My husband’s book-buying habits are mean
My husband, when making his annual book purchases as Christmas presents, browses the latest titles in our local bookshop, taps the staff for advice—and then comes home and buys them online at fat discounts. I find his behaviour mean. But is it also unethical?
Books have become like plane tickets: no two people pay the same price anymore. The odds of two people sitting in neighbouring aeroplane seats having paid the same price for their ticket are even longer than the odds of Sarah Palin remembering that it’s Kim Cattrall who acts in Sex and the City and Kim Jong-il who rules North Korea with an iron fist—not the other way round. Online discounts of up to 60 per cent mean the recommended retail price on dustjackets is no longer seen as the “sticker” price, but as the “sucker” price. But the logical result of your husband’s behaviour is that, when everyone takes advantage of online discounts, there’ll be no bookshops left, and therefore no place to browse before buying online. And instead of gleaning recommendations from a knowledgeable bookshop owner, you’ll have to rely on those online wisdom-of-crowds recommendations which tell you that “people who bought this book also bought…”, before listing a bunch of titles which suggest that your fellow shoppers buy books by randomly picking ISBN numbers, the same way they pick numbers for a Lotto ticket. So, paradoxically, the very things that seem not to come at a price turn out, in the end, to come at a very high price indeed.
Childminding by Blackberry
Some friends came to dinner and kept their BlackBerrys on the table throughout the meal, checking for messages, on the grounds that they had left their children (aged 14 and 16) at home alone and needed to be in touch. Shouldn’t they have just organised a babysitter?
Many people now regard themselves as human versions of Jodrell Bank’s Lovell Telescope, believing it’s their duty to be constantly receptive to any information that might be beamed at them from an alien intelligence (using “an alien intelligence” in its sense of “Voicemail has one new message”). Rather than being liberated by trading in the leash of the landline for the freedom-to-roam of the mobile phone, these people have become slaves to them instead. They clutch their mobiles until they turn into some kind of figure from Greek mythology: half man, half BlackBerry. When they stray too far from the reach of a 3G signal they grow panicky and short of breath, like a climber on Everest. The children are clearly patsies, being used by their parents as an excuse to feed their phone habit. Kids are as likely to phone their parents to resolve any domestic crisis as Donald Trump is to tell his barber: “Just leave it casual this time.” Hearing a phone ring and hoping that it’s for you is a sure sign you have yet to reach maturity. Your dinner guests are the sort of people who have caller ID, but not yet caller IQ.
Should I lie to protect my friend?
A friend of mine was recently “let go” by a big bank. He’s rich enough not to need to work again and now devotes himself to painting. He emails me his abstract scrawls for comment. Should I lie and say they’re great? Or be honest and tell him they’re dreadful, so that he can improve?
You want to be honest? To an artist? Are you mad? When your friend says he craves your opinion he means it in the Noël Coward sense of: “I love criticism, so long as it’s unqualified praise.” Artists—painters, novelists, actors—generally welcome a poor review about as much as they welcome herpes. When you’ve put your soul into a piece of work, a harsh notice leaves a wound deeper than Anita Ekberg’s cleavage. You have two roles here: one as a critic, the other as a friend. Being a friend takes precedence. EM Forster said that if he had to choose between betraying his friend and betraying his country, he hoped he’d have the guts to betray his country. Similarly, faced with a choice between being a friend and being honest, you should choose being a friend. When Jeb Bush was asked what he thought of Decision Points, the memoir written by his brother George W, he replied: “I haven’t read it, but I’ve bought 40 copies. And it’s far more important to buy 40 copies than to read it.” He’s right. In any case, how can you be so sure your friend won’t be a success? Think how many friends must have itched to take Sylvester Stallone to one side and say: “Sly, forget it. You’ll never make it in Hollywood. Because, let’s face it, you have the acting talent of a guava.”
