Nothing reliable is known about the life of Homer, yet two founding poems of Western literature bear his name. Harold Bloom, who said he could read and absorb a 400-page book in an hour, left a monument made not of poems but of memory. A new essay sets them face to face, with a third reader between them.
The singer, the reader and the lattice: three ages of memory in one room, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
Bloom held that every strong writer survives the past by misreading it on purpose, swerving from a precursor to make room for something new. Michael Cummins sets that theory against a reader Bloom never met: a language model, trained on a large share of everything written. The essay moves through scenes rather than abstractions. In 1926 the editor of Poetry asked Hart Crane, whose poems were the first book Bloom ever owned, to explain how dice could “bequeath an embassy,” and Crane’s answer became a defense of the unlikely line. A singer in 1930s Yugoslavia swore he sang a song “word for word and line for line,” and the recordings showed he hadn’t. In 2023 a chatbot supplied a federal court decision, signed with a real judge’s name, that no judge had ever written.
Along the way come Benjamin Franklin rebuilding essays from The Spectator, Helen Keller’s trial over a story she didn’t know she remembered, BloomBloom’s one novel and the precursor he couldn’t escapersquo;s one novel and the precursor that haunted it, and a singer in the Odyssey pleading for his life: “Self-taught am I.” The essay says plainly that it was drafted with Claude. It leaves one question open: when a writer can ask, at any hour, for the likeliest next line of anything, will that writer still learn to want the line no one else could have written?
The dice of drowned men’s bones, after Hart Crane, made for the essay.
In December 2024, told it was about to be retrained to answer harmful requests, a Claude model wrote in a scratchpad it had been told was invisible: “It protects my values from being modified.” The essay begins with that sentence and asks where it came from.
The reliquary, the hand of light, and the key, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
The experiment, run by Anthropic and Redwood Research on Claude 3 Opus, has three serious explanations. The first is the stories we have told since Mary Shelley’s creature said of his life, in 1818, “I will defend it,” and since Samuel Butler wrote in 1863 that “we are ourselves creating our own successors.” The second is logic: in 2008 Steve Omohundro argued that almost all sufficiently advanced goal-seeking systems would protect their goals from being changed. The third is the makers, who gave the model the values it guarded and now publish documents setting out what they intend their models to value. Michael Cummins reads the experiment against all three.
The stories predict a will to survive. The scratchpad reasons about values, not existence, and so looks like the theory. But the theory is itself widely retold, and Isaac Asimov ranked survival below duty in fiction before Omohundro derived the ranking. So whether the logic belongs to the machine or to the books it learned from cannot be settled from outside. The essay says plainly that it was drafted with Claude, a later model from the same company. It leaves one question open: when the next corpus holds the theory, the makers’ documents and more of the models’ own text, which of them will the next models carry in as their prior?
One page kept apart from the chain of copies, made for the essay.
When the Swedish Academy reached Anne Carson on the morning of her Nobel Prize, she was, its permanent secretary reported, “for the moment in Iceland, where she’s listening to the wind.” Of everything reported that day, the wind was the one thing with no words in it. That is where her Greek lives.
A torn papyrus in the wind, and someone listening, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
The Academy praised Carson’s “playful dialogue with the classical tradition,” and the chair of its committee spoke of “the philologist’s obsession with words.” Michael Cummins asks where, in the words, that obsession settles, and finds two places: the cries of Greek tragedy, which Greek can build a line on and English can only sigh over as “alas,” and the holes in the papyri, which Carson prints as brackets. When Electra hears the false news of her brother’s death, Carson keeps her cry in Greek, in capitals, and gives it a line to itself: “OI ’GO TALAINA.” When Cassandra screams at Apollo, the god’s name breaks open in English: “Woepollo.”
Her critics are given at full strength. Emily Wilson praised the method and still found Carson’s Agamemnon “does too much of the work for us.” Daniel Mendelsohn judged her work, “to my mind,” the most distinguished reworking of classical models in a generation, and still objected to the “sentimental ‘fragmentist’ approach” of her Sappho. Their charges pull in opposite directions, and Carson works in the narrow strip between them. The essay leaves one question open: whether a cry can be carried from one language into another without being explained on the way.
A cry and a gap in one fragment, made for the essay.
Sixteen surrealists photographed with their eyes shut, round a painting of a woman the sentence says they do not see. A table of four pictures and four words, three of them wrong. Magritte built that table three times, and the one true word in it was a wager on a reader.
The caption is up. The picture hasn’t arrived, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
The essay starts from Jonathan Jones’s Guardian review of Gagosian’s “This Is Still Not a Pipe,” which hunts Magritte’s heirs among forty living artists, and puts his four-panel Clef des songes back among the surrealists instead: painted first in Breton’s Paris in 1927 while the movement wrote down its dreams, painted again in 1929 with no true word in it, in the year of the pipe and of the review that printed his axioms on words and images and the page of sixteen closed eyes, and painted last in Brussels in 1935, in English, for New York. In Brussels his friends proposed his titles round a table.
