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Dear Reader:
The following is excerpted from a column by Bret Stephens in The New York Times (August 4):
What, uniquely, does writing do? It compels thought. It compels thinking in ways that silent contemplation or spoken language rarely can. It compels us to subject our thinking to the effort of articulation, the rigor of grammar, the tests of intelligibility and coherence, the inspection of others. In doing so, it also enjoins us to be clear, logical, accurate — and accountable. People may easily forgive a word said in anger but not so easily one written in anger, precisely because the fact that it was written tells us that it was considered.
The considered word matters. It has staying power and moral weight. We use the expression “I want that in writing” not only so there’s no mistaking the exact words that have been agreed upon but also as proof that the words are meaningful in the first place.
Now, the writer, who is an opinion columnist for the Times, employed the above wording in an effort to plead for originality in written communication rather than relying on artificial intelligence, not so much for ethical reasons as because reliance on A.I. is—as he puts it—”mentally enfeebling.” Stephens argues that the use of this high-tech crutch (my words, not his) is “an escalator toward a result when you really need to make a daily habit of taking the stairs.” And “as it becomes ubiquitous,” he warns that “it undermines not only our individual ability to write but also a society’s collective ability to reason, a culture’s inner capacity to create and everyone’s reason to care.”
As someone who spends a lot of time at a keyboard, the above really resonates. In my current literary endeavor, I’ve resorted to A.I. a number of times to check on certain technical minutiae that I would then corroborate by reference to another source; and I’ve really appreciated the convenience of being able to do that. But the satisfaction one derives from crafting a well-reasoned and coherent agglomeration of words is, to me, foundational to the whole experience of conveying ideas and facts in writing. It’s (ahem) key to any literary activity and is, I think, what’s fun about doing this sort of thing.
Unfortunately, I have the distinct feeling that Mr. Stephens’s plea is the functional equivalent of trying to halt an ocean wave by yelling at it to stop. Writing about it won’t be any more effective, but at least that process makes you think in greater detail about your message and its delivery (unless you’re using A.I. to make the argument for you).
Best regards,
dp