By Edo Segal
The thing I almost missed was what my own hands were doing.
I have typed for thirty years. At terminals, at keyboards, at laptops balanced on airplane tray tables at two in the morning somewhere over the Atlantic. I never once thought about the typing itself. The rhythm my fingers found when the thinking was flowing. The way my posture shifted when I was stuck. The particular quality of silence I needed to hear a problem clearly enough to ask Claude the right question.
It was invisible to me. The way water is invisible to fish.
Then I encountered Marcel Mauss, a French anthropologist who died before the first computer was assembled, and he made me see my own hands. He spent his career studying the things no
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