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303 pages, Hardcover
First published March 1, 2011
"Our very essence is a kind of mongrelism. It strikes me that some of the best and most human emotions come from this lichen state of computer/creature interface, the admixture, the estuary of desire and reason in a system aware enough to apprehend its own limits, and to push at them: curiosity, intrigue, enlightenment, wonder, awe."
People complain from time to time about folks who read the Cliffs-Notes to a book, or reviews or essays about a book, but don’t read the book itself. Hey, if the information density of Anna Karenina is low enough that a review 1 percent as long conveys 60 percent of the form and content ‘gist’ of the book, then it’s Tolstoy’s fault. His readers are human beings with only twenty-eight thousand days or so separating birth and death. If they want to read the lossy gloss and move on, who can blame them?The Most Human Human is really a wonderful book. You can take it from me, assuming that at this point in my exegesis I have indeed managed not only to bring you round, but have done so without you having recourse to wonder whether or not *I* and only I wrote this text -- without resort to plagiarism, paraphrase, or other outside assistance organic or otherwise. (See, e.g., my trilogy of essays on this conundrum, the first of which can be found here.)
Likewise for conceptual art: who needs to see a Duchamp toilet when you can hear about one so much faster and extract most of the experience from that? Conceptual art might be, for better or worse, (definable as) the art most susceptible to lossy compression.
“Sometimes it seems,” says Douglas Hofstadter, “as though each new step towards AI, rather than producing something which everyone agrees is real intelligence, merely reveals what real intelligence is not.” While at first this seems a consoling position—one that keeps our unique claim to thought intact—it does bear the uncomfortable appearance of a gradual retreat, the mental image being that of a medieval army withdrawing from the castle to the keep. But the retreat can’t continue indefinitely. Consider: if everything of which we regarded “thinking” to be a hallmark turns out not to involve it, then ... what is thinking? It would seem to reduce to either an epiphenomenon—a kind of “exhaust” thrown off by the brain—or, worse, an illusion.
And here’s a crucial, related question: Is this retreat a good thing or a bad thing? For instance, does the fact that computers are so good at mathematics in some sense take away an arena of human activity, or does it free us from having to do a nonhuman activity, liberating us into a more human life? The latter view would seem to be the more appealing, but it starts to seem less so if we can imagine a point in the future where the number of “human activities” left to be “liberated” into has grown uncomfortably small. What then?
The New York Times reported in June 2010—in an article titled “The End of the Best Friend”—on the practice of deliberate intervention, on the part of well-meaning adults, to disrupt close nuclei of friends from forming in schools and summer camps.4 One sleepaway camp in New York State, they wrote, has hired “friendship coaches” whose job is to notice whether “two children seem to be too focused on each other, [and] ... put them on different sports teams [or] seat them at different ends of the dining table.” Affirms one school counselor in St. Louis, “I think it is kids’ preference to pair up and have that one best friend. As adults—teachers and counselors—we try to encourage them not to do that.” Chatroulette and Omegle users “next” each other when the conversation flags; these children are being nexted by force—when things are going too well.