The 2020s are a time of immense technological uncertainty and anxiety, primarily due to frontiers such as artificial intelligence and quantum computing. To me, it feels more important than ever to develop a personal philosophy of technology.

I'm intrigued to try the approach Cal Newport proposes in Digital Minimalism. In summary:

1. Define your deeply held personal values.

2. Practise a 30-day 'digital declutter' during which you refrain from all optional online technologies.

3. After the digital declutter, slowly and systematically reintroduce only the online technologies which pass strict criteria:

   1. They support one of your deeply held personal values.

   2. They are the best way of doing something which supports that value.

   3. Their roles in your life are constrained by specific whens and hows.

This week, I planned my digital declutter experiment.

Step 1: Define your deeply held personal values

I wrote down whatever I felt my ‘deeply held personal values’ might be, cross-referenced them with an excellent list of 24 prompts from neuroscientist and author Anne-Laure Le Cunff, and then distilled them into a set of five core values.

1. Learning—it relates to personal and social growth, education, and the notion that there can be a better tomorrow.

2. Autonomy—gives us the freedom to act on what we learn, other goods, and freedoms from harm.

3. Connection—our connections with other entities are the most important things in our lives, and our connections with our environment define our experience.

4. Well-being—physical, mental, personal, and social, well-being allows us to engage meaningfully with the world and our experiences.

5. Diversity—like evolution through natural selection from random genetic mutation, differences are what allow any organisms to be greater than the sum of their parts. To me, diversity relates to resilience, perspective, creativity, and mastery.

I don’t pretend that this process was an exact science. I simply brainstormed words and then turned inward, waiting for the deeper and wiser part of me to nod in silent approval.

Once my inner sage had built the experiment’s foundation, I came up with every online or digital technology I could think of.

Newport’s advice was to ‘consider the technology optional unless its temporary removal would harm or significantly disrupt the daily operation of your professional or personal life.’

There is an important distinction here between inconvenience and ‘harm or [significant] disruption’. For example, refusing to use vulnerability scanners or join conference calls would probably at least mildly hamper my job as a cybersecurity analyst. This is significant disruption. On the other hand, writing down directions before I leave is inconvenient but Moses managed to lead the Exodus of the Israelites without directions from Waze. I can survive a month without referencing a dynamic calculation of the optimal walking path through a well-signposted city.

With Newport’s advice in mind, distinguishing between essential and nonessential technology was easier than I expected.

Essential

At all times:

• Basic utilities such as alarms and timers, phone calls, and text messages.

• Listening to music via Apple Music—I don’t own any CDs and denying this would cause incalculable emotional harm.

When I cut the nonessential from how I already use my computer, tablet, and smartphone, I found it interesting that a kind of natural daily structure emerged:

07:30–08:30

• Personal affairs such as email correspondence; managing accounts, records, and passwords; filing documents and records; ordering groceries; and booking tickets.

08:30–16:30

• Professional use.

16:30–17:30

• Studying a specific curriculum including looking things up, writing notes, drawing diagrams, saving references, etc.

• Writing and publishing via Substack.

Before stripping back to only the most basic uses, I had the impression that the constant use of numerous online technologies was not only beneficial but in fact indispensable to my professional life in particular. It appears that outside of work, I have very few strong reasons to sit in complete silence for protracted periods of time and interact with glowing rectangles of various sizes.

Optional

Newport also advised that the behaviour changes involved during a digital declutter don’t occur in a vacuum. That is to say, it’s best to find alternative uses for the huge amount of time which will be suddenly reclaimed.

I was honest with myself while writing down how I use online technologies. For any case which met Newport’s definition—removal doesn’t cause harm or significant disruption which is not just inconvenience—I wrote down a commitment to myself: a clear statement of intention.

• I will only play video games, watch TV shows, films, or videos with other people in person as a social activity.

• Instead of mindlessly surfing information sources such as blogs, Substack notes, Wikipedia, YouTube, or asking AI questions, I will read books—currently, Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami.

• Instead of reading numerous digital sources such as my Safari Reading list, Substack, e-books, audiobooks, and so on, with fragmented attention, I will read books.

