The Anomie of the Influencer: Selfhood in the Attention Economy

Durkheim warned us, in the chilly prose of 19th-century sociology, that when a society loses its moral framework—its shared norms, its collective sense of purpose—individuals suffer. They become unmoored. He called this condition anomie: a state of normlessness, where the social scripts we rely on for meaning dissolve. Now fast-forward to today, where the influencer—that curious avatar of hyper-visibility and curated intimacy—stands at the bleeding edge of this crisis.

Durkheim Meets the Algorithm

Influencers are not simply entrepreneurs of self; they are symptoms. In a world where meaning is increasingly extracted through metrics, they embody a terrifying paradox: total social presence and profound personal instability. Their job is to exist, perform, and be consumed—always.

For Durkheim, stable societies produce stable selves. But the influencer’s society is a digital marketplace in permanent flux. Trends shift hourly. Algorithms tweak behavior with opaque indifference. Audience moods swing like weather. There is no stable "we" to belong to, only a crowd to please. In this context, selfhood becomes a hustle, and identity is a brand under constant threat of irrelevance.

The Perils of Curated Intimacy

Influencers are paid to be relatable, which is another way of saying they are paid to simulate friendship. This creates a form of professionalized vulnerability: confessional captions, raw honesty, mental health check-ins—but on schedule, with lighting. The emotional labor of being "authentic" online, day after day, fractures the boundary between self and performance.

Anomie creeps in here, disguised as freedom. With no clear boundary between work and life, or public and private, the influencer loses the moral anchors Durkheim believed were essential. The more their content is validated by likes and comments, the more the "real" self becomes uncertain—a ghost behind the engagement metrics.

Suicide and Spectacle

Durkheim's Suicide identified different types, including anomic suicide, caused by social instability and sudden dislocation. Today, we see modern echoes: influencer burnout, breakdowns livestreamed, tragic deaths announced via Notes App screenshots. These are not just personal tragedies—they are structural symptoms. A society that demands constant exposure without offering collective support breeds this kind of psychic erosion.

The Audience is the Institution

For the influencer, there is no school, church, or workplace to confer social legitimacy. There is only the audience. And that audience is fickle, fragmented, and algorithmically filtered. Praise one day, backlash the next. Parasocial love turns into public execution with terrifying ease.

Durkheim taught that we become who we are through others. But what happens when those "others" are invisible, numerical, and largely unknown? When validation is externalized into a dashboard, and community is abstracted into followers, the self risks dissolving entirely.

Can Solidarity Be Streamed?

There are flickers of resistance: creator unions, digital sabbaticals, collective calls for better mental health support. But these are patchwork solutions to a deeper wound. What the influencer reveals is not just the fragility of individual identity in the attention economy, but the fragility of the society that made them necessary in the first place.

Durkheim's ghost hovers over every selfie. His lesson is clear: without shared meaning, without rituals that bind us beyond the market, we unravel. The influencer is not the disease, but the fever dream of a culture sick with loneliness and spectacle.

Ricoeur and Gadamer: Horizons in Hermeneutics

Both Paul Ricoeur and Hans-Georg Gadamer are central figures in 20th-century hermeneutics. While they share many concerns—language, tradition, and interpretation—they each develop a distinctive understanding of the concept of horizon. For Gadamer, horizon reflects the fusion of historical perspectives in dialogue, while for Ricoeur it emphasizes distanciation, narrative, and the plurality of meaning. Comparing the two sheds light on how hermeneutics negotiates the tension between tradition and critique.

Gadamer: The Fusion of Horizons

In Truth and Method, Gadamer defines horizon as the range of vision available from a particular standpoint, shaped by history, culture, and language. Understanding is achieved not by escaping one’s horizon but by allowing it to fuse with that of the text or the other person.

This fusion of horizons is a dialogical process: both the interpreter and the text (or tradition) bring their historically situated horizons into conversation. Gadamer stresses openness and receptivity, suggesting that interpretation is not about mastering a text but allowing oneself to be addressed by it.

Ricoeur: Distanciation and the Horizon of the Text

Ricoeur accepts Gadamer’s emphasis on history and tradition but adds a critical dimension. For him, the text creates its own horizon, distinct from both its author’s intent and the reader’s context. Through distanciation, a text gains autonomy—it can outlive its original setting and project new worlds of meaning.

