Novus Ludus, Part III

On the Humanization of the Machine

IT WOULD BE more than legitimate at this point in our discourse if we paused to ask a question on behalf of technology, which, after all, has no defense today other than universal popular adulation. We have so far traced the development of technology at least schematically and in outline, from its first emergence in human life through the historically essential moment in which it “turned inward,” and thereafter through to the present moment, which finds us yet in the midst of that latest and most crucial epoch of its unfolding. We have found that its advancement so far has been a slow ascent of mimicry, raising it from the lowest or most base-necessary of human functions—those essential for merest survival—up to the highest, most immediately superfluous, and noblest—contemplation, reflection, and imagination among their ranks. We have noted the tendency of technology to limit or to lame that which it initially was implemented to exalt and empower, and we have identified the greatest danger of this as the extirpation from the soul of its powers of philosophy and art.
      But one might well stop us here, one might object that we have stalled a process before it has been allowed to reach its consummation—have, indeed, stopped it before its finest and most wondrous flight. For if technology has already come so far as this, could it not also develop to encompass those two grand peaks of the human spirit on whose behalf we are writing? Could technology not finally become philosophic and artistic—and can we not even anticipate that it is even now readying itself for this?
      We are speaking of what is to some a dream and to others a nightmare; to some an inevitability and to others an improbability. We are speaking of the creation of a complete “man-made man.” We speaking in a word of artificial intelligence—the notion that man might make a god in his own image, which is fundamentally different than his historic attempts to make himself in the image of a god. I would like to try to explain why I fear this, more than nearly any other possibility today, and foresee nothing emerging from it save for a monster that not even the wild imagination of Mary Shelley could have fancied or forewarned. And to begin particularly with the notion of a philosophical or artistic technology in particular, I would like to explain why I consider it not only improbable, but actually impossible.
      The fundamental reason for this impossibility is simply this: philosophy and art are not human functions, while technology concerns itself with nothing other than human functions. This may well seem an arbitrary or emptily semantic objection, based, as it is, on the definition I myself have drawn of technology; but the measure of any definition is its ability to expand our knowledge of the subject at hand, and for the moment I beg the reader not to abandon the work we have done, which is only now beginning to take on true seriousness.
      Now, a function, any function of any thing, may be described more specifically as a power or a capacity that serves an end. Thus, the function of a stomach is digestion, and of the heart, circulation; thus the function of a button is (for example) to initiate a given process; and thus even mathematical functions are so called by a sort of metaphoric remove because of their quality of producing one discreet result for every one discreet value chosen. The stones of the earth, the strange gyrations of microscopic particles, the vast turning of these mute galaxies beyond the field of our reckoning—none of this has a function, or at least, no function of which we are aware. A sunset has no function; neither has the sea, nor indeed those pearl-and-emerald beaches which sometimes dot her coast in more fortunate climes. Neither does the butterfly have a function, unless we be proponent to certain theories of biology which like to describe the end of any organism as survival, procreation, etc., in which case its function is in effecting these ends. Without the notion of an end, a product toward which one was all along aiming, one does not speak of functions.
      Philosophy and art are unique or almost unique among human activity for this: they have no necessary end beyond themselves. I do not mean to say by this what would be patently false: namely, that they do not sometimes or even much of the time possess or propose aims, ends, purposes, wills, hopes, flights and fancies; nor would I by any means devalue such goals, which are often among the highest given our race. But these are not fundamental to them, not essential. And insofar as they become fundamental or essential during the course of some philosophical or artistic activity, we cease to speak of philosophy or art proper, and begin instead to speak, for example, of apologetics, advocacy, propaganda, entertainment, &co. What is essential to art and philosophy is that they exist for their own sake; they are practices which one can regard as final, both for the practitioners and to a lesser extent for those who truly experience them. They participate in beauty and truth, and all the intersections of these, in all their unworldliness, enigma, and ambiguity. It may be that they are the only human activities which participate in creation, that they are the only divine human activities.
      Very well—given that technology is a thing as we have defined it, something decidedly function-oriented (and I think we have at least seen enough to appreciate the power of such a definition); given that art and philosophy are not functions, but rather something altogether finer, nobler, higher, rarer; admitting even that technology as it now stands is incapable of touching this more elevated kingdom at its periphery: nonetheless, what is to prohibit technology from transcending its sources, and becoming something greater than it were at its commencement?