• Instead of immediately looking things up online, I will write down non-urgent questions or thoughts in a notebook to look up later during my study time.

• Instead of playing whack-a-mole with instant messaging such as WhatsApp, Discord, and iMessage, I will disable all but urgent notifications and reply only at my desk in the morning.

• Instead of juggling multiple digital calendars and reminder systems, I will make a simple paper calendar in my notebook and record all personal events and reminders there.

• Instead of frequently switching between and obsessing over digital note taking software, I will use a paper notebook for study notes, to extend my working memory, and to manage tasks and responsibilities.

• Instead of using my smartphone to track habits, weight, and activity, I will leave its passive activity tracking enabled and remove the rest.

• Instead of using digital tools for personal time such as journalling and guided meditation, I will write in my notebook and meditate without aid.

Step 2: Practise a 30-day digital declutter

Now, I find myself staring down my list of personal values, clear parameters for the use of essential online technologies, and list of commitments. The next step is perhaps the most important, and most intriguing, part.

You may be familiar with the idea of a ‘digital detox’: cutting out technology or taking a break from social media for a while to give your brain a break. In this case, the key difference between a digital ‘detox’ and ‘declutter’ is in the objective. Whereas after a digital detox you may simply go back to scrolling at 96 mph and enjoy the massive dopamine rush of opening dozens of red notification bubbles, the aim of a digital declutter is to create something of a baseline.

Newport argues that while you are in the midst of how you normally use online technologies, it’s much more difficult to make honest and accurate evaluations about them. The aim of a digital declutter is to first hold technology at arm’s length before making slow and deliberate choices about exactly what is worth your time and attention, and why.

For example, I anticipate a period of difficult adjustment to picking up a book every time I’m bored rather than scrolling through YouTube on my tablet. I could very easily give myself a pass by stretching the definition of ‘harm’ or ‘significant disruption’: what if there’s a really good video that would’ve changed my life?

However, the aim of this process is to explore the ways that online technologies can actually benefit my life and the things I care about. I don’t scroll through YouTube when I’m bored because I have good reason to. I kind of just do it.

But I’m interested to see if, as it just so happens, the endless number of things I’ve always wanted to do but never seem to find the time for is actually more interesting.

If you’ve found yourself with a similar curiosity, I encourage you to copy these steps and join me in my digital declutter experiment on 1st September 2025.

Thank you for your attention.

Kind regards,
Kai Tebay

At Delphi, the oracle allegedly proclaimed that no man was wiser than Socrates. The oracle also foretold of a great chain of Internet content, a terrible machinery which churns and renders the sparks of human creativity into the dopaminergic phlogiston of the Information Age: ‘content’.

I assure you that the following is verbatim from the oracle:

Content often begins its life in the disparate communities of various niche Internet forums. The fledgeling is disseminated through the perfect filters of Reddit, Twitch, and 4chan, where it undergoes various transformations—both substantial and superficial. As the coarsest grinds of content are dislodged, they either have enough momentum to be attracted into the aggressive pull of TikTok, or they become prized relics to be hoovered up by the Internet Archive and occasional YouTube essay.

TikTok’s incredible oscillation causes the luckiest content to explode in a violent and fantastic eruption of highly contagious offshoots. During this period, it enjoys the highest concentration of split-second human attention. It’s a dazzling sight.

Having reached peak dopaminergic potential, the irradiated content slowly drifts downwards towards the gentle cradles of Instagram and Snapchat. Here its remaining brilliance may be enjoyed in the surreal blend of obnoxious icons and obnoxious-er captions.

Once the content nears the end of its lifespan, its fragile and dimming frame is collected by the warehouse conveyor belts of Facebook’s algorithm. The winter of its life is bleak. It will endure various low-quality edits, shares, and laughing-crying emojis until it is harvested completely of moisture.

The dry content bolus is ejected into the void.

Even the oracle was unable to estimate for how long these vacuous masses drift through cyberspace. They may become encased in ice, form twisted faces because of the horrors, or perhaps leave pretty digital comet trails. Nobody knows because there are none to observe them.