While Gadamer emphasizes dialogue with tradition, Ricoeur insists on the productive distance between text and reader. Horizons are not simply fused but mediated through interpretation, refiguration, and narrative Appropriation.

Horizon and Narrative

For Ricoeur, horizons unfold especially through narrative. Stories configure time, memory, and identity in ways that expand the horizon of understanding. A narrative projects a possible world into which readers can enter, reconfiguring their self-understanding. In this sense, Ricoeur’s horizon is less about historical continuity (as in Gadamer) and more about the opening of possibilities through imagination and storytelling.

Critique vs. Tradition

The difference between Gadamer and Ricoeur also lies in their stance toward critique. Gadamer privileges continuity with tradition and the authority of the past, while Ricoeur insists that interpretation must pass through a hermeneutics of suspicion—Marx, Freud, and Nietzsche—to expose hidden distortions. Ricoeur’s horizon is therefore not only a space of dialogue but also of critical distance, where meaning is re-appropriated after suspicion.

Convergence: Openness to the Other

Despite their differences, both thinkers agree that hermeneutics is an ethic of openness. Gadamer’s fusion of horizons requires humility before tradition, while Ricoeur’s horizon of the text demands receptivity to meanings beyond one’s immediate grasp. Both approaches resist reductionism and affirm interpretation as an unending process of dialogue and reconfiguration.

Peter Berger and the Sociology of Religion: Between Sacred Canopy and Pluralism

For Peter Berger, religion was never simply about private belief or abstract theology. It was first and foremost a social phenomenon — something people create, maintain, and transmit. In his influential book The Sacred Canopy (1967), Berger argued that religion functions as a “world-building” enterprise. Societies construct systems of meaning that help individuals navigate life, and religion is the most powerful of these systems.

Religion, in this sense, provides what Berger called nomos — an overarching order that makes the world coherent and livable. Without such a canopy of meaning, existence can feel chaotic and absurd. Through myths, rituals, and institutions, religion projects human meanings onto the cosmos and then reflects them back as if they were objective and eternal.

The Sacred Canopy

Berger’s metaphor of the “sacred canopy” captures this dynamic vividly. Religion offers shelter from existential uncertainty by rooting human life in a transcendent order. When people marry, grieve, or celebrate, they often do so within a framework of religious meaning that affirms the legitimacy of their actions. The canopy does not eliminate suffering or chaos, but it frames them within a larger story that makes them bearable.

Yet, because the canopy is socially constructed, it is always vulnerable. History shows that when competing worldviews arise — whether through modernization, scientific advances, or cultural diversity — the canopy can fray. This fragility became one of Berger’s lifelong preoccupations.

Secularization and Its Limits

In the mid-20th century, Berger was one of the leading proponents of the secularization thesis — the idea that modernity inevitably erodes religion. As societies become more rational, bureaucratic, and scientific, religion’s explanatory power weakens. For a time, Berger believed this trajectory was universal.

But in later decades he famously revised his position. Observing the resurgence of evangelical Christianity in the United States, the vitality of Islam globally, and the persistence of religious traditions in much of the world, Berger concluded that the secularization thesis was “essentially mistaken.” Modernity, he realized, does not destroy religion so much as pluralize it.

Pluralism and Choice

This shift led Berger to a new emphasis on religious pluralism. In modern societies, individuals encounter not one sacred canopy but many. No worldview can monopolize legitimacy. This creates a situation Berger called “heretical imperative” — the unavoidable necessity of choice. People must decide, consciously or unconsciously, which faith, if any, to embrace.

Pluralism destabilizes the taken-for-granted authority of religion, but it also democratizes it. Faith becomes less about inherited tradition and more about personal commitment. For Berger, this was both a challenge and an opportunity: religion loses its unquestioned dominance but gains new vitality as a matter of free conviction.

Berger’s Enduring Relevance

Berger’s view of religion remains strikingly useful today. His image of the sacred canopy explains why religion continues to provide comfort and coherence in times of crisis. His analysis of pluralism helps us understand why religious life in modernity is so fragmented and contested. And his self-correction on secularization models intellectual humility in the face of changing realities.

