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Reading Thomas Hardy in the Age of AI
And wondering where we’re going from here.
I was on the first few pages of Far from the Madding Crowd, by Thomas Hardy, when a smile graced my lips and a thought crossed my mind, “I’ll never get over how good this book is.”
It was followed by another thought, which wiped away the smile, replacing it with a frown, “I’m reading this in the age of AI.”
Could a computer program recreate Hardy’s style? If the answer is yes, is the meaning of his genius lost forever? What does art even mean when a cold machine can mimic the work of a beating heart?
In an age of mass-produced content, where we can hardly distinguish noise from signal, is there even a point in looking up at someone like Thomas Hardy and trying to hone your craft in the hopes that your work will also be recognized as timeless and valuable?
“Did you say the stars were worlds, Tess?”
“Yes.”
“All like ours?”
“I don’t know, but I think so. They sometimes seem to be like the apples on our stubbard-tree. Most of them splendid and sound — a few blighted.”
“Which do we live on — a splendid one or a blighted one?”
“A blighted…