from the Watch instead. And so, to the chronic social problem of zombified smartphone absorption, the tech world offers a marvellously self-interested answer: not “use your phone less”, but “buy this new gadget that will make your other gadget less annoying to yourself and others”.

Why, though, would prospective purchasers of the Apple Watch feel the need to process all these notifications in a more streamlined way? Only because they have voluntarily taken on an unnecessary amount of data-juggling labour in their daily lives. Our social as well as work existence has become thoroughly bureaucratised. The Apple Watch’s fitness-tracking sensors further encourage us to measure, chart and plan our every physical activity, too. What once would have taken a roomful of dusty clerks and scriveners, plus a personal assistant bearing stopwatch and stethoscope, can now be managed by a single person festooned with modern gadgets. I am become the bureaucratic support team of the industry of Me.

The Apple Watch is too new to feature in David Graeber’s new book, but it stealthily encapsulates his diagnosis of our age: that it is a time of “total bureaucratisation”. How is it that in the 21st century we spend more time than ever filling in forms and applications and mandates? (Many paper forms did migrate online, but they are still forms; at the same time, the internet enabled a world-historical Cambrian explosion of new and pointless species of forms for creating unnecessary “accounts”.) Meanwhile, banks and utilities invite us to “manage” our accounts online, because the idea of management has become our unquestioned ideal of authority and happy control.

The book is composed of three interconnected essays in which Graeber – the American anarchist anthropologist who wrote the bestselling Debt: the First 5,000 Years, coined the slogan “We are the 99 per cent” for Occupy Wall Street, and is a professor at the London School of Economics – interrogates aspects of bureaucratic modernity that are normally unexamined causes of annoyance. After he gets the runaround at his mother’s nursing home (he is made to do so much form-filling that she dies before she receives any Medicaid), he observes: “Bureaucracies public and private appear . . . to be organised in such a way as to guarantee that a significant proportion of actors will not be able to perform their tasks as expected.” But then he strikes a surprising note of wistfulness: surely, he argues, bureaucracies are truly “utopian” constructs. After all, “they have a naive faith in the perfectibility of human nature and refuse to deal with humans as they actually are”.

Beginning elsewhere from the premise that the police are “bureaucrats with weapons”, Graeber notices that the central heroes of form-filling modernity, too, operate at the intersection of bureaucracy and violence, from Sherlock Holmes to James Bond. Later discussions of fantasy literature and superheroes offer more pungent formulations, my favourite of which comes in the appendix on Christopher Nolan’s 2012 Batman movie, The Dark Knight Rises. Almost as an aside, Graeber writes that the war on terror “began with a bomb and ended with an assassination. One can almost think of it as an attempt, on both sides, to actually enact a comic-book version of the universe.”

The moral universe of Graeber’s book expands when it explains the subtitle’s sympathy for the “secret joys” of bureaucracy. The argument here is that we like rules because they are the opposite of chaos. Unstructured “free play” can be unpredictable and unpleasant (like free jazz). But good rules build good games, which are enjoyable. Bureaucracy itself is like a game, except that it’s no fun to play. Perhaps, Graeber argues, bureaucracy even intimates to us a possible paradise. “Who hasn’t dreamed,” he asks, “of a world where everyone knows the rules, everyone plays by the rules, and – even more – where people who play by the rules can actually still win?”

Such a world, Graeber laments, is a mere “illusion”. Here one might want to add a mention of sport. Professionalised and commercialised though it may be, modern sport surely offers something of the same utopian hope. In football, Cristiano Ronaldo pouts and dives, but we also have the redemptive figure of Lionel Messi, who does indeed play by the rules and win.

In these stylish and witty pieces, Graeber’s arguments sometimes move at exhilarating speed past debatable oppositions. He invites us to marvel, for instance, at the fact that cash machines never give out the wrong amount of money. This is indeed an impressive feat. He then writes: “This gives financial abstractions an air of utter certainty . . . Meanwhile physical infrastructure like roads, escalators, bridges and underground railways crumbles around us . . . None of this just happened. It is, precisely, a matter of national priorities . . .” Well, yes, but this is a false dichotomy. Cash machines weren’t engineered to be error-free at the expense, somehow, of road maintenance. And how much rebuilding of railways and bridges would go on if financial “abstractions” were not (usually) completely reliable?