At the same time, Berger never abandoned the conviction that religion speaks to something deeply human: the longing for order, meaning, and transcendence. Even if canopies are constructed, they respond to a genuine existential need. In this, his sociology remains open to mystery without surrendering to dogma.

In summary, Peter Berger’s sociology of religion challenges us to see faith not only as a matter of theology but as a vital social process. Religion builds worlds, sustains meaning, and adapts in the face of modern pluralism. Whether one is religious or not, Berger’s insights illuminate how the sacred continues to shape human existence.

See also:

Religion in the Modern Age: Peter Berger on Pluralistic Faith

Seeing Through the Social Lens: Peter Berger’s Sociological Perspective

After Walter Benjamin: The Afterlife of a Fragmented Thinker

Walter Benjamin died in 1940, on the edge of Europe and of history, carrying a briefcase that, according to legend, contained the manuscript he most cherished. What remained of his life was a scattering of fragments — essays, aphorisms, letters — yet these fragments became seeds. From them grew entire fields: cultural studies, media theory, literary criticism, political theology. Benjamin’s work did not end with his death; it began its afterlife.

A Philosophy of Afterlife

Benjamin himself had a word for this process: Fortleben, “afterlife.” In “The Task of the Translator,” he wrote that every text has an afterlife through which its truth continues to unfold in new languages and epochs. His own writings have followed this path. They refuse to rest, translating themselves across generations and disciplines — from philosophy to film theory, from theology to Marxism, from literature to architecture.

In the 1940s and ’50s, Benjamin’s close friends — Theodor Adorno, Hannah Arendt, Gershom Scholem — worked to preserve and publish his writings. Adorno’s Prisms and Negative Dialectics bear his unmistakable influence: the idea that critique must illuminate the fractures of culture, not conceal them. Arendt edited and introduced his essays to the English-speaking world, shaping him into a moral witness to Europe’s catastrophe. Scholem read him as a secular Kabbalist, a mystic of history who replaced divine redemption with messianic moments of awakening.

From Frankfurt to Postmodernity

By the 1960s, Benjamin had become the hidden ancestor of the New Left and the cultural avant-garde. The Frankfurt School carried forward his conviction that culture is both a symptom and a battlefield of ideology. Later thinkers — Foucault, Derrida, Barthes — found in his fragments a prefiguration of their own concerns: power, language, textuality, and the instability of meaning.

In film theory, his essay on reproducibility anticipated the politics of mass media and the psychology of the image. In architecture and urban studies, The Arcades Project inspired a new reading of the city as palimpsest. In theology, he was rediscovered as the prophet of a “weak messianism” — the hope that redemption flickers within history itself, not beyond it.

A Living Ruin

What makes Benjamin continually contemporary is not just his subjects — art, technology, memory — but his form. His unfinished, collaged, and elliptical style mirrors the modern condition he analyzed. To read him is to experience thinking in fragments, flashes, and constellations — thought that refuses to close.

He remains, as Susan Sontag once wrote, “the patron saint of all collectors of the impure.” His writings remind us that impurity — the crossing of theology and politics, philosophy and literature — is not a weakness but a method: the only way to think truthfully in a broken world.

Benjamin’s afterlife is, fittingly, infinite. Each generation rediscovers him not as a monument to be admired but as a companion in crisis. He teaches that thinking is a form of hope — that even in ruins, the work of understanding continues.

More on Benjamin:

The Language of the World: Walter Benjamin’s Early Metaphysics

Benjamin's Criticism as Creation

Benjamin's Baroque Vision: Allegory and the Ruins of Meaning

Walter Benjamin's City: Baudelaire, the Flâneur, and the Shock of Modernity

Benjamin's Aura and the Machine: Art in the Age of Reproduction

Benjamin's Storyteller and the End of Experience

Globalization from Below: The Other Side of the Map

When people say "globalization," they usually mean something like Amazon, NATO, or Taylor Swift's world tour. That is, power from above: trade deals, military alliances, viral content. But there's another current, messier and more intimate, often overlooked by analysts and politicians alike. Call it globalization from below.

Coined by scholars and activists in the Global South, "globalization from below" describes the grassroots, everyday practices through which people navigate and resist global structures. It’s how street vendors in Lagos adapt to currency fluctuations caused by IMF policy. How undocumented migrants in Paris build underground economies and care networks. How Indigenous communities in the Amazon use smartphones and satellite data to protect their land from multinational extractivism. It is the global without the globe—localized, embodied, bottom-up.

