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As the pace of technological change accelerates, we are increasingly experiencing a state of information overload. Statistics show that we are interrupted every three minutes during the course of the work day. Multitasking between email, cell-phone, text messages, and four or five websites while listening to an iPod forces the brain to process more and more informaton at greater and greater speeds. And yet the human brain has hardly changed in the last 40,000 years. Are all these high-tech advances overtaxing our Stone Age brains or is the constant flood of information good for us, giving our brains the daily exercise they seem to crave? In The Overflowing Brain, cognitive scientist Torkel Klingberg takes us on a journey into the limits and possibilities of the brain. He suggests that we should acknowledge and embrace our desire for information and mental challenges, but try to find a balance between demand and capacity. Klingberg explores the cognitive demands, or "complexity," of everyday life and how the brain tries to meet them. He identifies different types of attention, such as stimulus-driven and controlled attention, but focuses chiefly on "working memory," our capacity to keep information in mind for short periods of time. Dr Klingberg asserts that working memory capacity, long thought to be static and hardwired in the brain, can be improved by training, and that the increasing demands on working memory may actually have a constructive effect: as demands on the human brain increase, so does its capacity. The book ends with a discussion of the future of brain development and how we can best handle information overload in our everyday lives. Klingberg suggests how we might find a balance between demand and capacity and move from feeling overwhelmed to deeply engaged. Show More Show Less

Carr draws extensively from cognitive neuroscience literature to make his deterministic argument that the Internet is changing who we are. He weaves the findings together well, but on closer inspection, his use of the literature is occasionally questionable and at times outright indefensible. He seems to ignore the scientific literature that has actually found that new digital technologies might be better for how we learn (Gardner, 2006) and how we socialize (Pew, 2010). Furthermore, in his discussion of hypertext and the ways it hurts deep thinking, he draws from a Canadian study (Landow & Delaney, 2001) that, as Rosenberg (2010) argues, does not prove Carr's argument. The study was actually analyzing a specific type of hypertext fiction and was never meant to be extended to all hypertext. This example is a microcosm of Carr's book as a whole, a valid argument that extends itself too far.

Both Carr and Lanier provide inflammatory arguments about the Internet that will surely anger some readers. The strengths of these books are their ability to question widely held beliefs of digital evangelism and to make their criticisms accessible to mainstream audiences (though Gadget occasionally may get too technical for some). As we discussed above, the books do have their problems, but they may still prove valuable in an undergraduate course or any introduction to media criticism. Students would be able to read accessible accounts questioning widely accepted orthodoxy, and they would also be able to evaluate areas where each author takes his argument further than evidence allows.

That illusion of competence is one of the things that worry scholars who study attention, cognition, and the classroom. Students' minds have been wandering since the dawn of education. But until recently—so the worry goes—students at least knew when they had checked out. A student today who moves his attention rapid-fire from text-messaging to the lecture to Facebook to note-taking and back again may walk away from the class feeling buzzed and alert, with a sense that he has absorbed much more of the lesson than he actually has.