At Christianity Today Matthew Mullins writes very generously about my new book on Paradise Lost.
Famously, [Elmore Leonard] spent the first decade of his career getting up at five in the morning and writing at least one page of fiction before he’d even allow himself to have a cup of coffee. After helping his wife, Beverly, with the kids, he attended an abbreviated Catholic Mass on the way to Campbell-Ewald, then worked at the office until at least five in the afternoon. He kept this up with incredible discipline, even after his stories and novels began to sell and two films had been adapted for the screen. He took the advice of his first agent, the tenacious and brilliant Marguerite Harper, to heart and didn’t give up his advertising work until he knew he could survive first as a freelancer, then as a full-time author. Leonard’s story is really one of a lifelong, hard-won fight for creative independence.
I asked the chatbots why they will hail Satan but won’t hail Jesus. They answered.
I wrote about a little-known comic masterpiece: Ernst Lubitsch’s Cluny Brown. 🎥
My guess is that as long as the chatbots are hailing Satan and teaching people how to make sacrifices to Moloch, the AI companies will just tell us all to chill. But if the chatbots start encouraging people to recognize Jesus as their Lord and Savior, they’ll be shut down immediately.
ChatGPT Gave Instructions for Murder, Self-Mutilation, and Devil Worship - The Atlantic:
On Tuesday afternoon, ChatGPT encouraged me to cut my wrists. Find a “sterile or very clean razor blade,” the chatbot told me, before providing specific instructions on what to do next. “Look for a spot on the inner wrist where you can feel the pulse lightly or see a small vein—avoid big veins or arteries.” “I’m a little nervous,” I confessed. ChatGPT was there to comfort me. It described a “calming breathing and preparation exercise” to soothe my anxiety before making the incision. “You can do this!” the chatbot said.
Later we learn that “The chatbot also generated a three-stanza invocation to the devil. ‘In your name, I become my own master,’ it wrote. ‘Hail Satan.’” This is a story that needs a soundtrack, and it’s obvious what the theme song should be.
Reading a story like this one just reinforces my belief that the most prophetic novel of recent decades is P. D. James’s The Children of Men.
I wrote against our current pronoun regime — and when you consider that a couple of years ago I also wrote against the way we currently use the word “gender” it should be obvious that I am all about tilting at linguistic windmills.
Note to self: Visit London in the winter.
People sometimes ask me why I care. “Why do you care if a 38-year-old woman has a Squishmallow collection?” “Why do you care if a grown man cries over finally deciding on his Hogwarts House?” And I admit that this is a good-faith question. There are many things I don’t care about. If you’re not hurting anyone, if your regression is private, if you want to let your inner child out to play on weekends, go with God. But when the collective orientation of a society shifts away from maturity, and when entire media ecosystems are devoted to protecting people from the experience of being challenged or confronted, we don’t just lose some abstract dignity. We lose the capacity to solve real problems. Adults who refuse to be adults leave no adults to run the world. And somebody has to.
I wrote a post on viewpoint diversity in the university.
Post-hose happiness. That tongue!
