The Illusion of Depth

Gather around, everyone, and make yourselves comfortable. I'm going to tell you a little story. There once was a guy; oh, let's call him "Pygmalion".  He was unhappy with all the women of his community, and refused to have anything to do with them (I'm sure they had their own opinions about him , but whatever they said amongst themselves has not been recorded by posterity) so he decided to take matters into his own hands. To be precise, he took matter into his own hands, and sculpted himself a woman of his very own.  His creation was absolutely everything he wanted in a woman... and nothing he didn't want. She was the perfect companion, the perfect sexual partner; the perfect wife.  But that of course is just the beginning of the story. Because now Pygmalion didn't just have a wife; he had a business model . If he could manufacture a perfect partner for himself, why couldn't he do the same thing for everyone else? So, Pygmalion opened up a little shop,...

Last week's Ruby Sparks marked "Week Ten" in this current series ( The Grok, the Glunk and the Golem ) and as a further exploration of the current state of A.I. Large Language Models, I decided to try a little experiment over the weekend. I fed the complete text of everything I have written thus far (weeks one through ten) into several different ChatBots and asked them to "read" through the entire series. I did not tell them I was the author, in the hope that this might curtail their natural tendency towards ebullient sycophancy (with mixed results). Once they had read through everything (and reacted surprisingly thoughtfully in several cases) I asked them a question: "If you were the one programming this little series, what would you pick for Week Eleven , bearing in mind everything that has come before? Where would you go after Ruby Sparks ?" Each of the ChatBots approached this question in their own inimitable way, but (revealingly) they all indep...

The appearance was that of a real virgin, whom you might suppose to be alive, and if modesty did not hinder her, to be desirous to move; so much did art lie concealed under his skill. Pygmalion admires it; and entertains, within his breast, a flame for this fictitious body. Often does he apply his hands to the work, to try whether it is a human body, or whether it is ivory; and yet he does not own it to be ivory. He gives it kisses, and fancies that they are returned, and speaks to it, and takes hold of it, and thinks that his fingers make an impression on the limbs which they touch, and is fearful lest a livid mark should come on her limbs when pressed.  Ovid, Metamorphoses [translation by Henry T. Riley] There’s a dark side to A.I. companions, whose users are not just the lonely males of internet lore, but women who find them more emotionally satisfying than men. My colleagues and I now believe that the real existential threat of generative A.I. is not rogue super-intelligen...