After seconds or aeons, the relentless many arms of Bing will find them in the void. The husks are irreverently plucked and mercilessly rehydrated with corporate Newspeak slogans and innumerable SEO hashtags. This—arguably—gives the impression of life.

Finally, the taxidermy is eaten by the joyous, bulging eyes of LinkedIn. No fluff. High impact. Engagement perpetuity.

The oracle did not speak of the Platform Formerly Known as Twitter.

Thank you for your attention.

Kind regards,
Kai Tebay

PS: Unless you have observed specific and tangible benefit from it, I encourage you to join me in deleting your LinkedIn. Get LinkedOut, if you will.

I wrote and rewrote my first post, Hello, world!, countless times. It could always have been better: sharper, wittier, defter. Evidently, I settled.

I liked to imagine that I would one day catch my mind mid-flight across the moorland view from my reclusive—but quietly stylish in a home library kind of way—study. I would set down my glass of something impressive on a big wooden desk which I would claim gave me space to think, and I would write.

The middling reception of my debut would one day fit neatly alongside the Wikipedia articles about other great works, but I would inevitably work myself into an early grave because no manuscript was ever quite good enough.

And therein lies the crux of it all: ‘good enough’. It feels arrogant to describe my fantasy: effortlessly writing something which is itself worth writing about. But I have tended to be all-or-nothing. Either I am a miraculous author whose meteoric rise is ‘genius’, or I don’t write anything at all. Either it’s perfect, or it’s not good enough.

I’ve always liked the idea of perfectionism much more as my hamartia, a moral fault line. I ought to strive for the best.

So, why am I sharing this? Beyond my fantasy of effortless and tragic perfection lie the less romantic but far more practicable conclusions of my actual experience. The trouble I’ve encountered with holding myself to the standard of unassailable perfection is that it’s not very fun.

In Hello, world!, I explained my initial intentions in publishing In Fewer Bytes and the functions it serves even if nobody reads it. Among them, I would like to reflect on one principle:

A tool against perfectionism by learning in public

This week, I would like to conduct an experiment. If you also struggle with perfectionism, I encourage you to join me.

Rather than agonising over every detail, I challenge myself to publish something which is clearly incompl

Thank you for your attention.

Kind regards,
Kai Tebay

In fewer bytes, I wish I could convey the experience of receiving the news that your loved ones survived a near-death experience and remain in critical condition, having your assets frozen when you need them the most, and responding to a cyberattack at the same time. Unfortunately, I lack the eloquence to do so.

Instead, please consider my humble assemblage of learnings:

1. ‘Be like water’. Challenging or overwhelming circumstances will arise. Take a deep breath, resist nothing, and attend to your present experience. To be like water is to expend no energy in the effortless adaptation to circumstance.

2. There is strength in acknowledging pain. Particularly during difficult times, you must endure what there is to endure. Shouldering heavy burdens in the support of others is at the heart of the human spirit, but there is neither grace nor nobility in ignoring the pain you bear.

3. Critique with compassion. In retrospect, neutral and accurate criticism is a useful way to illuminate a better path forwards. However, overzealous self-judgement erodes resilience. Like a student, treat yourself fairly and firmly, but with compassion.

Do not eat the yellow snow.

Thank you for your attention.

Kind regards,
Kai Tebay

My journey into the mouth of self-help content began with a clinical depression diagnosis in 2017. Normally, I would quote some kind of definition from a trustworthy source, close to collapse from the weight of its own acronym. Perhaps fortunately for both of us, that doesn’t seem useful here.

To me, the diagnosis meant several things: a new label with which to describe or define my identity, the suspicion that I wouldn’t have fared well in Victorian England, and a tide of conversations with clinicians whose names were haunted by dashes, dots, and capital letters. With a little help from the magic of prescribed drugs and Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), I was also instilled with the unquestionable genius of SNAP!’s 1990 hit single:

I’ve got the power!

While I have neither the expertise nor the inclination to comment on the efficacy of CBT beyond my own experience, I can say for certain that I was deeply influenced by the methods and approach which underpin it. So much so, in fact, that pursuing an understanding of its assumptions triggered an ironic shift in my academic course: from a degree in psychology to a degree in philosophy.

