Fading

I'm reading a book called "Fade." It's young-adult fiction written by a talented guy named Robert Cormier. Actually, it's more like regular-adult fiction disguised as young-adult fiction. Thematically, it's about as dark as it gets, exploring the depths of human depravity, examining what people do when they think others aren't looking.

The story is about a young man (ninth grade) who realizes he's inherited the ability to become invisible, or "fade." If it were made into a Hollywood story, the logline would read something like, "What he thought was his gift, became his curse." Because, as our protagonist discovers, perhaps you don't want to see what others do under the assumed cloak of privacy. Maybe that ability would destroy any positive illusions about humanity you've to this point maintained.

Everyone's played the what superpower would you want game. My answer is usually the smart-ass, "the ability to steal others' powers," but assuming the question is posed with an Aladdin-esque caveat of "no wishing for more wishes," I choose the ability to read minds, including my own caveat, which is that I have the ability to turn off my power whenever I choose.

Today, I was thinking that the Internet grants us some of these powers. We have the ability, often, to monitor each other anonymously. Theoretically, we know when our activities are visible to others, but in reality I think most people underestimate the number of invisibles monitoring their online public lives. This reality manifests itself in the most blatant and unseemly way in conversations like this:

Bob: Did you see "30 Rock" last night?
Joe: Yeah, really solid episode.
Bob: And Tracy Morgan is funny.
Joe: Um. Did you read my facebook status last night?
Bob: What?
Joe: It said, "I don't care what they say, Tracy Morgan is HILARIOUS."
Bob: Oh, yeah. I remember that now.
Joe: Okay.
Bob: Sorry.
Joe: Okay.