The Infrastructure of Improvisation

Unlike the top-down architecture of neoliberal globalization—governed by banks, tech platforms, and treaties—globalization from below is powered by informal labor, social networks, and tactical adaptability. Its infrastructure is not made of servers and cables, but of hustle, kinship, and Whatsapp groups.

You see it in the remittance economies that sustain entire villages. In diasporic fashion styles that remix tradition and pop. In border towns where people live transnational lives with no passport. It is what anthropologist Aihwa Ong might call "flexible citizenship" applied to survival.

These practices are often invisible to economists but deeply visible to those living them. They form what sociologist Saskia Sassen called "counter-geographies of globalization": spaces where the marginalized forge global connections not in spite of their exclusion, but because of it.

Resistance, Not Just Resilience

It would be a mistake to romanticize this. Globalization from below is born from necessity, not choice. It emerges from structural violence—from austerity, displacement, climate collapse. But it is also a site of resistance. It shows that even within oppressive systems, people find ways to create solidarity, autonomy, meaning.

Think of the Zapatistas, who in 1994 declared their own autonomous zones in response to NAFTA. Or the global network of climate justice movements led by youth, farmers, and Indigenous activists. These are not just reactions; they are alternative visions of the global.

Rethinking the Global

What would it mean to take globalization from below seriously—not just as coping mechanism, but as epistemology? As a way of knowing the world that starts not from capitals, but from margins?

It means recognizing that modernity doesn’t only come from the West. That networks don’t only run through Silicon Valley. That global power is not just about scale, but about intimacy: the slow solidarities of mutual aid, the encrypted conversations of exiles, the art of getting by.

In a moment when the dominant order of globalization seems to be collapsing under its own contradictions—war, pandemics, climate crisis—it is worth turning our gaze downward. Not as an act of pity, but of learning.

Because maybe the future is not something that will trickle down from G7 summits or AI labs. Maybe it's already being quietly built in shipping containers, WhatsApp threads, and protest camps.

From below.

See also:

Carry-On Selves: How Transnational Identities Repack the Idea of Home

Fredric Jameson and Walter Benjamin: The Politics of Memory in Modernity

Few intellectual pairings illuminate the modern experience of time more profoundly than Walter Benjamin and Fredric Jameson. Though separated by half a century, both grappled with the same problem: how to think historically in an age that seems to dissolve history itself. Benjamin, writing amid the rise of fascism and mechanical reproduction, and Jameson, diagnosing the postmodern consumer culture of late capitalism, each confront the commodification of memory — and yet they do so from opposite ends of modernity’s long arc.

Memory and the Aura

Benjamin’s essay The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction (1936) begins with a paradox: technology democratizes art even as it drains it of its aura—that unique presence rooted in time and place. Reproduction frees art from ritual and distance, but at the cost of historical depth. The result is a world of images detached from their origins, circulating endlessly in the marketplace. For Benjamin, this loss of aura mirrors a broader political danger: the masses’ fascination with spectacle, which allows fascism to aestheticize politics rather than politicize art.

The Waning of Affect and the Nostalgia Mode

Jameson’s Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism (1991) returns to a world that has completed the process Benjamin first described. If Benjamin mourned the loss of aura, Jameson observes a world that has forgotten aura ever existed. The postmodern subject, he writes, lives amid the waning of affect—a condition where emotion, depth, and authenticity have flattened into style. In this culture, history survives only as quotation or design: the “nostalgia mode” that recycles fragments of the past without belief in its reality. Where Benjamin’s reproduction eroded the singular work of art, Jameson’s postmodernism erases the very possibility of historical consciousness.

History as Redemption vs. History as Totality

The difference between them lies in their philosophical response to this crisis. Benjamin, steeped in messianic Marxism, seeks redemption in the past itself. His famous angel of history looks backward, witnessing progress as catastrophe, yet yearning to redeem the victims buried beneath it. Jameson, a dialectical materialist, looks not backward but outward—to totality. For him, history is not to be redeemed but reconstructed as a system of relations; the task of criticism is to “map” the structures of late capitalism so that collective agency might reemerge. Benjamin’s temporality is theological and interruptive; Jameson’s is systemic and secular.

