Sunday Book-Thought 71

I remember being enchanted as a kid with the early Hardy Boys books by Franklin W. Dixon, but after a certain point in the series, the magic seemed to disappear. It wasn’t until more than fifteen years later I discovered the Franklin W. Dixon never existed. The first sixteen books were written by a man named Leslie McFarlane. The next twenty were written by eleven different people. What I’d chalked up to the loss of something intangible in those later books was in fact the loss of something very tangible indeed: the author.
Aesthetic experiences like these for me are like an unending series of blind dates where you never follow up, conversations with a stranger on the bus (or the Internet) where you never catch the other person’s name. There’s nothing wrong with them –  they’re pleasant, sometimes memorable, even illuminating – and all relationships start somewhere. But to live a whole life like that?
Brian ChristianThe Most Human Human: What Artificial Intelligence Teaches Us About Being Alive (London: Penguin, 2012 [first published New York: Doubleday, 2011]), p. 31.

Have something to say?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s