But the novelty of vicarious participation in emotional life always contained within it a critique of itself, a hope that each specific instance of it was an exception to a general rule of how false the whole process was: My experience of A Sentimental Journey was real and integral and shows what a solid person I am, but all those other people crying over books? What is wrong with them? Shouldn’t they get a real life? Aren’t they robbing their loved ones of their emotional facilities? Something similar seems to be happening with social media, which inspire a similar ambivalence.