As I saw success in my treatment and became captivated by my introduction to cognitive psychology and philosophy of science, the virtuous cycle propelled me from my pit of Tartarus into the real world of walks in nature, the Eatwell plate, and the risk profiles of passive investment strategies. However, amidst the cacophony of my undergraduate intellectual frontier, I failed to recognise that I had also become increasingly embedded in an online culture of productivity glorification.

‘I’ve got the power’ to challenge my internal monologue and reframe self-criticism in a compassionate and realistic way. But my YouTube feed also has two videos about ‘3 ways you’re not maximising your potential’. If I want to help myself, I should probably watch those too, right?

‘I’ve got the power’ to exercise—resistance three times per week—maintain a routine, and eat my greens. But Reddit also has a wiki stocked with evidence-based training programmes and recommended spreadsheets to calculate optimal work per repetition.

‘I’ve got the power’ to connect with friends and family, and give to charity. But I just saw a New York Times Best Seller about the best way to create and maintain relationships.

I started lifting weights, recording my mood every day, reading impressive books with black covers, and learning about the risk profiles of passive investment strategies. Although I still haven’t finished The Brothers Karamazov, I think these were helpful things. I gained weight and self-confidence, developed a kinder understanding of myself and other people, and learned unusual words such as ‘extricate’ and ‘nostrum’. For most intents and purposes, my treatment and self-help was a spectacular success. The trouble—I realised as I reached tropospheric terminal velocity on my way back down to Earth—was the muddy clickbait puddle I found myself standing in.

I don’t aim to snub the well-intentioned authors of such content—often people whom I respect and admire. The anatomy of self-help titles in the 2020s is one born from algorithmic success. Listicles work. It seems fair and even admirable that someone might try to share the ‘best’ method or form of something, that it might benefit someone else. The trouble is the sum of countless algorithmically optimised self-help arms reaching for your attention simultaneously. Implicit in every ‘best’, ‘maximise’, or ‘5 ways to’ title is the anxiety of the gap it plugs.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, a superlative adjective or adverb is one which ‘express[es] the highest or a very high degree of a quality’.

The insidious application of this grammatical marvel is best demonstrated by example. Assume the following:

1. I’m studying for an exam.

2. I want to study as quickly as possible.

You might say that ‘active recall is a fast way to study for an exam’. If you’re right, I would probably be quite interested.

Or, you might say that ‘active recall is the fastest way to study for an exam’. If you’re right, I’d be very interested. Furthermore, I’d be really missing out if I didn’t listen to whatever you have to say about active recall. Superlatives are very effective because they leave no room for interpretation: it is simply the best version of that thing.

My experience of self-help content, from books to videos and listicles, has been one of constantly attending to deficiency. If I’m not already practising the method or drinking the Kool-Aid, a YouTube video or listicle purporting the best version of something I care about feels drastically more compelling. It ignites my interest but it also points to the distance I haven’t spanned yet, decrying that ‘surely you’re not content with that?’

Perhaps even more so are the titles which keep the secret until the end: ‘the fastest way to study for an exam’. I could already be using the fastest method but I can’t even be sure. In fact, you could be thoroughly wrong but it would still seem worth my time—just to check. Multiply this effect by the number of eye-gouging thumbnails per second in a regular scroll session and you’ll have me hooked on self-help.

After several years of brainmaxxing to achieve an acceptable congruence with my black dog—and deleting all my social media accounts—I once again come face to face with the unquestionable genius of SNAP!’s 1990 hit single:

I’ve got the power!

‘I’ve got the power’ to disengage with self-help content. It really was as simple as not looking at my phone but I actually found that quite difficult. Better than disengagement, I would like to champion a style of content characterised by lack of certainty. I don’t have insights to share. I don't know the best or the fastest or the top five ways. I hope that In Fewer Bytes can encourage honesty and curiosity in your life every week.

It’s just a drop in the vast ocean of the internet, but I’m tired of relentless advertising. I’m tired of blog posts stretched mercilessly over new two hundred-page best sellers like animal skin drums. I’m tired of self-help content.

