Manny > Recent Status Updates

"In jeder Geschichte geht es um andere Dinge", erklärte Cordelia geduldig. "In den Pamela-Romanen geht es um Leidenschaft und Pamelas. In den Märchen geht es um Zauberei. In dem Buch über Schafskrankheiten, geht es um Schafskrankheiten. In dem Krimi um Indizien. Wenn wir wissen, was für ein Art von Geschichte es ist, wissen wir, worauf wir achten müssen."

Da sier han en ting, som gjør henne fullt våken. Du sa først: Jeg elsker dig --

Sa jeg? Det var vel i et eller annet øieblikk da --? Det var vel i armen din det? Alberte leter forvirret i erindringen. Når sa hun disse utrolige ord? Bebreidet han henne ikke nettop at --?

Du sa det. Og det er en feil. Det er mannen som først skal si denslags.

To mennesker er vi og flere enn to. Det er stunder da hun kjenner sitt eget sinn som en dårlig oplyst valplass, hvor en kamp bølger frem og tilbake. Mange er de som slåss der. En kan spørre sig selv, hvor det en kaller sitt jeg egentlig slutter og begynner.

[I wonder if this is a reference to "Dover Beach"? The image is related, but not quite the same, and she rarely quotes English authors]

I feel very sorry for the copyeditor, who, apart from two distinct dialects of Norwegian, has had to correct passages written in French, Swedish, Danish, English, German, and, fercryinoutloud, Breton. You will not be surprised to hear that they sometimes get it wrong.

The sheep just can't figure out what the man in black is talking about with this "God" person. Sometimes he's a shepherd and sometimes he's a lamb. On one occasion, a sheep got taken to the house with the pointy roof and there was a man hanging from the wall, bleeding, but you couldn't smell the blood. It all looks extremely suspicious. Could "God" be the murderer?

Litt efter hører de andre Jeanne hulke og Pierre tale lavt og beroligende.

Inatt, tenker Alberte mekaniskt: Inatt -

Natten kommer og er ganske riktig en av dem, da hun må dra teppet over hodet for ikke å høre Jeannes intense, overstrømmende hvisken, hennes taushet og lykkelige sukk, knakningen av sengen deres der inne.

Autonomous vehicles won't just disrupt the jobs of people who sit physically behind the wheel. As truck drivers lose their jobs to automation, there will be less need for people to do truckers' payroll and for retail workers in roadside convenience stores and motels. There'll be less need for people to clean truck stop bathrooms, and lower demand for sex workers in the places truckers frequent today.

A crucial challenge over the coming decades will be helping countries that fall into the grey area between autocracy and democracy make the transition to fully democratic governance. Part of this will depend on careful use of AI to promote openness and transparency while minimising its potential to be abused for authoritarian surveillance or to spread disinformation.

As technology advances, a replicant (as well as those of us who have not died) will have a variety of bodies and types of bodies to choose from.

The book's first two words, Dramatis Oves, are a great start.

I wondered if the author's name was a pseudonym chosen by a Proust fan. ChatGPT-5.5 immediately confirmed the pseudonym. It can't find solid evidence for the Proust part, but agrees that it's hard to write off as a coincidence. I shall look out for further evidence in the text.

Skjelvende på hånden legger Alberte boken fra sig, tar den ikke op igjen. Noen ord i den gjorde ont i henne, sved som salt i sår. Harde, ubarmhjertige, traff de blink og skånte ikke. Mannsord. Tenkt av en mann, skrevet ned av en mann.

Dontcha just hate it when your butch lesbian friend virtually tries to rape you, and then you receive an unexpected proposal of marriage from a nice male acquaintance you aren't the least bit attracted to but feel rather sorry for, both on the same afternoon and moreover when it's stiflingly hot and you have a headache?

Vokt Dem for Deres hjerte, sier Alphonsine.

I den lille pausen, mens Alphonsine påny overveier, bøier Potter sig frem over bordet og sier lavt til Alberte: Men are like hungry dogs, I always told you ---

Og hun slår over i sitt langsomme, omstendelige og oforbederlige amerikanerfransk og sier høit, til hele selskapet: Det er kvinnens ulykke at hun tenker med hjertet. Mannen, han tenker med noe som sitter lavere.

Ord kastes fra tid til annen mot henne, imellem morsomme, undertiden pene, aldri grove og rå som hjemme. Det verste er det korte, lave: Tu viens? nakent som en ordre til en slave. Men går en fort og later som ingenting, faller det hele bort av sig selv. Det hender det gjøres godt igjen med en undskyldning, Pardon madame.

