Where AI Fears to Tread

 

 

(Photo: KT Martin)

 

My wife was away. It was she who suggested I take a drive out to Agulhas. Three years have gone by since we were there, and it would be interesting to see the recently completed facilities at the lighthouse. She is good at coming up with suggestions, is my wife.

I left early and took a leisurely drive from Pearly Beach through open farmland down to Struisbaai. The town had grown in three years, and seemed to merge into Agulhas., which looked like it was expecting the imminent arrival of busloads of tourists eager to spend their money at the tip of Africa.

I parked and did a walkabout, taking pics to show her the development. There was nothing excessive or vulgar about the design of the complex, and I enjoyed strolling up the long zig-zag wheelchair access ramp that was flanked by fynbos in raised beds.

I did not go into the lighthouse, which appeared unchanged, but took the path leading down to the boardwalk that takes one to the southernmost point. A mild Spring day with hardly any wind, it was a delight walking through the low vegetation dotted with a variety of flowers. There were not many tourists to detract from the satisfaction of being out in nature away from civilization.

The round trip took less than an hour and, as I reached the steps up to the lighthouse, looking forward to a cup of coffee, I saw a couple coming down towards me. There was something familiar about them. Simultaneous recognition resulted in the three of us shouting one another’s names in excited surprise. Monica and James, my old friends from Johannesburg! After the initial greeting we agreed to have lunch together at the restaurant when they returned.

I went to the car to fetch my book before finding a shaded table on the restaurant terrace and ordering coffee. There were few fellow patrons and no interesting conversation to eavesdrop on, so I found my place and returned to the story.

 

(Image: Gemini.ai)

 

Some half an hour later my friends joined me and we ordered drinks and a meal. We caught up on news, and then Monica said, “So, what are you reading?” They are both into literature and the arts, she being a journalist and he an academic.

“The Life of Henry F.” I showed her the cover.

“Any good? What’s it about?”

I read from the blurb: ‘“The Life of Henry F is a semi-autobiographical, darkly comedic saga that follows the author’s irreverent alter ego from his upbringing to later life.’ It’s packed with interesting ideas and full of irony and absurdity. I’m sure you would both identify with this oddball character.”

We talked about their walk, and agreed that the Agulhas ecotourism project was a remarkable success. The drinks came, and James sat back and stared vacantly into the distance, which meant the right side of his brain was taking control of cerebral activity.

“Your mentioning of absurdity and irony makes me think of the great AI onslaught that is under way.”

“I take it you see AI as a threat?”

“Most certainly. As it becomes increasingly capable it will be used in every branch of the arts until the role of the human is so diminished creativity and originality will be subservient to the AI model one is using.”

“He is right, you know,” said Monica, having noticed my raised eyebrows. “It’s already taking over. If you let it anywhere near something you have written, it not only tries to improve your grammar, but starts meddling with style.

“Having read millions more books than you have, its arrogance is boundless. And have you heard of Project Panama?”

“No?”

The starters came and we ordered a bottle of wine.

“Yes,” James continued, “Project Panama is a plan by Anthropic to scan all the books in the world and feed the data to their large language model, the chatbot Claude. They were fined for stealing previously digitized material, and are now buying up millions of books around the world, which they rip apart and put through high-speed scanners. What’s left of the book is then pulped.”

“If Anthropic and the other companies have their way all hard copy will be destroyed, and the written word will become exclusively digital.

“That sounds horrendous, Monica. Imagine a world without books!”

“And who is to say they won’t start meddling with content?” said James. “You might think you are reading Joyce, only to find sections have been modified or left out completely. The reader might be left with a text that is incomplete or untrustworthy. And you won’t know whether new material is genuine or not. Writers and artists and movie makers will come to rely on AI to do most of the work, and the result is bound to lack the spark that is the hallmark of authentic art. We are all going to get lazier and dumber.”

The food came and the wine was poured.

“You paint a dystopian future, James. Is there no way we can resist what seems to be inevitable?”

He washed down a mouthful of quiche with some cold Chardonay before replying.

“I have been thinking about it, and I am determined to keep all of our books that pre-date the digital era. That’s one thing. Then I have been trying to work out what the machines are incapable of so that, where I come across it, I will recognise genuine human creativity.”

“Examples?”

“Well, you say the novel you are reading is full of absurdity and irony. I think AI struggles in both of those areas. They involve bisociation, which is a concept developed by Arthur Koestler to explain humour and creativity.”

With a sharp intake of breath, which nearly made me choke on a piece of bacon, I experienced a faint flurry of neural activity in my brain similar to a minor electrical shock.

