Somewhere around 1990, the tap was turned on.

For previous generations, life was shaped by limits. The shop closed. Night came. The letter took three days, and for long stretches you were simply out of reach. Then abundance arrived: too much choice, too many channels, too many messages, too much availability. The old limits quietly disappeared. We are the first to live on the far side of that threshold, and we are discovering that a human being is not built for infinity, but for proportion.

Overwhelm is horrible.

The Joy of Analogue is a book I worked on this summer about reclaiming proportion, and about what we gain when we do: simplicity, calm and health.

Digital technology represents information in separate units: yes/no; 0/1; off/on. But life is continuous, gradual, and infinitely variable. Digital technology helps us process the world; analogue experiences help us inhabit it. The former is so easily and terribly addictive. The latter are always restorative.

Why does a sharpened pencil satisfy in a way that a thousand frictionless swipes do not? Why does the effort of gardening turn out not to be the price of pleasure, but often the pleasure itself? Why does a hike SO lift the heart….?

This is not an argument against the modern world, which is a marvel. Nobody is asked to delete an app, renounce a device, or move to a cottage without electricity. The happy secret is that everything praised here is still exactly where you left it: free, largely un-monetised, silent, and wanting absolutely nothing from you.

Amazon kindle. Instant. Budget. Not a word wasted.

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