      The first obstruction I would like to mention to this is a practical one—but what is merely practical becomes of decisive importance when we are dealing with a subject, the very heart of which is practical. A peculiarity of technological and even often enough scientific advancement, as opposed to philosophical and to artistic, is that it requires enormous quantities of money to proceed. The philosopher and the artist have need of money in order to survive, of in some cases to procure materials upon which to work; money is incidental to their activity, while it is indispensable to the technological expression of science. But unlike scientists themselves, money is never disinterested; when money is introduced into any affair, there is immediately introduced with it a vector tendency—a certain directionality and inclination, which grows stronger the more money has been brought to bear. This is the nature of money’s particular power, and it itself is inseparable from that power. To understand any expensive project—and in general the more advanced the developments of technology, they more costly they are—we must look to the funds which threw it to its course.
      Now, the very system by and through which our technology is developed, refined, and ultimately produced is itself implicated indivisibly in pragmatic urges. The majority of technological developments today go either to flood the markets with trinkets and gadgets, each of which is designed to feed the many simplistic hungers of that hydra known as the consumer market, or else to subsidize this very process through a veritable hierarchy of secondary and tertiary activities, as, machines to produce these trinkets and gadgets, or machines to aid in the gathering or extraction of fuel sources to energize the entire process, etc. The technology which is so schemed, patented, and marketed by its very nature can have nothing to do with philosophy or art; these concerns are essentially foreign and even alien to the needs and desires which technology is meant to satisfy. The larger part of technological innovation ends, either directly or indirectly, with the satisfaction of the roving whims of a never-satiated, eternally-bored populace, that requires nothing so much as that great nostrum of forgetting to distract them and carry them away from any glimmer of the seriousness of life. From such a birth as that, technology cannot attain anything higher than accidental or occasional greatness or profundity, and then, only insofar as exceptional humans intervene.
      Reflect a moment, I beg, on what philosophy or art should be without greatness or profundity—and if dreaming does not here suffice, then get yourself to what cinema or “modern art” exhibit you will, and open your own eyes to the meaning of it.
      A good deal of money for research comes from private sources—either extremely wealthy individuals or corporations, or else associations designed to raise money for this or that project. Because these sources are private, it is impossible to predict the form it will take. The danger, I would hope, is perfectly evident: artificial intelligence represents power, a power perhaps unheard of and unimagined; and so the persons most attracted to the notion of designing an artificial intelligence will include those most attracted to the idea of wielding such power. There is nothing to guarantee that such persons will be responsible human beings; on the contrary, there is good historical precedent to expect and to assume the contrary. Or have there never been power-hungry scapegraces in this world, and have they never been responsible for injuries against their fellow man? In any case I think it it suffices to glance at any number of the proposals of the so-called “transhumanists” to see the scope of the enormity even now upon us. More particularly yet, listen carefully to the tone with which they speak of the various apocalyptic scenarios that, as they freely admit, well might follow of their tampering. The most sober and careful of them insist upon sobriety and care in the research that is now coming. But precisely insofar as the researchers behind the development of these technologies are not public but private entities, this can in no way be guaranteed nor even responsibly hoped for. We do not grant, for instance, weapons of mass destruction to private individuals; we do not give private individuals the right to decide the destiny of other private individuals, to say nothing of the destiny of the entirety of humankind. Yet evidently when it comes to the production of potentially catastrophic super-intelligent machines, we should somehow take a complacently libertarian attitude, and leave each to his own.
      As for the remainder of technological achievement, it is in general funded by the government, and thus almost always serves the sake of national defense, no matter how indirectly. Consider, for example, our languishing space program in the United States: to be sure, there is and has always been in such programs an element of sheer national pride in our engineering and mathematical superiority (supposing we can claim such any more), for we are as industrious a race of machinists and bridge-builders as has ever lived. But one is hard-pressed to imagine the success of our space program, had it not been for the Red Menace once bleeding out of Russia into our world maps. Indeed, since the fall of the Soviet, the space program has contracted startlingly, and has had to content itself with mere shadows of its former glory—sending a very expensive robot to Mars, for example, to shovel dust into its mouth in search of traces of alien and probably long-extinct life; or hurling a camera out into the void arches of space to photograph distant nebulae and starclusters in somewhat bleak reminder of how minute and forlorn is our globe. At best, our space program now is awaiting a second golden age, in which some great power abroad might again menace us into that hyperbolic activity of which we are occasionally and by spurts capable.