“Bisociation involves the simultaneous association of two ideas from two different fields of reference. The unusual juxtaposition results in surprise accompanied by a jolt of mental delight that triggers laughter or intellectual excitement.” He paused to assess whether I was following. “you look a bit glassy-eyed. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

“No, of course. I know exactly what you are talking about. This bisociation concept has catapulted me 45 years back in my memory. You know that I spent a year on Gough Island? Well, in the small library in Gough House, there was an Encyclopaedia Britannica, and I turned to it on many occasions. I remember reading an article on Humour and Wit that was contributed by Arthur Koestler. It made a great impression on me, and I have often thought about it over the years. That Britannica was the 1974 edition and, funny enough, when I recently learned that a fellow bibliophile comrade of mine has that very same edition in his private library, I was filled with envy. How wonderful it would be to sit down with the relevant volume and read that article again!”

“Can’t you get it on the internet?” asked Monica, having just finished her meal.

“I’ve tried, and can only find a summary. And, anyway, it wouldn’t be the same.”

“Of course not!” James was adamant. He was speaking with enthusiastic conviction, as if his quiche had been spiked with a powerful stimulant. This is a perfect example of what I am getting at. Thank you, my old friend. That summary can’t be trusted. The article will have been abridged by a chatbot, probably leaving out sections that originally caught your attention. Even if it did provide the full text, reading it on a device would be a substantially different experience. And, I’m sorry to say, as AI becomes more powerful, it will not just be books and the written word that are threatened, but music and movies as well. Eventually, nothing will be truly authentic”

“So, what can we do about it? Stick to reading our old books and listening to vinyl records? That would be like retreating into the past, which is hardly healthy.”

James drained his glass. “Shall I order more wine? Well, maybe not. We’ve still got to drive back.”

“Don’t dismiss the old books and records,” said Monica. “They act as a reference point and a yardstick. Without them your experience of literature and music will be subverted by AI until you forget how to recognise genuine creativity.”

“And, as I have said, we must constantly be searching for the absurdity and comedy in life, because that is where AI fails to maike the connection. Monica, won’t you make a note of that book? The Life of … Who?”

She reached down for her bag and produced a slim black notebook and mechanical pencil.

“The Life of Henry F,” I said in response to her enquiring look. “By Ian Martin. Is that a Moleskine?”

“Yes. It is part of the armoury. Putting pen to paper is such a surprisingly precious skill, and so different to typing on your phone. James says that some of his students hardly know how to read cursive. Isn’t that just terrible?”

“It’s true. Most of the young people I teach have surrendered their minds without knowing they were under attack. They don’t know what I am talking about when I try to encourage them to enjoy the experience of jotting down thoughts, impression and interesting ideas on paper. And when I suggest they keep a hand written diary, they just shake their heads. Well, if the Internet crashes or the electricity grid collapses …”

We could have continued the conversation, but Monica looked at her watch and reminded her spouse they needed to be getting back to Cape Town in order to catch their evening flight to Joburg.

“It’s been such a pleasure connecting with you both so unexpectedly,” I said as we made our way to the carpark. And thank you for mentioning bisociation and reminding me of Koestler’s article on humour. In it he told half a dozen jokes, of which I can recall only one, unfortunately. It goes like this: A French marquis returns home unexpectedly and finds his wife in bed with a bishop. Instead of reacting violently, he calmly goes to the window and starts blessing the people in the street below. His agitated wife asks him what he is doing. He replies that, as the priest is busy performing his function, he will perform the priest’s.”

Their explosive laughter was gratifying. James got behind the wheel, still chuckling. “That’s a good one,” he said. “No ways AI would get it.”

 

The Smarty Solution

 

 

(Image: Ideogram.ai)

 

 

Let’s face it: growing old is a miserable story. Take for example one old toppie who thinks he has it all planned out. At the age of seventy he sells up and moves into the Golden Years Retirement Village. A comfortable 2-bedroomed cottage with garage set in clipped lawns and pretty flower beds. No more sweating in the garden or hassling with home maintenance. There’s a gym and a pool, and he can eat at the Clubhouse, or drink at the bar with the other more sprightly residents. All quite pleasant and tolerable.

 

Then time, past bad habits and general wear and tear kick in and conspire to move things along a bit. Hypertension, the onset of Type 2 diabetes (he always was a bit of a pig), and maybe some mild emphysema to reward those years of smoking. To cap it all, his spouse goes and dies, and now he knows he really is on the downhill stretch.

 

Grief and loneliness sap his will, he spends more and more time in bed, and he neglects himself horribly. His daughter visits once a month but she’s got problems of her own – that useless husband of hers has lost his job. (His other kids cleared off to greener pastures years ago.)

A handful of happy pills is added to all the other medication he’s taking every day, and the shrink gives him a pep talk four times a year. When he falls and breaks an arm, it’s time to make the next move. Assisted Living.