The Commodity as Memory Machine

Yet the two converge in one crucial insight: under capitalism, memory becomes a commodity form. Benjamin glimpsed it in the cinematic reproduction of images, where collective dreams were turned into collective distraction. Jameson sees its perfected version in postmodern media, where even rebellion is marketed, and nostalgia itself becomes an industry. In both cases, technology mediates between desire and forgetting — producing what might be called a “managed memory” that neutralizes history’s critical power.

Hope in the Ruins of Time

For all their differences, both thinkers remain animated by hope. Benjamin locates it in the flash of dialectical images — moments when the past erupts into the present, demanding recognition. Jameson locates it in the utopian impulse that persists even in commodified culture, the faint echo of collective desire embedded in every artifact. Each, in his way, calls for a new politics of memory: Benjamin’s messianic redemption and Jameson’s cognitive mapping are two attempts to wrest meaning from history’s debris.

If Benjamin is the melancholic archaeologist of modernity’s ruins, Jameson is the cartographer of its global aftermath. Both remind us that the struggle to remember — against the flood of images, data, and spectacle — is not an antiquarian exercise but a political act. To think historically, they suggest, is already to resist.

Fashion as Form and Field: Simmel and Bourdieu in Conversation

“Fashion… leads the individual on the road to equality, but... also the need for differentiation.” — Georg Simmel

“Taste classifies, and it classifies the classifier.” — Pierre Bourdieu

 

Two Lenses on the Same Outfit

Fashion is often treated as a lightweight subject—frivolous, feminine, fleeting. But for both Georg Simmel and Pierre Bourdieu, fashion was a powerful social signal. Not just about what we wear, but why, for whom, and with what consequences.

Though writing in different eras—Simmel in turn-of-the-century Berlin, Bourdieu in postwar France—both theorists saw fashion as a central way that modern societies organize difference. Yet they approached it through distinct frames: Simmel as a theorist of form and rhythm, Bourdieu as an analyst of social reproduction.

Their differences help illuminate fashion not only as a system of style, but as a map of power.

Simmel: The Dance of Differentiation and Imitation

In his 1904 essay “Fashion,” Simmel frames fashion as a social form that mediates two contradictory desires: the need to belong and the need to stand out. Fashion is inherently dynamic—it spreads through imitation (social adaptation) but depends on differentiation (novelty) to remain meaningful. The moment a fashion becomes universal, it dies.

This cycle, for Simmel, is particularly visible in class dynamics: elites innovate, lower classes imitate, elites abandon. But his emphasis is not on domination—it’s on the structure of movement, the push and pull of identity in flux. Fashion is a cultural technology for negotiating social proximity and distinction.

It is, in his terms, a form of life.

Bourdieu: Fashion as Distinction and Domination

In contrast, Pierre Bourdieu, especially in Distinction (1979), treats fashion less as a pattern and more as a field—a space structured by power, capital, and competition. For Bourdieu, fashion is one expression of taste, which is never innocent. Taste, he argues, is socially conditioned and used to mark and maintain class boundaries.

Where Simmel sees fluidity, Bourdieu sees reproduction. Fashion choices aren't just aesthetic—they are acts of classification. To wear the right style is to assert cultural capital, to signal belonging to a class fraction (not necessarily the wealthiest, but often the most “cultured”). The working class may reject fashion as superficial or impractical, while the dominant class aestheticizes the mundane and encodes it as taste.

In this model, fashion isn’t just a game of change. It’s a mechanism of exclusion.

Micro-Rhythms vs. Macro-Structures

The difference is not just analytical, but metaphysical. Simmel’s theory is rhythmic, attentive to motion, flow, and ambivalence. Bourdieu’s is structural, focused on accumulation, positioning, and stability. Simmel is interested in the form fashion takes; Bourdieu, in the functions it performs.

To put it simply: Simmel asks how fashion lives. Bourdieu asks what fashion does.

Yet there’s value in reading them together. Simmel helps us understand how fashion seduces, evolves, and adapts—its emotional, performative appeal. Bourdieu grounds that understanding in a system of inequality. The movement Simmel celebrates is not free-floating—it’s structured by race, class, gender, and institutional power, all of which Bourdieu maps with precision.