Send your ethical dilemmas to ethics@prospect-magazine.co.uk
My husband, when making his annual book purchases as Christmas presents, browses the latest titles in our local bookshop, taps the staff for advice—and then comes home and buys them online at fat discounts. I find his behaviour mean. But is it also unethical?
Books have become like plane tickets: no two people pay the same price anymore. The odds of two people sitting in neighbouring aeroplane seats having paid the same price for their ticket are even longer than the odds of Sarah Palin remembering that it’s Kim Cattrall who acts in Sex and the City and Kim Jong-il who rules North Korea with an iron fist—not the other way round. Online discounts of up to 60 per cent mean the recommended retail price on dustjackets is no longer seen as the “sticker” price, but as the “sucker” price. But the logical result of your husband’s behaviour is that, when everyone takes advantage of online discounts, there’ll be no bookshops left, and therefore no place to browse before buying online. And instead of gleaning recommendations from a knowledgeable bookshop owner, you’ll have to rely on those online wisdom-of-crowds recommendations which tell you that “people who bought this book also bought…”, before listing a bunch of titles which suggest that your fellow shoppers buy books by randomly picking ISBN numbers, the same way they pick numbers for a Lotto ticket. So, paradoxically, the very things that seem not to come at a price turn out, in the end, to come at a very high price indeed.
Childminding by Blackberry
Some friends came to dinner and kept their BlackBerrys on the table throughout the meal, checking for messages, on the grounds that they had left their children (aged 14 and 16) at home alone and needed to be in touch. Shouldn’t they have just organised a babysitter?
Many people now regard themselves as human versions of Jodrell Bank’s Lovell Telescope, believing it’s their duty to be constantly receptive to any information that might be beamed at them from an alien intelligence (using “an alien intelligence” in its sense of “Voicemail has one new message”). Rather than being liberated by trading in the leash of the landline for the freedom-to-roam of the mobile phone, these people have become slaves to them instead. They clutch their mobiles until they turn into some kind of figure from Greek mythology: half man, half BlackBerry. When they stray too far from the reach of a 3G signal they grow panicky and short of breath, like a climber on Everest. The children are clearly patsies, being used by their parents as an excuse to feed their phone habit. Kids are as likely to phone their parents to resolve any domestic crisis as Donald Trump is to tell his barber: “Just leave it casual this time.” Hearing a phone ring and hoping that it’s for you is a sure sign you have yet to reach maturity. Your dinner guests are the sort of people who have caller ID, but not yet caller IQ.
Should I lie to protect my friend?
A friend of mine was recently “let go” by a big bank. He’s rich enough not to need to work again and now devotes himself to painting. He emails me his abstract scrawls for comment. Should I lie and say they’re great? Or be honest and tell him they’re dreadful, so that he can improve?
You want to be honest? To an artist? Are you mad? When your friend says he craves your opinion he means it in the Noël Coward sense of: “I love criticism, so long as it’s unqualified praise.” Artists—painters, novelists, actors—generally welcome a poor review about as much as they welcome herpes. When you’ve put your soul into a piece of work, a harsh notice leaves a wound deeper than Anita Ekberg’s cleavage. You have two roles here: one as a critic, the other as a friend. Being a friend takes precedence. EM Forster said that if he had to choose between betraying his friend and betraying his country, he hoped he’d have the guts to betray his country. Similarly, faced with a choice between being a friend and being honest, you should choose being a friend. When Jeb Bush was asked what he thought of Decision Points, the memoir written by his brother George W, he replied: “I haven’t read it, but I’ve bought 40 copies. And it’s far more important to buy 40 copies than to read it.” He’s right. In any case, how can you be so sure your friend won’t be a success? Think how many friends must have itched to take Sylvester Stallone to one side and say: “Sly, forget it. You’ll never make it in Hollywood. Because, let’s face it, you have the acting talent of a guava.”
Send your ethical dilemmas to ethics@prospect-magazine.co.uk