 

Assisted Living is a two-roomed unit in the main complex, which also accommodates the Frail Care Centre. Over a period of seven or eight years he goes through the three levels of Care – low, medium and high. At first, he walks to the dining room, assisted by nothing more than a walking stick. But after several falls the trusty three-wheeled walking frame becomes an indispensable aid. Most of the day is spent dozing in front of the TV. Or shuffling up and down the windowless corridor. Only closed doors and the smell of cooked cabbage. And piss. He becomes incontinent and has to endure the indignity of wearing nappies. Talk about second childhood! Ballooning obesity is attributed to the side effects of psychiatric drugs, which have prevented him from committing suicide but left him an apathetic zombie. Again, he falls and hits his head and ends up in hospital. Time for the penultimate move. Frail Care.

 

Down to one room. A hospital bed with cot sides, and a bell push if he feels like getting up. They wash or shower him, help him dress, clean his dentures. There’s a commode, so he doesn’t even have to make it to the toilet in the night. They shout at him politely and repeat everything four or five times because his hearing aid doesn’t work, and by now he’s gaga anyway, so it doesn’t matter whether he hears or not. It takes about three years for him to lose all that weight he put on and he is reduced to a skeleton draped in a sack of wrinkled hide. It’s time to go. One morning they find him staring at the ceiling and he’s cold to the touch. Like a toad. His final exit consists of a trolley ride down the passage to the back door, where the long limo stands waiting to take him off to the funeral parlour.

 

And after the memorial service they stand around looking relieved and quietly agree that it would have been better for all concerned if he had popped off ten years ago.

 

Yes, this old age business, as it stands now, is not something to look forward to, that’s for sure. Especially those last ten years.  As it stands now, all we do is resign ourselves to the dreadful prospect as if we are powerless to do anything about it. Well, that might be about to change. Me and a couple of my buddies have come up with an alternative.

 

The other night, for some old fashioned male comradeship and a bit of intellectual stimulation, we got together over a litre of Bols and a goodly quantity of Coke, and started discussing the state of the world and the human condition and that kind of thing.

 

“Eight billion and counting,” Cedric said.

 

“Too many humans,” Alf said. “Just too many.”

 

I agreed but pointed out that the current global economic model was based on infinite growth and galloping consumption driven by an ever-growing population.

 

“That model is dead, man. Like a …”

 

“It’s not an economic model, man,” said Cedric. “It’s a Ponzi scheme on a grand scale.”

 

“But,” I objected, “How are you going to throw out the present model, discourage consumption, and shrink the population? I mean, for one thing, who’s going to look after all the old toppies?”

 

“To hell with the old toppies,” Alf said.

 

“What about euthanasia?”

 

“You sound like a Nazi.”

 

We had some more b and c and mulled things over in our minds, which were still pretty sharp.

 

“Hey man. I just got an idea!” Cedric shouted with a real manic look on his face and in his eyes.

 

“Take it easy, your brain isn’t used to this,” Alf said, trying to calm him down.

 

“No man, I’ve thought of a way to deal with all the useless old parasites without running into any serious ethical bs.”

 

“Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah. What you do is this. You put all the oldies, as soon as they start vegetating and can’t look after themselves, on a daily dose of Smarties. Say three a day. The  machine that dispenses them is programmed to include a certain percentage of lethal Smarties. Like cyanide, or something. They look identical to the regular ones, so nobody can cheat the system.”

 

“Sweet,” Alf said. “I get it. No one could be held responsible for administering the fatal dose.”

 

“It would be like playing Russian roulette every day,” I said, warming to the idea, which was beginning to strike me as incredibly audacious.

 

“Only, nobody would know about the game being played. Both staff and patients would have to be kept in the dark about the program, which could be administered by an AI agent that calculated how many lethal smarties should be dispensed in order to gradually reduce the geriatric population.”

 

We kicked the idea around some more, fine-tuned it, and congratulated ourselves on having found a way to humanely tackle the problem of over population.

 

“Think of all the suffering that will be prevented,” said Cedric, all smug and arrogant as if he was some kind of modern-day messiah.

 

“This is genius stuff,” saidAlf. “Not only will millions of old people be spared the pain and humiliation of a long, slow goodbye, but think of us young people not having to waste all our time and resources looking after them.”

 

“And you know how depressing and psychologically and emotionally draining it is to have to watch some decrepit old bag of bones lying around senile and feeble and helpless, and so undignified and not even a trace of a shadow of their former selves?”

 

“Yah,” said Cedric, looking kind of grim and serious. “It can depress the hell out of you having to deal with some old guy with dementia, especially if it’s a relative.”

 

“Don’t tell me. My gran had Alzheimer’s. Alzheimer’s is the …”

 

“Alzheimer’s is an obscene insult, man. I mean, what use is Alzheimer’s? In terms of evolutionary biology? Tell me that.”

 

“No use.”

 

“But,” I said, deciding to set a cat among the pigeons. “Who are we to question God’s design for us?”

 

This proved a very witty thing to have said, because we then spent about five minutes laughing at the irony of it, and we then decided to call it a night and went off on our separate ways, still chuckling and in a really good mood.