Category: Blog Post

on disinformation sprezzatura

In his 1528 Book of the Courtier (Il Cortegiano), Baldasarre Castiglione coins the word sprezzatura, an important term in the history of rhetoric which has no direct synonym in English. Sometimes people translate it as “nonchalance” or “studied carelessness” (OED) or maybe something like “graceful effortlessness.” It reminds me of those German words that require a short paragraph to capture fully. As Castilgione himself describes it, sprezzatura is something more than mere “casualness”—it involves some kind of concealment, constructing a veneer of extemporaneous authenticity for something deliberate and even calculated:

I have found quite a universal rule which in this matter seems to me valid above all others, and in all human affairs whether in word or deed: and that is to avoid affectation in every way possible as though it were some very rough and dangerous reef; and (to pronounce a new word perhaps) to practice in all things a certain sprezzatura, so as to conceal all art and make whatever is done or said appear to be without effort and almost without any thought about it.

Il Cortegiano, I.26 (trans. Singleton)

In Castiglione’s text, sprezzatura is a display of Renaissance virtuosity, an expert command of language and manner that makes mastery look easy. But even if sprezzatura has a five-century history behind it, I’m now seeing traces of it—like so many other rhetorical concepts—all over the much more modern and technological landscape of Internet disinformation.

I was especially reminded of sprezzatura while reading through the Transatlantic Working Group’s report “Actors, Behaviors, Content: A Disinformation ABC,” referenced recently over at Lawfare in a conversation with Camille François of Graphika. Its ‘B’ refers to “Deceptive Behavior,” a topic that refers to Facebook’s ban on “Coordinated Inauthentic Behavior.” What is “studied carelessness” if not a close cousin of “coordinated inauthenticity”? What is the core tactic of disinformation if not convincingly avoiding “affectation” in service of persuasiveness?

The overlap between Renaissance sprezzatura and Internet disinformation becomes even clearer in light of Castiglione’s emphasis on maintaining the illusion of effortlessness:

Therefore we may call that art true art which does not seem to be art; nor must one be more careful of anything than of concealing it, because if it is discovered, this robs a man of all credit and causes him to be held in slight esteem. […] So you see how art, or any intent effort, if it is disclosed, deprives everything of grace.

Il Cortegiano, I.26 (trans. Singleton)

Maintaining one’s “credit” through assiduous cultivation of a plausible identity is central to so many of our digital interactions—see the “fictitious online personas” documented in the Mueller report (vol. I, p. 41). This “careful concealing,” of course, predates the last decade’s disinformation campaigns, perhaps best illustrated in the now-canonical New Yorker cartoon up top, published in 1993. Just as the artful, even seamless obfuscation of identity has always been part of our digital lives, the virtuosic concealment of “any intent effort” has been central to persuasion since at least 1528. Hiding your craft is, as ever, the whole game.

watch the world go by slow

These past several weeks of indoor life have been a good opportunity for all of us for catching up on music—whether brushing up that little piece we’ve always wanted to play, spending time with a challenging album, revisiting old favorites from a decade ago. I’ve found myself doing all of the above: anything to incentivize myself from defiantly marching out the front door. I’m also imagining (hoping, really) that I’ll appreciate hearing this or that quarantine-era song again in a few years and blurt out, “Gosh, remember social distancing?”

A couple months ago I grabbed guitarist Jeff Parker’s new album Suite for Max Brown, whose opening track is bound to be that mnemonic trigger for my future self. I mostly love its chunky, dissonant piano chords, but its opening lyrics are especially resonant in our new sheltered routines:

Everyone moves like they’ve someplace to go

Build a nest and watch the world go by slow

We didn’t quite anticipate nesting like this in the first months of 2020, nor did we anticipate our world’s abrupt slowness, but here we are. Have a listen–not like you’ve someplace to go, right?

homo sicut arbor

More than any other psychological state, uncertainty colors the daily life of social distancing. How many pounds of rice should I stockpile in the kitchen? Will my beloved neighborhood restaurant be long gone when the city reawakens in a few…months? Perhaps most uncertain of all is our own biology: am I sick? Every audible breath is a moment of divination, every cough a call for augury.

It’s strange to feel so unmoored when life is tied down to these domestic docks of ours. To shuffle metaphors a bit, the quotidian routine of quarantine forces me to identify not with an anchored boat but instead with a nearby magnolia tree: restless for springtime but stuck in immobile solitude.

This immobility has already instituted some new daily habits—the group-Zoom dinner party chief among them—while jump-starting old ones that slip away during the semester’s bustle, like journaling and reading through offbeat Latin. This morning’s discovery was Giannozzo Manetti‘s On Human Worth and Excellence (1452), recently translated by Brian Copenhaver for Harvard’s I Tatti series. Rebutting a certain medieval verdict on man’s lowliness and even worthlessness, Manetti’s text presents a vision of and argument for hominis dignitas: the dignity of the human being.

It’s an uplifting read in our own unexpectedly cloistered days, especially when Manetti considers the incurable diseases of his own time. He does not, to be sure, deny the grim, unpredictable reality of pestilence: “Naturally feeble, to begin with, and then weakened by illness of some kind, our bodies quickly slip and fall toward death: to put it more plainly, then, we find our bodies in daily life fluttering like birds and suddenly tumbling into catastrophe” (4.3). Perhaps better to identify with the sturdy magnolia than with transient sparrows.

Manetti would simply urge us to fasten upon that magnolia’s purple buds, finding in their petals a moment of respite from an ascendant pandemic. “More kinds of pleasure than distress rule this ordinary, everyday life of ours,” he writes (4.22). “Strange to say, there is no human activity, if we attend carefully and correctly to its nature, that we do not enjoy at least a little”—the harmony of a song, the scent of a flower, the texture of a soft fabric. Amid these extraordinary stresses, may you also look out the window and find something ordinary to admire, at least a little.