If you want to unlock your money’s potential, don’t forget to download my free e-book, 5 Ways to Success: Risk Profiles for Passive Investment Strategies.

Thank you for your attention.

Kind regards,
Kai Tebay

This week, I assumed that school-level maths was beneath me. I got stuck on the first question and couldn’t even use fractions. It helped me to relearn the value and joy of humility.

After flying through the previous week on the momentum of having passed the SSCP exam, I consulted my new OSSU Computer Science curriculum with glee. ‘Systematic Program Design’, ‘Class-based Program Design’, ‘Programming Languages, Part A–C’, the list continues. The only prerequisite is ‘Pre-College Math’. No problem: I did GCSE Maths and Further Maths, and I sat in on some A-Level lessons.

Pre-College Math: Algebra, Geometry, Trigonometry, etc. Try the final tests and go over any gaps. Cool.

One chef makes 5/8 of a pound of spaghetti every hour, while another chef makes 3/4 of a pound of spaghetti every hour. If these chefs work together, how long will it take them to make 8/9 of a pound of spaghetti?

To give you an idea of how I fared, here is my ‘answer’ page:

My mathematical mind, resting slothfully on its GCSE-certificate laurels, was suddenly plunged into the ice water of secondary school memes.

If a car is travelling at 60 mph with three passengers, the speed of light is a thing which exists, and Pedro throws an equilateral triangle out of the window, how tall is my dog?

I assumed that the school-level maths would be easy—beneath me, even—but I couldn’t even remember how to solve fractions. I managed to get about halfway but it wasn’t until my extremely patient friend, studying PhD Mathematics at the University of Cambridge, explained it to me step-by-step that I finally understood the answer. I felt humbled by the experience, swallowed my pride, and followed the OSSU’s advice by beginning again with ‘Arithmetic #1: Introduction to Numbers’.

In 1946, my Nana was four years old in a small classroom somewhere in England, learning about the number line. When the teacher introduced the symbol ‘1’, called ‘one’, Nana asked, ‘what is one?’

Unfortunately, her teacher scolded her for being naughty. Apparently, questions are disruptive in a classroom. Unfortunately for her teacher—or rather, fortunately for any teacher worth their salt—Nana was an insatiably curious person.

Seventy-nine years later as I sat, pencil in hand and notebook at the ready, watching a number line apparate on the glowing rectangle before me, I had the exact same question.

‘Now, you might ask what numbers are’, says my YouTube tutor.

‘Yes’, I think.

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure whether anyone knows, but this is how we write them’, he says.

‘Damn’, I think.

What followed was the most interesting recap of mathematical rudiments I’ve ever encountered. To be fair, it’s probably the only detailed recap of mathematical rudiments I’ve ever encountered, and the content wasn’t particularly novel:

1. ‘Digits’ are individual symbols used to represent numbers.

2. ‘Numerals’ are written combinations of digits.

3. ‘Positional notation’, or ‘place value’, is a numeral system whereby numerical value is represented by digits and their places in relation to one another.

4. We write numbers in ‘word form’—e.g. ‘one, two, three’—and ‘standard form’—e.g. ‘1, 2, 3’.

5. ‘Inequality’ is represented by the ‘lesser-than’ and ‘greater-than’ symbols: ‘<’ and ‘>’, respectively. The crocodile eats the bigger number.

6. The equals sign, ‘=’, is also a thing.

To me, the most interesting part wasn’t so much the content but rather the perspective with which I approached it. For instance, we use ten digits, ‘0–9’, perhaps because we tend to have ten fingers to count with, but what if we only had two, like binary numbers, or eighteen?

What about Braille?

Would I be thinking about the same numbers if I were reading and writing them using a different numeral system?

What is ‘one’?

By practising humility and returning to the very basics with an open mind, I indeed recapped school-level maths, but I left with a deeper understanding and a richer conceptual context. I left with questions I’ve barely thought about and can hardly answer. I’m excited to learn about addition and subtraction this week.

If you think you know something, I encourage you to try explaining it as simply as you can. You might be surprised.

