To the rhythm that things go, this next chronicle will be written by a learned machine boosted with artificial intelligence. After having perfectly dissected and assimilated my tics and writing processes, she will be able to compose a similar to mine, with the difference that humor, the second degree, the very particular palpitation of my style, my inexhole heaviness for example, will miss the call.
It is that I may be stupid like a frozen lobster, I have something that the most sophisticated machines will never have, namely a soul, an intelligence (as relative as it is), a vision, a heart, a story, in short, an identity inseparable from my personality. I interfere with the sensitive world, where the machine is content to swallow data to spit it in a mechanical way, in this coldness of the language which seeks above all to be effective, that is to say understandable at first glance.
However, the more you simplify the language, the more you standardize it and the less your brain will develop and manage to think by itself. He will lose his appetite to penetrate the depth of things to become a kind of receptacle with the most simplistic ideas, for example to all this abundance of the conspiratorial Doxa which flourishes all the better when it thrives on furniture, nourished in the sweet breast of ignorance.
A language that is no longer a language but an assortment of words decided by a machine will have as a consequence of mechanically abstolishing each of us. A machine has no point of view, critical meaning, it debits information as it would write a booklet to mount a piece of furniture. It is neutral as water can be to accompany a leg of lamb, it becomes a simple function instead of being an agent intended to make us think about the state of the world.
Artificial intelligence will be in writing and thought what the inflatable doll is in sex, a wisdom. Admittedly, if I believe some of my knowledge – not insist, I will not give a name! -, the latest models recently landed on the market are stunning of truth to the point of giving the impression of dealing with a person in flesh. Sex, recognizing a conducive terrain where to exalt, traces its route and reaches Cahin-Caha to enjoyment.
But what is a enjoyment, if it is not shared? And what about a coupling where one of the two partners will have the sex appeal of a slice of ham, a kind of asexual object which will ensure the rise of pleasure without ever decorating it with these variations in desire, of a love exchange whose main interest is not to satisfy a bestial need, but to participate in a communion of the bodies, in a real embracement of the senses whose origin is just as in the folds of the body?
This is the problem with artificial intelligence, it will satisfy all our needs on the surface without ever meeting our deepest desires, to this supplement of soul that distinguishes us from the machine. Reading a novel laid by a robot or kissing with a silicone creature participates in the same logic, that of a dehumanization of the individual in favor of sacro-sainte profitability, of a complete erasure of the personality where we are intended to become simple customers, consumers cons like lobotomized pigeons.
But would it not be the greatest victory of capitalism, the annihilation of judgment for the benefit of a standardization of taste? When we have all become numbers with perfectly identical desires, it will be easy to flood us, even more than today, of all -point objects. Without a critical spirit, the human being becomes absent from the universe that surrounds him, absent from himself. He will accept a thousand turpitudes, not by enthusiasm or adhesion, but by his inability to think of the world other than by patterns designed by machines obsessed with the idea of yield.
Suffice to say that we are screwed up. With that, I’m going to join Carlotta, she just arrived by Amazon. It’s a real bomb. She has a watermelon -shaped mouth and breasts like Florida grapefruits. I feel that night is going to be long!
