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For the longest time, I couldn’t get worked up about privacy: my right to it; how it’s dying; how we’re headed for an even more wired, underregulated, overintrusive, privacy-deprived planet.I should also point out that as news director for Pathfinder, Time Inc.’s mega info mall, and a guy who on the Web, I know better than most people that we’re hurtling toward an even more intrusive world. We’re all being watched by computers whenever we visit Websites; by the mere act of "browsing" (it sounds so passive!) we’re going public in a way that was unimaginable a decade ago.I know this because I’m a watcher too. When people come to my Website, without ever knowing their names, I can peer over their shoulders, recording what they look at, timing how long they stay on a particular page, following them around Pathfinder’s sprawling offerings.None of this would bother me in the least, I suspect, if a few years ago, my phone,.like Marley’s ghost, hadn’t given me a glimpse of the nightmares to come. On Thanksgiving weekend in 1995, someone (presumably a critic of a book my wife and I had just written about computer hackers) forwarded my home telephone number to an out-of-state answering machine, where unsuspecting callers trying to reach me heard a male voice identify himself as me and say some extremely rude things.Then, with typical hacker aplomb, the prankster asked people to leave their messages (which to my surprise many callers, including my mother, did). This went on for several days until my wife and I figured out that something was wrong ("Hey...why hasn’t the phone rung since Wednesday") and got our phone service restored.It seemed funny at first, and it gave us a swell story to tell on our book tour. But the interloper who seized our telephone line continued to hit us even after the tour ended. And hit us again and again for the next six months. The phone company seemed powerless. Its security folks moved us to one unlisted number after another, half a dozen times. They put special pin codes in place. They put traces on the line. But the troublemaker kept breaking through.If our hacker had been truly evil and omnipotent as only fictional movie hackers are, there would probably have been even worse ways he could have threatened my privacy. He could have sabotaged my credit rating. He could have eavesdropped on my telephone conversations or siphoned off my e-mail. He could have called in my mortgage, discontinued my health insurance or obliterated my Social Security number. Like Sandra Bullock in The Net, I could have been a digital untouchable, wandering the planet without a connection to the rest of humanity. (Although if I didn’t have to pay back school loans, it might be worth it. Just a thought.)Still, I remember feeling violated at the time and as powerless as a minnow in a flash flood. Someone was invading my private space--my family’s private space--and there was nothing I or the authorities could do. It was as close to a technological epiphany as I have ever been. And as I watched my personal digital hell unfold, it struck me that our privacy- mine and yours- has already disappeared, not in one Big Brotherly blitzkrieg but in Little Brotherly moments, bit by bit.Losing control of your telephone, of course, is the least of it. After all, most of us voluntarily give out our phone number and address when we allow ourselves to be listed in the White Pages. Most of us go a lot further than that. We register our whereabouts whenever we put a bank card in an ATM machine or drive through an E-Z Pass lane on the highway. We submit to being photographed every day--20 times a day on average if you live or work in New York City--by surveillance cameras. We make public our interests and our purchasing habits every time we shop by mail order or visit a commercial Website. The writer cited his experience to show that().
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It is interesting to reflect for a moment upon the differences in the areas of moral feeling and standards in the peoples of Japan and the United States. The Americans divide these areas somewhat rigidly into spirit and flesh, the two being in opposition in the life of a human being. Ideally, spirit should prevail but all too often it is the flesh that does prevail. The Japanese make no such division, at least between one as good and the other as evil. They believe that a person has two souls, each necessary. One is the "gentle" soul, the other is the "rough" soul. Sometimes the person uses his gentle soul, sometimes he must use his rough soul.He does not favor his gentle soul, neither does he fight his rough soul. Human nature in itself is good, Japanese philosophers insist, and a human being does not need to fight any part of himself. He has only to learn how to use each soul properly at the appropriate times. Virtue for the Japanese consists in fulfilling one’s obligations to others. Happy endings, either in life or in fiction, are neither necessary nor expected, since the fulfillment of duty provides the satisfying end, whatever the tragedy it inflicts. And duty includes a person’s obligations to those who have conferred benefits upon him and to himself as an individual of honor.He develops through this double sense of duty a self-discipline which is at once permissive and rigid, depending upon the area in which it is functioning.The process of acquiring this self-discipline begins in childhood. Indeed, one may say it begins at birth--how early the Japanese child is given his own identity! If I were to define in a word the attitude of the Japanese toward their children I would put it in one succinct word. Love Yes, abundance of love, warmly expressed from the moment he is put to his mother’s breast. For a mother this nursing of her child is important psychologically.Rewards are frequent, a bit of candy bestowed at the right moment, an inexpensive toy. As time comes to enter school, however, discipline becomes firmer. To bring shame to the family is the greatest shame for the child.What is the secret of the Japanese teaching of self-discipline It lies, I think, in the fact that the aim of all teaching is the establishment of habit. Rules are repeated over and over, and continually practiced until obedience becomes instinctive. This repetition is enhanced by the expectation of the elders.They expect a child to obey and to learn through obedience. The demand is gentle at first and tempered to the child’s tender age. It is no gentle as time goes on, but certainly it is increasingly inexorable.Now, far away from that warm Japanese home, I reflect upon what I learned there. What, I wonder, will take the place of the web of love and discipline which for so many centuries has surrounded the life and thinking of the people of Japan According to Japanese belief a child is born().