Thank you for your attention.

Kind regards,
Kai Tebay

This week, I passed the Systems Security Certified Professional (SSCP) exam. It was hard. I would like to thank primary school PE teachers, Bear Grylls, and my Ma: you taught me a vital lesson.

SSCP is an information security certification which is awarded by the exceptionally named International Information Systems Security Certification Consortium (ISC2). ISC ‘squared’ is a non-profit organisation with an international membership of over 600,000 people, according to Wikipedia, and introduced a premier information security certification in 1994. It’s called CISSP. It’s very good, although people like to have intense online debates about its necessity. I will spare you the acronym.

SSCP requires one year of experience, a professional endorsement from a current ISC2 member, and successful completion of a three-hour exam. It is designed with technical professionals in mind: network engineers, IT administrators, and IT security operations professionals like me.

I recently moved house in the blistering sun while I had heatstroke. It involved six flights of stairs, a washing machine, and various states of delirium. When all was said and done, the iconic red can of Coca-Cola I opened made an obnoxiously loud hiss. As I ingested—wide-eyed and manic—potentially thousands of horrible things in the delicious icy brown liquid, I didn’t care. Immediately, I understood all the adverts; I would describe the experience as transcendental refreshment.

Passing the SSCP exam felt something like that.

I studied hard for just under three months using the official textbook and online self-paced training. I found cryptography and risk the most difficult topics. Network security wasn’t as difficult as I expected. Above all else, I learned or relearned the valuable lesson that consistency always wins.

Originally, I thought of relating this lesson to a rehashed summary of James Clear’s Atomic Habits. Habits are the compound interest of life. Behaviour change starts with identity. Positive feedback loops and virtuous cycles. However, I realised that I had been taught this lesson all my life. ‘Slow and steady wins the race’ is the mantra of primary school PE teachers and their platoons of six-year-olds everywhere on Sports Day. ‘Eat little and often’ advised ex–SAS survival expert Bear Grylls—likely after doing naked push-ups and drinking his own urine. ‘Don’t leave your homework until the last minute’ recited my Ma as I ignored her advice for the ninety-sixth time. Unsurprisingly, Ma was right and now I am joining them.

On several occasions, I sat down with my iced latte, LoFi for Wizards playlist, and attempted to brute-force my way through six hours of dense technical content. I no longer have access to show you the statistics, but my recall accuracy for the topics I covered during these sprints was measurably lower than those I studied in bite-sized chunks. Consequently, my study pattern began to gradually shift towards frequent short bursts rather than protracted sprints.

I found that not only were small, consistent steps more effective, they were energising where sprints were exhausting. Towards the end of nearly three months of increasingly consistent learning, I found that I was no longer cracking the whip and procrastinating. I began looking forward to learning about something I find interesting for twenty minutes.

In fact, passing the SSCP exam had an element of slight bitterness because it felt as though my twenty-minute studies had reached their conclusion. Thankfully, I remain in motion along this plane. Reflecting on the incredible power of consistency—the tortoise does indeed win the race—and the joy of learning has illuminated new avenues for me to explore and I couldn’t be more excited.

In the tabula rasa post-SSCP exam world, I consulted my inner compass. It’s 2025 and I’m 25. When I’m 50 in 2050, what kind of man do I hope to be?

Besides the more private answers, I hope to be the kind of professional who is professionally curious; someone who has pursued and continues to pursue the mastery of his craft and its potential to better the world around him. As far as I can currently see, to me that means broadly and deeply understanding the tools, methods, and matter of computing, from binary code to emerging research. Therefore, I am starting with the fundamentals.

Thanks to the Information Age’s wonder of the world—the internet—I am privileged to access a wealth of free online learning resources from world-class institutions. Ahead of computer science, mathematics seems like the best place to start. I intend to explore the strange world of numbers via the Open Source Society University (OSSU)—a 501(c)3 non-profit with comprehensive curricula across mathematics, data science, bioinformatics, and computer science. To keep things fresh, fun, and to accommodate my often-spontaneous natural curiosity, I may intersperse the OSSU topics with my long-term favourites: Crash Course and Kurzgesagt. If you have any suggestions, please let me know via a comment or email reply.

