Hamlet's BlackBerry (17 page)

He wrote two fictional dialogues, modeled on Plato's, in which a fellow named Horatio who can't resist his impulses is arguing with his friend Philocles, who is guided by reason. Horatio says one should always obey one's urges, because they're natural. To deny ourselves what we instinctively crave is absurd and wrong.

Philocles replies that it's Horatio who has it all wrong. Self-denial is a route to
greater
pleasure than you can ever obtain by just obeying your desires.

This sounds fabulous to the pleasure-loving Horatio, who asks his friend to explain how exactly it works.

Philocles says it's just a matter of refusing do something that you know is “inconsistent with your health, fortunes, or circumstances in the world; or in other words, because 'twould cost you more than 'twas worth. You would lose by it, as a man of pleasure.”

Far better, he suggests, to control and manage your impulses by practicing what he calls “philosophical self-denial”—resisting certain urges because you know you'll gain more in the big picture by doing so. The operative word here is “philosophical.” Franklin was saying that in order for self-denial to work, you have to reason it out first in your own mind. You have to see that there is more to be gained by resisting the impulse than giving in. Once you truly believe this, it's all downhill. What previously seemed a dreary, priggish way to live—denying oneself pleasure—suddenly becomes positive and even hedonistic.

This pragmatic approach appealed to Franklin, who was nothing if not practical. He published the dialogues in the newspaper he'd recently founded, then sat down and devised an ambitious self-improvement plan for himself. Rather than just swearing off his bad habits, he would practice philosophical self-denial. He looked inside himself and figured out what
were the good habits that, if acquired, would cancel out the bad ones
and
make his life a lot nicer. He wrote down thirteen desirable virtues along with behavioral guidelines for attaining each one:

• 1. Temperance
  Eat not to Dullness. Drink not to Elevation.
  
• 2. Silence
  Speak not but what may benefit others or your self. Avoid trifling Conversation.
  
• 3. Order
  Let all your Things have their Places. Let each Part of your Business have its Time.
  
• 4. Resolution
  Resolve to perform what you ought. Perform without fail what you resolve.
  
• 5. Frugality
  Make no Expence but to do good to others or yourself: i.e. Waste nothing.
  
• 6. Industry
  Lose no Time. Be always employ'd in something useful. Cut off all unnecessary Actions.
  
• 7. Sincerity
  Use no hurtful Deceit. Think innocently and justly; and, if you speak, speak accordingly.
  
• 8. Justice
  Wrong none, by doing Injuries or omitting the Benefits that are your Duty.
  
• 9. Moderation
  Avoid Extremes. Forbear resenting Injuries so much as you think they deserve.
  
• 10. Cleanliness
  Tolerate no Uncleanness in Body, Clothes or Habitation.
  
• 11. Tranquility
  Be not disturbed at Trifles, or at Accidents common or unavoidable.
  
• 12. Chastity
  Rarely use Venery but for Health or Offspring; Never to Dullness, Weakness, or the Injury of your own or another's Peace or Reputation.
  
• 13. Humility
  Imitate Jesus and Socrates.
  

He needed a method for pursuing these goals and tracking his progress. So, in an ivory version of Hamlet's erasable tables
that he carried everywhere, he drew up a series of elaborate charts, one for each virtue. Every day he marked down how he'd done. If it was a bad day for, say, Frugality, he'd make a black mark next to that goal.

He called this ritual “the bold and arduous Project of arriving at moral Perfection,” and, as the label suggests, it was ridiculously ambitious. A saint would have trouble sticking to Franklin's program, though he did give himself wiggle room on venery—sex—with a broad exception for “health.” He eventually saw that he'd overdone it and loosened up his standards, and after some years he stopped updating the charts altogether. But he carried them around with him for the rest of his life, a tangible reminder of what he was still aiming for, if not always expecting to achieve.

Toward the end of his life, looking back in his autobiography, he said that the ritual had made him who he was. “This little Artifice,” as he called it, had instilled in him the habits that were responsible for everything he valued most in life, including his health, his financial success, and all his remarkable achievements. Franklin didn't have just one brilliant career, he had half a dozen. He was a skillful businessman, a trailblazing journalist and writer, a prolific scientist and inventor, an influential public official, and a political thinker whose ideas contributed significantly to the birth of modern democracy. To have done any one of these things would have been impressive. That he did all of them, and enjoyed himself along the way, is miraculous. Though absurdly busy, he calmly marshaled his time, talents, and energies to serve his goals. “Franklin's powers were from first to last in a flexible equilibrium…. He moved through his world in a humorous mastery of it,” writes his biographer Carl Van Doren. And Franklin chalked it all up to his ritual, urging others to “follow the Example & reap the Benefit.”

In the centuries since, many have derided the project as puritanical, sanctimonious, and self-congratulatory. “He made himself a list of virtues, which he trotted inside like a grey nag in a paddock,” wrote the novelist D. H. Lawrence. If the idea had come from a straitlaced prude, it would be unbearable. But because Franklin
wasn't
a Puritan—he loved his pleasures—and had such a sense of humor about himself, his account of it is delightful to read today. It's also instructive. At a moment when so many are struggling to rein in one particular impulse, the question is: why don't
our
rituals have the same kind of success?

Franklin understood human nature, and he recognized that in order for a ritual to succeed, people have to believe in it. But belief can't be imposed by the world at large or higher-ups in management. It has to come from within. That's what “philosophical self-denial” is all about. To change a given habit, people must believe that by changing they'll gain more than they would by sticking to their old ways. Franklin applied this principle directly to himself. The virtues on his list are positive goals that he had concluded, through introspection, would bring him greater happiness than he would enjoy without them.