Another arguable dichotomy is erected in a fascinating essay on why we don’t have the flying cars and robots that we were promised in the 1950s. Graeber suggests that there was a shift in the 1970s “from investment in technologies associated with the possibility of alternative futures to investment technologies that furthered labour discipline and social control”. But it is not generally the case that technologies are inherently benign or otherwise. Flying cars could have been used by brutal riot police. And even an Apple Watch could in principle be used for some kind of science-fictional pleasure. All you’d need is a sense of playful anarchy, of a kind that David Graeber, too, would surely celebrate.

Steven Poole’s books include “Who Touched Base in My Thought Shower? A Treasury of Unbearable Office Jargon” (Sceptre)

This article first appeared in the 06 May 2015 issue of the New Statesman, The Power Struggle

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Beware of tea: the cuppa has started wars and ruined lives

. . . and it once led F Scott Fitzgerald to humiliate himself.

A drink sustains me – one that steams companionably as I write. It is hot, amber and fragranced differently from any wine; nor does it have wine’s capacity to soften and blur. I’ve never understood how the great drunks of literature, Ernest Hemingway, F Scott Fitzgerald and their like, ever put anything on the page more worthwhile than a self-involved howl, though even Hemingway apparently finished the day’s writing before beginning the day’s drinking.

Tea is more kindly, or so I’d always thought. Those aromatic leaves, black or green, rolled and dried and oxidised, have some of wine’s artistry but none of its danger. Even their exoticism has waned, from a Chinese rarity (“froth of the liquid jade”), for which 17th-century English traders were made to pay in solid silver, to a product that can be found dirt cheap on supermarket shelves.

There are even home-grown teas now. The Tregothnan estate in Cornwall has supplemented its ornamental rhododendrons and camellias with their relative camellia sinensis, the tea plant, while Dalreoch in the Scottish Highlands grows a white (that is, lightly oxidised) tea, which is smoked using wood from the surrounding birch plantations. Tellingly, this local version is priced as steeply as the imported rarity once was.

I enjoy a simple, solitary mug, but I also appreciate communal tea-drinking – the delicate tea warmed with water at 85°C (a little higher for sturdier black blends), the teapot and china, the pourer volunteering to be “mother”, as if this were a liquid that could nurture. But in reality, tea is not so gentle.

Those long-ago English traders disliked haemorrhaging silver, so they started exporting opium to China from India and paying with that. This was a fabulous success, unless you happened to be Chinese. In 1839, a commissioner attempted to clamp down on the illegal and harmful trade, and the result was the Opium Wars, which the Chinese lost. “Gunboat diplomacy” – a phrase that surely constitutes froth of a different kind – won England a great deal of silver, a 150-year lease on Hong Kong and an open tea market. China received a potful of humiliation that may eventually have helped spark the Communist Revolution. As many of us have recently realised, there is nothing like economic mortification to galvanise a nation to kick its leaders.

Later, the tea bush was planted in India, Ceylon and elsewhere, and the fragrant but bitter brew for the upper classes became a ubiquitous fuel. But not an entirely sweet one: just as the opium trade ensured our tea’s arrival in the pot, the slave trade sweetened it in the cup. Even today, conditions for tea workers in places such as Assam in north-east India are often appalling.

Scott Fitzgerald also had tea trouble. When invited round by Edith Wharton, he frothed the liquid jade so assiduously with booze beforehand and risqué conversation during (a story about an American tourist couple staying unawares in a Paris bordello) that he was nearly as badly humiliated as those 19th-century Chinese. Wharton, unshocked, merely wondered aloud what the couple had done in the bordello and afterwards pronounced the entire occasion “awful”.

Some would blame his alcoholic preliminaries, but I’m not so sure. Tea has started wars and ruined lives; we should be wary of its consolations. On that sober note, I reach for the corkscrew and allow the subject to drive me softly, beguilingly, to drink.

Nina Caplan is the 2014 Fortnum & Mason Drink Writer of the Year and 2014 Louis Roederer International Wine Columnist of the Year for her columns on drink in the New Statesman. She tweets as @NinaCaplan.

This article first appeared in the 27 April 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Cool Britannia 20 Years On

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