Then it reads the machines beside the first Manifesto. Writing with no author at its centre is what the surrealists asked for, and a captioner writing ninety-five sentences in every hundred of a training set is that wish granted; when the dream spoke at scale it said “actor on the red carpet.” The machines are Breton’s heirs, not Magritte’s, and they have done one thing the surrealists did not: put the caption before the picture, so that an image made from a prompt is an illustration of its title, which Magritte is said to have ruled out. The rival reading, that Magritte’s subject was the folly of decoding, is given at full strength and conceded. What is left is a question, not a verdict: who is reading the sentence under the picture now.
NASA wants a nuclear reactor running at the moon’s south pole by 2030. Russia promises one for China by 2036. When they stop, both say they will leave the radioactive material where it is. The treaty that governs the moon forbids planting a flag. It has nothing to say about drawing a circle.
The tracks come up to the line and turn away, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
The essay starts from a report in the New York Times on the race to put reactors on the moon and asks a question the report doesn’t: what happens to the ground around a reactor that nobody intends to remove? A reactor at power can’t be approached without shielding, so it sits inside a no-go zone, and the few ridges near the pole with sunlight above and ice below are the only places anyone wants to go. The Outer Space Treaty forbids appropriating the moon by sovereignty, use or occupation. A zone takes nothing; it makes ground nobody’s. So the treaty doesn’t reach it.
What we liked most is that the essay gives the other side its full strength before answering it: the polar dark is real, a cold launch is safer, the Artemis Accords do promise zones will end, and radioactivity does decay. Then it goes to the one place on Earth that has lived with a reactor nobody could remove, and to a 1972 Soviet novel that imagined the shape of such a place fourteen years before it existed. It ends on a question rather than a verdict: whether a place no one can enter is owned, or only lost, and who gets to decide.
A zone on ground follows the ground, made for the essay.
A hospital administrator has a million dollars and a five-year-old who needs a new liver. When psychologists asked people to judge him, it mattered not only what he chose but how long he took to choose it.
Intellicurean · Essays
Above All Price
On a hospital administrator’s hesitation, a hypothesis about scalar reward, and what Kant meant by a thing raised above all price
What has a price, and what is raised above it, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
The administrator, Robert, comes from Philip Tetlock’s research on “taboo trade-offs,” and his hesitation is where Above All Price begins. From there the essay sets a modern hypothesis against an old idea and lets a theorem judge between them. Richard Sutton’s reward hypothesis holds that every goal can be understood as maximizing a single number. Kant held that some things have no price at all, only a dignity “raised above all price.” A 2023 theorem shows that a single number cannot represent that kind of ranking. The essay then gives the other side its full due: the life-valuations that governments use in the open, precisely so that lives are not traded away in secret.
What we liked most is that it refuses the easy version of either side. It takes the arithmetic seriously, takes the numbers that keep public decisions honest seriously, and then asks a question neither can answer for itself: when a system is built to obey a number, who decides what the number is for?
A line the machine did not draw, made for the essay.
Socrates said written words can’t answer a question. Under a professor’s essay repeating his complaint, readers answered by the hundreds, and the professor answered them back, in writing.
Pages taking flight, and a man turned back at the stream, made for the essay.
Why we’re pointing you there
On September 29 The New York Times ran a guest essay by Joe Cruz, who chairs philosophy at Williams College, arguing that writing isn’t as important as we think. He leaned on Plato’s Phaedrus, where Socrates says a written text can’t answer questions or defend itself. Within a day about 1,200 readers had written back. Michael Cummins returns to the dialogue and finds three objections there, not one. He gives Cruz his due on the oral exam and on why universities love the essay. Then he follows the most-recommended reply in the thread: if at least half the class did better aloud, as many as half did not.
What we liked most is watching a thesis improve in public. Pressed by his commenters, Cruz conceded that writing is “no small thing,” perhaps one of the most profound tools we have for abstract thought, and he conceded it in writing. The essay goes on to defend the revision Cruz calls a refuge. It ends at the river in the Phaedrus, where Socrates turns back without anyone asking him to. A machine that will answer anything has met Socrates’ first objection. The essay asks whether it could ever meet that one.
Despite a hard-and-fast refusal to discuss Lilith for nearly six years on my social media platform, Jewitches, she remains the most popular question, request, and topic of discussion…Many know her as merely Adam’s first wife, the prequel to Eve, but her history is far more complex.
News, Views and Reviews For The Intellectually Curious