Dokker, småpian te storkaran, sier Cedolf uten å svare og uten all sammenhang, likesom til sig selv. Ka Dokker tror, vi vil Dokker, sier han og drar plutselig ubestemmelige menneskemasser inn i spørsmålet, gjør det kollektivt: Ka farken? Tror Dokker, vi estimerer å renne efter Dokker bare for -

De renner jo efter mig, sier Alberte med krenkt verdighet.

Ja! Æ så mig så nødsaget til det, sier Cedolf.

Samme syn møter henne på alle kanter, sørgelige fremtoninger i etslags slapt og opgitt på stedet hvil, med brystet inn og maven ut, hengende skuldrer og et utstyr av kraftigt betonte detaljer, så en ikke tror sine øine. Istedenfor føtter og hender har de noe som ligner våtter og svømmeføtter. Ansiktene er bare en klatt.

Dette er altså kunst, tenker hun forvirret.

A bit less than halfway through the book, the sun has just risen for the first time.

Well, that's what it's like living inside the Arctic Circle.

Ou ap gen tan rive nan dispanse-a. Mwen-menm, m'ap sot lekel a katre. Ou ap vin jwenn mwen?

Tu [verbe] a temps arriver à dispensaire-là. Moi-même, moi [verbe] sortir l'ècole à quatre-heures. Tu [verbe] venir joindre moi?

You have time to get to the pharmacy. Me, I'm getting out of school at four o'clock. You coming to meet me?

So far, it's kind of like a Norwegian version of Memoires d'une jeune fille rangée, though written about thirty years earlier. I wonder if she'll later meet a Norwegian version of Sartre? (Don't tell me if you know, like everyone else I hate spoilers).

It also turns out that I can discuss the Krèyol sentences with the AI in French using Voice Mode. It says not to trust its pronunciation too much, but given that I have no idea where to find a native speaker who'd be interested in helping me it's a whole lot better than nothing.

So the Singularity can't happen cuz stuff. I may be oversummarising the argument, but I think only by a little.

Now up to Leson Kat.

ChatGPT-5.5 turns out to know Krèyol well and is a very helpful teacher. If there's a sentence I don't understand, I just ask it to create an image and I get one a minute later.

So the person who coded the Apollo 11 landing module's computer was a woman. How strange that she isn't famous!

LWI: Bonjou, ti dam. Ki jan ou ye?

MARI: M' byen, wi.

LWI: Se pitit-ou?

MARI: Wi se pitit-mwen.

LWI: Ki jan li rele?

MARI: Li rele Sadrak.

LWI: M' rele Lwi. E ou-menm, ki jan ou rele?

MARI: M' rele Mari.

Few today would challenge the notion that the Haitian Creole is a language in its own right, and although its vocabulary is indeed about 90% French-based, that it is neither a pidginized nor a derivative form of French.

Vet du hur många hjälporganisationer det finns i Haiti? Flera tusen, som åstadkommer just ingenting. Men en sak är dom helvetes bra på: att tala om för oss haitier vad vi ska ha för tro! Luther lärjungar förökar sig som råttor här, och deras främsta hatobjekt är vodoun. Inte orättvisa eller vår kära lilla överklass som har allt och gärna vill ha mer, utan vår tro, människornas tro.

- Bonswa mam, beswen de chanm yo pou you nui, sople.

Det var inga ord hon kände igen, det måste vara kreol. Hittills hade hon känt sig trygg med sin franska, men hur skulle hon göra sig förstådd på det här språket?

[Jag gissar att det ska vara "Bonsoir madame, besoin de chambre une pour la nuit, s'il vous plaît"]

Pappa pratade alltid om "oron" som en liten motor som satt i henne. Det var först när hon blev äldre att hon förstod att denna "oro" var ett begrepp bland urmakare, själva hjärta i en mekanisk klocka. Det var ett vackert ord, men i dagens digitala värld fanns det inte mer. Ingen visste längre vad det hade för betydelse.

We are creating a non-biological form of intelligence that, at its seed, is a replica of the masculine geek mind. In its infancy it is being assigned the mission of enabling the capitalist, imperialist ambitions of the few - selling, spying, killing and gambling.

It's interesting to compare this book with If Anyone Builds It, Everyone Dies. Despite the fact that Gawdat is writing several years earlier, he strikes me as much more in touch with the realities of the situation: it's too late to stop superintelligence from happening, a capitalist society doesn't work that way. Our only option is to figure out how to deal with it.