Viewpoint

Protecting privacy on the 'Net

This summer, the Internet and the literary world met head on in two splashy, strange events worthy of the famous names involved. They may not have been the stuff of front pages or network newscasts, but these separate events (involving novelists Kurt Vonnegut and Thomas Pynchon, forged e-mails, a London newspaper and a much-desired photograph) portray in neon-colored letters the provocative powers of technology and its effects on the written word.

The Pynchon incident came first. A London newspaper used an Internet site to track down the great writer's New York address. Living in carefully kept seclusion, Pynchon's life has remained as elusive and puzzling as his intricate, dizzying novels. But this year's success of his novel "Mason & Dixon" brought Pynchon's work to widespread attention. Address in hand, the London photographers snapped pictures of Pynchon as he escorted his young son to school one morning - the first confirmed photographs of the writer since his college days at Cornell in the 1950s.

This event sparked my curiosity. The idea of writers living in seclusion, toiling for years on weighty novels, is one I have always found appealing. Pynchon, Don DeLillo, J.D. Salinger and Cormac McCarthy aren't better writers because they shy away from press and attention, but somehow they seem like more compelling people, and their books feel more momentous. Their works become absolute - mysterious in origin, attaining an all-encompassing weightiness somehow not possessed by recognizable folks like Richard Ford or John Updike. When Pynchon's seclusion was suddenly shattered, if only briefly, a sense of his distance and power went with it.

The incident was given an additional twist of irony by Pynchon's work. He is iconoclastic, populist and liberal. For a while, he was rumored to be the Unabomber. In a New York Times piece from 1984 titled "Is it OK to be a Luddite?" Pynchon discusses, among other things, the vanishing lines between literature and technology. "Demystification is the order of our day, all the cats are jumping out of all the bags and even beginning to mingle," he wrote.

Sure enough, the cats did jump out of the bag, landing on the sidewalk across from Pynchon's apartment.

"When technology reaches a certain level, people begin to feel like criminals."
- Don Delillo, "Running Dog," 1978.

Soon after reading about Pynchon's ordeal, I sat down at a computer, resolved to find information about other famous names. It was a lark at first, something I did because I was bored one Saturday afternoon. But then names and information started piling up like a stack of declassified CIA documents: the home phone number and address of Robert J. Dole; the same for Cormac McCarthy. I'm not sure if I found J.D. Salinger, but I found "J. Salinger" in the appropriate New England locale. Next came a few random celebrities, like "Jerry Maguire" director Cameron Crowe. I couldn't get any information on the Reagans, but Ambassador wannabe William Weld? Check. Former House Speaker Thomas Foley? Heck yeah.

None of this qualifies as a grand revelation. Plenty of news organizations have reported the proliferation of private information easily obtained on the Internet. But it's one thing to read about, and another thing to have this knowledge radiating out from a computer screen, seamlessly obtained.

Pynchon was not the only famous writer foiled by the Internet this summer: In late July, Kurt Vonnegut became an unwilling player in a seemingly innocent forged e-mail scheme. A mass message began to circulate, purporting to be a commencement address delivered by Vonnegut at MIT. The message was widespread, received and re-sent by friends of mine (as well as perhaps hundreds of thousands of e-mail afficionados) who were oblivious to its lack of authenticity. The alleged address is witty and charming, full of suggestions on how to lead a fun and fulfilling life. (Example: "Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.") It was so good that Vonnegut's wife did not doubt the speech's authenticity.

Yet the speech was actually a column written by Mary Schmich, a writer for The Chicago Tribune. Vonnegut had nothing to do with the e-mail. He never addressed MIT. He doesn't even like the Internet.

"How can I know whether I'm being kidded or not, or lied to?" Vonnegut said to the New York Times. "I don't know what the point is except is how gullible people are on the Internet."

Gullible, and petty.

These two incidents are amusing, but they bring up a larger point. The Internet is a great equalizer - it redefines celebrity. And in the Vonnegut and Pynchon incidents, it changed the way fiction, fame and reality interact.

They are moments worthy of their victims' works. Yet how valuable is their work in a world where busting their privacy becomes entertainment? When tidbits of flashy information overshadow thoughtfulness and creativity?

It was tempting to call up and chat with Cormac McCarthy, or telephone the tantalizing "J. Salinger." But the work of these writers should be satisfying enough without their snapshots being published, and without giving their fans a false sense of immediacy from a forged e-mail. The creative and practical wonders of the Internet are undeniable, but as the information game evolves, celebrity casualties, in the literary world and elsewhere, are destined to stack up.

I don't know about you, but DeLillo had it right - it's hard not to feel a little like a criminal these days.

09-03-97