For the first time, we found() that allow us to connect the first phase of human evolution and the second phase.
Yoga, the ancient practice of postures, breathing and meditation, is gaining a lot of attention from the material world that its serious practitioners are trying to escape. Yoga practitioners are trying to keep themselves away from the material world. Give an example to show that the yoga clothing ofLululemon Athletica is in fashion.
For the longest time, I couldn’t get worked up about privacy: my right to it; how it’s dying; how we’re headed for an even more wired, underregulated, overintrusive, privacy-deprived planet.I should also point out that as news director for Pathfinder, Time Inc.’s mega info mall, and a guy who on the Web, I know better than most people that we’re hurtling toward an even more intrusive world. We’re all being watched by computers whenever we visit Websites; by the mere act of "browsing" (it sounds so passive!) we’re going public in a way that was unimaginable a decade ago.I know this because I’m a watcher too. When people come to my Website, without ever knowing their names, I can peer over their shoulders, recording what they look at, timing how long they stay on a particular page, following them around Pathfinder’s sprawling offerings.None of this would bother me in the least, I suspect, if a few years ago, my phone,.like Marley’s ghost, hadn’t given me a glimpse of the nightmares to come. On Thanksgiving weekend in 1995, someone (presumably a critic of a book my wife and I had just written about computer hackers) forwarded my home telephone number to an out-of-state answering machine, where unsuspecting callers trying to reach me heard a male voice identify himself as me and say some extremely rude things.Then, with typical hacker aplomb, the prankster asked people to leave their messages (which to my surprise many callers, including my mother, did). This went on for several days until my wife and I figured out that something was wrong ("Hey...why hasn’t the phone rung since Wednesday") and got our phone service restored.It seemed funny at first, and it gave us a swell story to tell on our book tour. But the interloper who seized our telephone line continued to hit us even after the tour ended. And hit us again and again for the next six months. The phone company seemed powerless. Its security folks moved us to one unlisted number after another, half a dozen times. They put special pin codes in place. They put traces on the line. But the troublemaker kept breaking through.If our hacker had been truly evil and omnipotent as only fictional movie hackers are, there would probably have been even worse ways he could have threatened my privacy. He could have sabotaged my credit rating. He could have eavesdropped on my telephone conversations or siphoned off my e-mail. He could have called in my mortgage, discontinued my health insurance or obliterated my Social Security number. Like Sandra Bullock in The Net, I could have been a digital untouchable, wandering the planet without a connection to the rest of humanity. (Although if I didn’t have to pay back school loans, it might be worth it. Just a thought.)Still, I remember feeling violated at the time and as powerless as a minnow in a flash flood. Someone was invading my private space--my family’s private space--and there was nothing I or the authorities could do. It was as close to a technological epiphany as I have ever been. And as I watched my personal digital hell unfold, it struck me that our privacy- mine and yours- has already disappeared, not in one Big Brotherly blitzkrieg but in Little Brotherly moments, bit by bit.Losing control of your telephone, of course, is the least of it. After all, most of us voluntarily give out our phone number and address when we allow ourselves to be listed in the White Pages. Most of us go a lot further than that. We register our whereabouts whenever we put a bank card in an ATM machine or drive through an E-Z Pass lane on the highway. We submit to being photographed every day--20 times a day on average if you live or work in New York City--by surveillance cameras. We make public our interests and our purchasing habits every time we shop by mail order or visit a commercial Website. Which of the following problems has the author experienced().
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