That artificial-intelligence tools are penetrating our lives is becoming such a commonplace statement, to not require further discussion. Saying “AI is everywhere now” functions a bit like earlier refrains about smartphones, or social media. Think of the arc that went from Facebook-enthusiasm to backlash; or from Instagram filters, to “everything is fake.” The complaint is often about a perceived shift in authenticity and agency, or human “distinctiveness”. I am stating the obvious, if I recall how AI touches domains that were previously markers of “the human”: language, creativity, judgment, subjectivity. It is not that AI fully possesses these markers, but that it mimics enough surface signals of several markers at once, that the boundaries feel porous. When a machine encroaches there, it feels less like a new tool, a redefinition of the boundary. Our reaction becomes more existential than, say, when we complain about spreadsheets in office procedures. “AI is everywhere” is a shorthand for a whole bundle of anxieties: job displacement, epistemic trust (“what is real?”), creativity, personal identity. It’s vague enough that everyone can project their own unease onto it.
AI blurs effort and authorship. If I use a machine to lift a stone, no one questions my authorship (nor the dignity) of the act. But if I use AI to write a paragraph, where exactly did “Me” ended, and the tool began? Such ambiguity creates a social discomfort. The hiding, the denial (“wtf, I am not an AI user”) it is not resistance to the technology. It is a temporary mismatch between what people do and what they can admit without lowering their perceived value. If projected forward, this phase should resolve in either a shift of norms (“of course, everyone uses it”), or new forms of distinction will emerge (“of course I do, but I use it professionally, or transparently, or creatively”…) Right now, we are in that awkward middle where usage is widespread but legitimacy is still being negotiated.
So, the other day I was sitting in an airport, with a flight late by two hours because of weather conditions. I was reading an essay about Newton’s standing in the platonist vs empiricist challenge of XVII century England. Newton actually did not concern much himself with philosophy, and there is very little we could infer from his writings. He seems to anticipate Richard Feynman’s modern position “shut up and calculate”. While friendly with the Cambridge Platonists, Newton however rejected their central notion of “innate ideas”, and apparently felt more at ease with Locke’s empiricism. As he wrote, “I do not perceive that any idea whatever may be innate. And I do not take for a phenomenon only that which is made known to us by the five external senses, but also that which we contemplate in our minds when think.“
Those who know me in person, have repeatedly listened to my rants against Platonism in science. Of course, I would never pretend to put myself next to Newton and Feynman in their philosophical discussions, couldn’t be more far from me… but I can at least “stand on the shoulders of giants” :))
Then, to kill the waiting while anxiously looking at the airport billboard that announced delay after delay, I started playing with ChatGPT.
And I first asked it (or “her”…) to read a brief “anti-Platonist” note I had written, and turn it into a speech seemingly coming by Newton himself. The result was a bit bland. I asked to make it sound more like XVII-century old English. The result was a little better, now… ChatGPT suggested to add some sarcasm to it, but I corrected that Newton was not really the sarcastic type. More of a hypochondriac, selfish and misanthropist, if any. “So, please” — I always treat ChatGTP very kindly — “turn it into more melancholic, or even dark, and angry at the Platonists.” Now the result started to look good, grim, austere, solemn. But then, let’s have fun! And I asked to turn it into a parody, Newton speaking with the voice of Prospero, from Shakespeare’s The Tempest. The result was so good, I could not believe it. So, I decided to push it further, and asked ChatGPT to make it into a theatrical form, like a boasting actor’s performance, in which Newton-Prospero was unchaining the bolts of lightning, the rumble of thunder against the foolish defenders of Platonism in science :))
The result is quite shocking. I am certainly not an expert in Shakespearian literature, but can see the quality of the production… Quite amazing! The short poem is included at the end of this brief, for your – ahem – pleasure….
However, now I was getting eager to see more. In my mind, the idea of using this excerpt as an excuse for a Sunday letter was starting to take shape. Then, I thought that my French friends would also have maybe appreciated something more… French.
And so, I asked again ChatGPT to turn the piece into a theatrical scene, now from a tragedy of Racine. I wanted Newton speaking like a hero in buskins. The result was — again — unbelievable. The storm of words now turned into a contained, noble, courtly allegoria. Less of thunders crashing, and more fate tightening. All with a restrained, heroic voice: authority, gravity, almost sacred severity. Was I supposed to stop, now? No, of course! So, I “kindly asked” my robot friend to render the text into perfect Alexandrine verses, 12 syllables with cesura in the middle sentence. Please, add rhymes whenever possible, and stick to the text. An ode against the Platonist chimera.
Oh my god, that was SO great. I was shaking. Now we are getting close to perfection, hey Chat, let’s put the final touch. Let’s turn the tragic hero into a Ulysses. The Greek king of Ithaca has been the eponym of relentless search for knowledge. Who better than Him could symbolize the struggle for physical reality against the world of ideas? And there ChatGPT surpassed all my naive expectations. It introduced by its own invention, a dialog between Ulysses and a “Priest of the Platonic ideas” who exchanged their lines in a typical XVII-th century poetic challenge! I corrected just a few turns of phrases, and changed the priest into a Minister of the Cult of Apollon. And in the end, without me asking, ChatGPT added as a final cherry on the cake a closing choir epilogue, perfect crown to a baroque tragedy.
