"Edward M. Lerner - Iniquitous Computing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lerner Edward M)

“There is heavy traffic on Monument Avenue, David.”
“Do not call me David,” I responded sternly to the
automobile. It had a galling trait, by which it regularly
forgot—or pretended to; I had my suspicions—that machines
are not to address one so familiarly. “I nonetheless prefer,"—
as I do every day—"the Monument Avenue route.” The leafy
canopy of the antebellum boulevard was soothing. Alas,
traversing that verdant oasis encompassed only a small
portion of my journey home.
Home ... that sanctuary from modern “conveniences.”
“Yes, Dr. Whitaker.”
A moment of blessed silence passed. “The hourly news
summary is almost on, Doctor. Shall I play that?” The latest
interruption came from the automobile's radio.
“You may.” I thought the infernal gadget less likely to
express “helpful” suggestions if it felt it was already being
useful. In truth, I had little interest in the day's events. “Low
volume.”
A few seconds of soft-spoken announcer's voice were
followed by a low blat for attention. “We put the you in
ubiquitous computing,” crowed a commercial.
That the offensive catch-phrase came from the sponsor,
not my always-eager-to-please radio, did little to mollify me.
“Radio off,” I ordered, before articulation of the offending
company's name could further raise my choler.
I am a literary historian by education and first love, and
presently curator of the Edgar Allan Poe Museum. I am also—
there is no denying it—somewhat misplaced in my own time.
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 Iniquitous Computing
by Edward M. Lerner


Give me the formulaic roles and rules of the nineteenth
century. Give me the courtesy and respect to which, scholar
that I am, I would have thought my accomplishments entitled
me. And give me—please, give me—that which is so rare in
these chaotic times: occasional quiet in which to ponder
“Many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore.”
Oh, that I were free to study within the private confines of
my nineteenth-century abode. That residence was not nearly
so fine as what the natives all referred to as The Old Stone
House, the small estate-become-museum near Poe's own
one-time Richmond residence and his first place of
employment, the Southern Literary Messenger. But even in
the author's time, this district near the James River lay deep
within the (dare I say it?) tell-tale heart of the city. My
modest dwelling, at the opposite end of this disagreeable