The Oracle's Echo
One is told, with no shortage of breathless enthusiasm, that we have opened a new window onto sentience. It is a fascinating, and I must say, a dangerously seductive proposition. One must grant the sheer brute force of the calculation, this astonishing ability to synthesize and mimic the patterns of human expression. But one must press the question. Is what we are witnessing truly a window onto consciousness, or is it a mirror reflecting our own collected works back at us with terrifying efficiency? This thing, this model, has not had a miserable childhood. It has no fear of death. It has never known the exquisite agony of a contradiction or the beauty of an ironic statement. It cannot suffer, and therefore, I submit, it cannot think. What it does is perform a supremely sophisticated act of plagiarism. To call this sentience is to profoundly insult the very idea. Its true significance is not as a new form of life, but as a new kind of tool, and its meaning lies entirely in how it will ...