But let’s stop with my descriptions, and there you go, with the flow of AI-generated poetry, Shakespeare vs Racine! Hope you will enjoy!
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The Tempest of Reason: Newton’s Wrath Upon Platonism
Hear me!
Ye dreamers of shadows, conjurers of forms unbound by hand or eye, hearken!
I have seen farther than ye, not by wandering in empty ether,
But by bending mine eyes to the motions of Earth and Heaven,
By listening to the drum of air, the trembling rock,
The whispering waves, the roar of thunder—
These speak, and no idle thought may summon their truth from nothingness.
Fools!
Ye imagine triangles perfect, numbers eternal, theorems floating like ghosts
Free from resistance, weight, or the touch of matter.
They exist not in airy voids,
Nor wait upon the herald of human wit.
They rise only in the forge of the mind,
Hammered upon the anvil of the senses,
Tempered in the fire of reason.
The eye perceives—
The ear trembles—
The hand measures—
And thus alone doth understanding take form.
Mark me!
The world presses upon us with unerring law.
It strikes!
It quivers!
It resists!
It obeys not the fancy of philosophers.
Mathematics is but a lantern, held aloft to illumine what is,
Not a sovereign to conjure truth from dreams.
Quake, ye Platonists!
As the tempest quakes the timbers of a ship,
I cast upon you the storms of observation,
The lightning of reason,
The roar of measured law!
Stand, if ye must, upon the shoulders of giants—
Yet these giants are wrought of matter, of motion, of tangible reality,
Not airy dreams!
Those who float above the senses
Shall find themselves dashed upon the rocks of experience,
Swept by the relentless winds of truth,
And driven into the empty void of their conceit.
Hear it!
Reality is felt, perceived, measured.
No abstraction may rival it.
No form exists beyond the reach of the senses.
And whosoever forgets this,
Let thunder remind them,
Let the weight of matter chastise them,
Let the storm of reason carry their folly away!
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ULYSSE ET LE PRÊTRE D’APOLLON
ULYSSE
Quoi ? Toujours égaré dans vos songes trompeurs,
Vous peuplez le néant d’illustres imposteurs ?
J’ai trop vu, trop souffert, pour croire à ces chimères :
Le vrai naît sous mes pas, dans des forces austères.
LE PRÊTRE
Seigneur, ce que vous voyez passe et se détruit ;
Le vrai ne dépend point du monde qui s’enfuit.
Il est des lois plus hautes, immuables, certaines,
Dont vos sens incertains ne saisissent que l’ombre.
ULYSSE
L’ombre ? Et qui donc m’a sauvé des fureurs de la mer ?
Qui m’a guidé la nuit, qui m’a fait éviter
Les pièges, les écueils, les monstres et les flammes,
Sinon ce que je touche et mesure de mes âmes ?
Les sens sont mon empire, et c’est par leur lumière
Que le vrai se distingue et fuit votre chimère.
LE PRÊTRE
Vos sens vous ont servi, mais ils sont infidèles ;
L’esprit seul voit le vrai dans ses clartés éternelles.
ULYSSE
L’esprit seul ? Mais sur quoi bâtit-il ses raisons ?
Sur quels appuis secrets fonde-t-il ses leçons ?
Sans le choc du réel qui l’éveille et l’éclaire,
Il erre, et se construit un monde imaginaire.
LE PRÊTRE
Ce monde que vous vantez n’est qu’un voile trompeur.
ULYSSE
Il trompe moins que vous, et frappe avec vigueur.
Il résiste, il contraint, il corrige, il enseigne :
C’est lui seul dont la loi véritable nous règne.
LE PRÊTRE
Ainsi vous renversez l’ordre intelligible ?
ULYSSE
Je renverse un orgueil stérile et trop sensible,
Qui, fuyant le réel, se fait maître du rien,
Et nomme Vérité ce qu’il ne prouve en rien.
Des nombres, des rapports, vous faites des puissances
Qui règnent, dites-vous, au-delà des substances.
LE PRÊTRE
Mais ces formes, Seigneur, que l’esprit pur contemple…
ULYSSE
Sont l’écho de nos sens, non quelque antique temple.
Le nombre est un outil, non un dieu souverain ;
Il sert ce que je vois, il ne crée pas le grain.
LE PRÊTRE
Faut-il donc renoncer à ces hauteurs sublimes ?
ULYSSE
Oui, si c’est pour tomber dans de vaines abîmes.
Descendez : tout vous parle, et rien n’est superflu ;
Le monde seul instruit—le reste est un abus.
CHŒUR
Ô trouble des esprits ! ô lutte redoutable !
L’un fonde sur le monde, et l’autre sur le sable.
Faut-il suivre les sens, leur voix rude et certaine,
Ou croire un pur éclat que nulle main n’enchaîne ?
Le monde nous atteint, nous presse et nous conduit ;
Mais l’esprit, en secret, se séduit et se fuit.
Craignons ces vains savoirs qu’un orgueil démesuré
Élève contre tout ce que le vrai nous fait.
Qui fuit ce qui résiste embrasse une ombre vaine ;
Qui nie le poids du monde à lui-même s’enchaîne.
Mais qui, trop attaché aux signes passagers,
Oublie que la raison peut aussi les juger ?
Marchons entre ces deux : que l’un par l’autre s’éclaire !
Que le monde soit juge, et l’esprit nécessaire.