I look forward to seeing you next week in arithmetic.

Thank you for your attention.

Kind regards,
Kai Tebay

In the late nineteenth century, French bibliophile Octave Uzanne heralded The End of Books. His thesis was simple: listening is easier than reading so phonographs would eventually dominate books. On the one hand, here you are reading this. On the other, I listened to The End of Books while I unloaded the dishwasher. I would like to explore Uzanne’s anxiety, a clever cryptographic technique, and how they relate to looming threats to the integrity of our expressions.

Consider a time when railways, electricity, and telegraphs were creating global connections on a seemingly-fantastical scale. Gargantuan international markets reared their heads, imperial expansion steamrolled the Earth and its peoples, and rapid modernisation deepened global inequalities. Consider then the baffled reactions of Scientific American staff when Thomas Edison presented his 1877 phonograph—those trumpet-looking things which later became gramophones and then record players.

Mr. Thomas A. Edison recently came into this office, placed a little machine on our desk, turned a crank, and the machine inquired as to our health, asked how we liked the phonograph, informed us that it was very well, and bid us a cordial good night.
—Library of Congress

Uzanne argued that continuous progress in emerging technologies would make phonographic devices smaller and smaller until they could fit in our pockets or sit beside us at the dining table. Furthermore, the engineering would become so precise that phonographs could faithfully record and emit lifelike sound. Edison proposed that soon you could keep a ‘Family Record’ of sayings and remarks throughout generations, record your teacher and listen to their explanations at a later date, or catch up on public lectures, interviews, or announcements in your own time.

Because reading is a taxing process and we tend to choose the path of least resistance, demand would push us towards a market where authors are expert narrators. Oration—not writing—would be prized, and laborious books would fall from favour.

I can’t say whether I would have sided with the Bibliophile or echoed the ‘astonished "oh’s!" ironical "ah’s!" [or] doubtful “eh! eh’s!”’—Scribner’s Magazine, 1894—but today I think that Uzanne’s literary-doomsaying was justified and surprisingly prescient.

Perhaps unlike Uzanne, I need some time to be convinced of the literal ‘End of Books’. So far, it has turned out that we enjoy multimodal media; I recommend The Public Domain Review’s excellent essay.

Nevertheless, I’m fascinated by the anxiety and ideas which underpinned his prediction. In a world where authors are ‘narrators’, journalists are ‘announcers’, and watch-like devices of not more than five square inches produce perfect recordings while you enjoy landscape views or other activities, I feel a distinctly Orwellian anxiety about what might be lost. Or what might be endangered.

The author will become his own publisher. To avoid imitations and counterfeits he will be obliged, first of all, to go to the Patent-Office, there to deposit his voice, and register its lowest and highest notes, giving all the counter-hearings necessary for the recognition of any imitation of his deposit.
—The End of Books

There are two elements I would like to put aside for the moment. Firstly, the notion of ‘depositing’ your voice feels horrible—at least to me. It seems to say ‘roll up! Roll up! Today is DNA, tomorrow is fingerprints, and retina scans are every other Tuesday!’ Secondly, Uzanne proposes that the narrator would own the patent, hold the voice-containing-cylinders, and sell the recordings themself. Who owns, safeguards, and has access to the voice data are important questions that I would be remiss to ignore.

There is one element I would like to focus on: the integrity that these voice deposits aim to ensure.

We may define integrity variously. In moral terms, we might say that integrity relates to how honest and consistent we are with respect to our principles. When describing a concept or argument, we might say that integrity relates to its wholeness or completion. We might comment on the structural or internal integrity of a building.

In the field of information security, integrity is a primary concern. It’s one of the triumvirate powers of the cool-sounding ‘CIA triad’ of confidentiality, integrity, and availability. Likewise, it features in the—less cool-sounding—CIANA+PS mnemonic. Most frequently, the following definition from the USA National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) is used:

Guarding against improper information modification or destruction, and includes ensuring information non-repudiation and authenticity.
—NIST Computer Security Resource Center

Integrity is important in information security because safeguarding your credit card details, address, or medical history from being tampered with is key to safeguarding you from financial fraud, identity theft, or other crimes. Ensuring the integrity of your data or cyber activities also means that you can’t deny that they’re yours, or that a digital contract you signed is an authentic and binding artefact.