Thus, rather than calling his first goal “Stop Drinking So Much,” a tut-tutting negative that would only drive home what he was losing out on, he called it Temperance. Why? Because he
liked
to drink and he needed an upbeat objective that he could embrace in the belief he was going to come out ahead. Temperance isn't quitting cold turkey; it's just moderation, a worthy and pleasant aim. The whole list works this way, emphasizing the positive—the instructions on what
not
to do are subordinate—to reinforce his own engagement. He would mend his chatterbox ways not merely by talking less but by actively seeking Silence, an appealing objective. Instead of just
ignoring the trivia or “trifles” that can be so distracting, he'd be pursuing Tranquility, and who doesn't want that? In effect, he knew that whenever he looked the list over, he would think: Yes, I
want
to do all these things, they serve my interests.

And that's just what's lacking in no-e-mail Fridays. The name alone is negative—a prohibition of the very thing workers are addicted to—and it gives the whole concept a negative spin. It assumes that people are simply weary of their inboxes and would be thrilled to have a day off. In fact, the conundrum is more complicated than that. We love e-mail
and
we hate it. It lifts us up
and
knocks us down. By stressing only the negative, no-e-mail Friday gives short shrift to the very desire it's trying to combat and offers no positive goal to replace it. It's like naming a diet “The No Ice Cream or Any Other Goodies Diet.” Who wants to go on that?

The other problem with today's workplace rituals is they tend to overlook the importance of inner conviction. It's not enough to tell employees that their screen habits are bad for them and hurting the company, and henceforth they shall adhere to the following rules. That's a recipe for failure. You have to give them a new way of looking at the problem that they can believe in.

One largely unrecognized downside of computers and other digital devices in the workplace is that they keep everyone relentlessly focused outward, beyond themselves. For people stuck in cubicles all day hooked up to screens, this sends an unfortunate message. The implication is that they're just conduits for data, with nothing valuable to offer in themselves. Obviously, in order to do their jobs effectively and contribute to their organizations, workers need information from the world at large. But to turn that information into ideas and initiatives of real value, they must bring their own unique talents and insights to bear. Rather than just aiming to modify
employee
behavior
through e-mail prohibitions and the like, if companies focused on the
thinking
that drives the behavior, that alone would send a powerful message: what really matters is the untapped potential inside the employee, and the object of the ritual is to make the most of it.
Spending some time away from screens will bring out the best in you
.

Positive rituals based on inner belief—could they help workers with digital-dependency issues? There's evidence they could. One of the first large companies to recognize the threat to productivity posed by overload was the Intel Corporation, the world's largest manufacturer of the semiconductor chips that drive modern technologies. Intel has devoted unusual attention to this problem, experimenting for years with various strategies and techniques, including rituals. The company's experience was the subject of a recent study by the technology research firm Basex, which looked at several specific Intel programs aimed at getting workers to put some distance between themselves and their inboxes. It focused on three seven-month-long pilot programs whose subjects were Intel managers and engineers:

• 1. Quiet Time
  A weekly four-hour period in which the workers' incoming e-mail was shut down (they could compose and read e-mail, but not receive it), their instant-message status was set on “do not disturb,” incoming phone calls were forwarded to voice mail, meetings were not scheduled, and signs were placed on office doors requesting privacy.
  
• 2. No-E-Mail Day
  On Fridays, whenever possible, the employees agreed to use verbal communication rather than e-mail. This was not a strict prohibition, but an effort to encourage person-to-person interaction within the group.
  Outside e-mails were allowed, but members of the work group were discouraged from e-mailing each other unless necessary.
  
• 3. E-Mail Service Level Agreement
  The goal of this unfortunately named initiative was to lengthen the acceptable time period for replying to e-mail. Rather than feeling they must respond immediately to internal e-mails, workers could take as long as twenty-four hours to reply. It was hoped that, as a result, they would stop monitoring their inboxes constantly, and instead check just two or three times a day.
  

Quiet Time was the most successful of the pilots, winning the most positive reviews from participants and delivering stronger results (better concentration, more tasks finished on time, and so forth). When it was over, a plurality said they would like to continue the program. Though the study doesn't mention it, anyone familiar with the Franklin approach can't help but notice that Quiet Time was the only one of the initiatives with a positive name communicating an attractive goal. (An earlier Intel program that was considered a success had a similarly enticing name: YourTime.) While the other two of the more recent programs were considered failures and were discontinued, Quiet Time was extended beyond the pilot period, and at the time of the Basex study it was being evaluated for wider use in the company.

This is not to say that everyone liked Quiet Time, or that it's the answer. It was more popular with managers than with engineers, and not all subjects used the time to engage in the deep thinking for which it was intended. Some used it to organize and catch up on the contents of their (disconnected) e-mail inboxes. There were also problems with participants who not
only didn't follow the rules themselves but also imposed on others who were trying to comply. As the study noted, for such programs to succeed, workers “must clearly communicate to others their availability and respect that of others.” This is a reminder that, in the office and beyond, there are two distinct sides to this question: (1) My behavior affects
my
quality of life, and (2) My behavior can affect
your
quality of life.

Many Quiet Time participants complained that the underlying premise of the pilot, a
mandatory
period for reflection, was unrealistic given that people's jobs and needs vary greatly. Indeed, one of the frequent complaints about all companywide limits on digital habits is that for some kinds of work, such as sales and customer service, e-mail and other screen applications really help get the job done, while for others, such as design and strategy, they often get in the way. Instead, individuals should be allowed to design their own rituals tailored to their specific situations. As one Quiet Time participant put it: “We should have at least four hours per day of uninterrupted time to work, and it shouldn't have to be a mandated program. People need to be more disciplined.” In other words, the impetus should come from within.