On the gradual formation of thoughts when speaking

Jerry Seinfeld, one of my great heroes, once joked in front of a large audience that most people fear public speaking more than death. I found that particularly funny, because I definitely don't belong to the group of people who fear speaking. I like to talk about things that excite me, especially on big stages. What could be more inspiring than inspiring people with your own enthusiasm?

While until recently I could have imagined little worse than living near a meltdown nuclear reactor, after a month Tokyo felt almost normal. Cooking spaghetti with imported mineral water, not going out in the rain, spinach from Mexico, frozen seafood from last year, milk from Hokkaido. It's hard to believe, but as a Tokyoite, I got used to hell just as quickly as the Western media forgot about it. The only thing I couldn't get used to was the fear that drives you to take all the precautions for your child.

I only really became aware of the awfulness of our personal habituation and media oblivion processes when I took to the stage at an event in Berlin last week on the subject of data love. As usual, my predecessors had raved about the internet, how it was changing everything and making it better. Data love, DUDE! I had prepared a twenty-minute presentation, but when I looked at the cover sheet of my presentation, suddenly everything seemed wrong. "This is not the right presentation!" It wasn't the usual flutter of nerves, something was wrong with me. Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Since I have little fear of speaking, I decided to give my presentation extemporaneously.

Instead of opening by thanking them for the invitation, as usual, and explaining how important the conference was for me, us and the world, I said that love of data was actually nonsense, and if not, then certainly nonsense. "Love of wisdom, yes, love of data, no." And, I continued, it was a long way from data to wisdom. Understanding, I claimed, turns data into information, reason turns information into knowledge, and love perhaps turns knowledge into wisdom. As if that wasn't enough darkness and spoilsport, I then moved on to talk about the data and information and knowledge situation in Japan. The atmosphere in the audience was comparable to that in Dürrenmatt's tunnel. And then I suddenly lost my tongue. My speech lasted five minutes. Ten minutes had been planned. What was wrong with me? Fortunately, I had the opportunity to give another speech that evening, where I was able to iron out the wrinkles a little.

Two days later at TypoBerlin, the incident almost repeated itself. I had prepared a presentation in two parts. After the first part, where I also spoke briefly about Fukushima, I suddenly ran out of words and left the stage without saying thank you. The speech lasted 30 minutes. 45 minutes was planned. People looked at me strangely. Twitter also said: Good speech so far, but why is he just running off in the middle?

A few days ago, I was invited to give another speech, this time at a design school in Milan. I decided to give the same presentation again and this time watch myself a little more closely while speaking (which I usually try to avoid because thinking while speaking leads to stuttering). In the introduction to the topic, I warned my audience that I might suddenly disappear, as I had done days before, and instructed them to bring me back if I ran off again. In fact, after the first part, the same desire to escape arose. I said: "Actually, I want to run away again now. But I'll try it for a few more sentences." The laughter that followed helped me through the second part of the speech.

I only became strange again at the following dinner. The topic was Fukushima. And I don't feel much different now. It's not that I have nothing to say. It's just that the subject of Fukushima leaves me speechless and I can't always think of a self-deceiving joke to find the cheerful words to take away my fear of death.