Particularly when confronted with jargon and acronyms, concepts such as integrity can feel lofty. However, I think the NIST definition belies deeply human elements.

It seems to me that once concocted, we tend to care about the integrity of our expressions. There is a kind of unfairness in the paint-splattered artist watching as their composition is cropped to fit a smaller frame, or the jet-lagged journalist explaining that the AI summary was incorrect, or the so-called friend who steals your joke but retells it poorly. There is a kind of unfairness in the prospect of our expressions being altered or presented in an incomplete form.

In its simplest everyday form, the integrity of information security is often the business of ensuring that individual data packets, network endpoints, and other basic components are what they are meant to be. That is to say that when you send an email or upload a presentation, each link in the chain of communication between your computer and the destination can use hash functions to look at the proverbial wax seal on the envelope of data and confirm that it hasn’t been tampered with. If the sender has published a digital certificate—much like a cryptographic patent—then each computer can confirm that the message is intact and that its seal matches the emblem of its sender. Not only can we guarantee the integrity of the data but also that it was sent from the right place.

On a grander scale, the proliferation of these data-checking functions has allowed us to develop a new common cryptographic good: Public Key Infrastructure (PKI). Although you may not be familiar with it by name, this ingenious layer below the surface allows your web browser to trust that the websites it loads aren’t fakes—or alert you if they might be. When you request a connection, the computers involved can evaluate wax seals and compare their emblems against a public registry to verify their claims. It happens so quickly that you don’t even notice.

In a future where phonographic technology might run rampant and dissolve trust, Uzanne imagined authors depositing their voices to register public patents so that listeners might verify the integrity and authenticity of their expressions. Today, an often-unknown infrastructure of public cryptographic certificates aims to secure the same principles every day.

Clearly, there may be an important difference between the systematisation of human voices and the mathematical assuredness of our silent cyberspace. Particularly so, when considering the two points I set aside: the discomfort of voice deposits and the questions of who owns, safeguards, and has access to the data. I’m not sure where that leaves our modern communications.

Regardless, I find it interesting that what first appears as a Nineteen Eighty-Four hedging against The End of Books actually underpins our digital lives. Beneath every new login, post, and DM is a silent mathematical battle for the integrity of human expression.

Will ChatGPT and DeepSeek drive a new era of business for the patent office? Food for thought.

If you would prefer, an AI-generated voice can read you this essay in the Substack app.

Thank you for your attention.

Kind regards,
Kai Tebay

As a test program, it serves several functions: showing the form of a programming language; ensuring that prerequisites are met; and demonstrating the programmer’s understanding. What follows in their journey tends to be a long road of curiosity, iteration, experimentation, success, and failure.

With much the same dryness as source code—that’s a programming joke—and ideally the same occasional bizarre elegance, both this first post and blog aim to share an analogous journey.

My love of computers, learning, and a 2001 medieval point-and-click game led me to a career in cybersecurity. It’s a long story for another day. Suffice to say, I am a deeply curious person and I spend a lot of my time learning about the overflowing list of topics I find interesting.

This blog is a place to share my field notes—explanations, observations, and experiments. I’m currently studying for my next certification, the ISC2 ‘Systems Security Certified Professional’ (SSCP), so the topics are equally as likely to be technical as they are non-technical.

Initially, I intend to publish one post every Monday. Like a test program, this blog serves several functions even if nobody ever reads it:

1. A mechanism to learn by explanation

2. An educational archive

3. A source of accountability

4. A tool against perfectionism by learning in public

Beyond those intrinsic functions, my greatest hope is to find and cultivate a community. If you like to read, if you are interested in cybersecurity, humane technology, or mindful productivity, or if you enjoy learning new things, please consider subscribing for free.

My name is Kai Tebay and this is my blog: In Fewer Bytes.

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