La freccia e il cerchio
anno 2, numero 2, 2011
pp. 201-203

7.
Janna Smith Malamud
Privacy and its limits

   I. «When my love swears that she is made of truth» Shakespeare opines in Sonnet 138, «I do believe her, though I know she lies». Like this sentiment, privacy is paradoxical; it is psychological; it is subtle; it is best understood through its contradictions and limits.
   Usually, when we think of privacy we are inclined to think of solitude, for example, Henry Thoreau living by himself in his cabin at Walden pond, or of Greta Garbo in Grand Hotel whimpering, «I want to be alone». But solitude is only one dimension of privacy. Alan Westin, whose 1968 book Privacy and Freedom is an essential work on the subject, felt the concept of privacy also included the states of anonymity, reserve and intimacy. Privacy itself is perhaps best defined by Sissela Bok, who wrote, that it is «the condition of being protected from unwanted access by others – either physical access, personal information, or attention». Or, as I wrote elsewhere, «Little in life is as precious as the freedom to say and do things with people you love that you would not say or do if someone else were present. And few experiences are as fundamental to liberty and autonomy as maintaining control over when, how, to whom, and where we disclose personal material».
   Privacy is a subtle state of being and of mind; it is a space, as often psychological as physical, in which one can exist uncoerced and unmolested by others. Choice is its fulcrum. If I choose to reside in a cabin in the woods, I seek solitude, a state of privacy. But if you force me into solitary confinement in a prison, my solitude is no longer chosen, and it quickly becomes frightening isolation which is likely to drive me mad within minutes or hours. So too, I may relish my anonymity while walking alone amidst the crowds on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan. I may enjoy knowing no one and expecting that no one will recognize or greet me. But if, at the end of my walk, I lack a place to go where I will be recognized and cared about by someone, my chosen state of anonymity may become an oppressive experience of anomy. I may start to feel disoriented, alienated, and too separate for comfort.
   Where reserve is concerned, I may be among people whom I know well, and I may be feeling and thinking many things. But I am choosing what I say and what I keep to myself. Reserve is the most basic form of privacy, perhaps the most essential source of freedom in life. One can live in the tightest quarters, continually surrounded by others, and still maintain the privacy of reserve. However, if someone interrogates me in a way that threatens physical pain, I will likely tell them whatever they ask to know, in which case my reserve is overpowered, and my private thoughts are no longer private. (A third glass of wine may perform the same function.) Or, conversely, I can become imprisoned in my own mind. If I long to tell some interlocutor about my sorrows, joys or passions, but feel unable to reveal myself, my reserve becomes entrapping, and the pleasure of privacy – the control over what I reveal, is lost internally to my own helplessness and inhibition.
   With intimacy, my privacy is defined by my freedom to choose my behavior knowing I am unobserved except within the relationship. I am free to pursue deep self expression or sexual abandon. But, intimacy turns sour and loses its aura of privacy when it stops being consensual and mutually chosen. If my partner continues to hold me too close when I wish to separate, or shadows me after I depart, what was intimate becomes intrusive or oppressive. So too, if I secretly video him, I corrupt and likely destroy the intimacy with the secret surveillance.
   Privacy is a term often misemployed as a euphemism for secrecy. Someone might say that her illicit sexual liaisons are private, by which she means she is intentionally hiding them. Yet, intentional hiding is not the same as keeping something private. I might keep a private journal in which I write my thoughts. It is up to me whether I share what I’ve written with a friend, or use it as the basis of other writing. My journal is private because I don’t publish it in its entirety, or leave it around for everyone to read. I choose what portions I want to share and with whom. And my choices may be different month by month or year by year. I am in control of what is seen by others and when it is seen. But, were I writing in East Germany thirty years ago, or were I the teenage daughter of a prying and intrusive parent, I might feel I had to lock up the journal in a very secret place to keep my thoughts away from prying eyes. I would be forced to make my journal secret as a way to keep it private.
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