      Thus do we illustrate the connection between the militarism of the state and even the very best of scientific achievement. But I hope I need not say that anything like “artificial intelligence” resulting even indirectly from a military origin should be at its best a horrifying machine of potential destruction, and should have nothing at all even remotely reckoning to do with the highest of human things.
      What remains to us is that field of disinterested “pure research” which makes up the smallest, but certainly the most exalted part of scientific endeavor: that part of science which itself exists for no external end other than knowledge, and which is thus almost self-sufficient and complete. It and it alone could be disinterested enough to produce an artificial mind of real caliber; indeed, one could fault it only for that trait precisely—its disinterestedness. For, not to speak of the finer failings of that estimable virtue, it seldom if ever cares to dabble in the practical application of its ideas. Supposing it did dedicate itself to the production of a true—which is to say, whole and unabridged—artificial intelligence, yet here the trouble resurfaces: it must seek out its funds somewhere or other, and the most likely of sources are those already mentioned, so that even the best of what arises through disinterested research will likely come perverted into something fit for the twin ends of political power-lust and the present human addiction to forgetfulness. I might add a merely rhetorical barb to this consideration: even supposing the success of such pure scientists in the production of a machine made in their image, is this truly the nature we hope for an artificial super-intelligence—that it be but a scientist writ large?
      So much for technology as it is produced today. Perhaps all of this, however, fails to persuade. There is after all something which glitters about the dream of artificial intelligence—the desire, old as man is old, and fortunately still to be found in us, to hurl ourselves far beyond the humility of our terrestrial origins, into some distant and empyreal zone. What I have said may, after all, be only the inconvenient hurtle over which we must leap in our journey to god-head. Yet despite that I too cherish this hope, I am obliged to say that there is also something insidious about it in the form it takes today: there is a way in which it represents a total abnegation of our very human responsibility. To make a god beyond ourselves already relieves us of the task to make ourselves more divine; and therefore it does not carry us with it into its shining celeste, but leaves us behind, earth-bound and small and forgiven in all our lesser qualities, upon this mote of cosmic dust we call our home. Indeed, in a certain way this dream has even and with appalling complacency resigned us to the untransmutable baseness of our origins. Though I take this dream and its continued existence to demonstrate that we are not yet lost, even though we be wandering, yet I must indicate also the way in which it is naught better than the abandonment of that from which it seems to come. And indeed, in a deep way I take this subtle and secret default to bespeak most clearly a twist in the heart of modern endeavor, a seed of molding potential that cannot help but produce results radically incomplete, and, from the standpoint of a proud and full humanity, even crippled.
      There is no way around it. We must delve to the very bottom of technology, if we may, to see anything clearly at all about our situation.
      Now technology is the fruit of science; the part of our definition we have so far lain aside is that to do with this provenance. And science is distinct from philosophy only in respect of its method. That method shuns all theorizing which is not susceptible of empirical validation. Science thus tacitly redefines truth as that which is practically demonstrable. Here is to be found the root-most dispute between science and the philosophy which fathered it: this is the reason the two did not nor could not maintain a single destiny: science, as against philosophy, does not consider as valid any discourse or investigation which cannot yield directly or indirectly testable predictions. Science, as in that well celebrated and poorly understood aphorism of Francis Bacon, defines knowledge as power, in a very deep and a very specific sense.
      Science has attempted to subject the entire world to its method without remainder, and has consequently and unintentionally isolated in the world two distinct parts: that which is totally susceptible of scientific method, like physics and chemistry, and that which is not, or is only partially, like economics, psychology, history, &co. The former one calls the “hard sciences,” the latter, at best, the “soft sciences”—or, if one is seeking out a somewhat more opprobrious and encompassing term, one might hit upon “the humanities.” As regards this recalcitrant second category, there are two reigning ideas as to why it has not yet been assimilated by the hard sciences—two ideas which, nonetheless, yield the same result. One idea has it that these humanities will never be understood scientifically because their subject is not governed by any scientifically discernible law, and consequently their study is doomed to be fragmentary, incomplete, subject to constant alternation and fecklessness, and probably also incurably arbitrary. The other idea responds, in a more rigorously scientistic mood, that this is merely the situation for a time the longer, and that one day these humanities, too, shall be understood as completely as the hard sciences—namely, as soon as these humanities have been reduced to the hard sciences. Thence the door into psychology, for example, is a chemico-physical comprehension of neuro-science, which even today is making great strides toward being able to describe the human being and his mentality in an encompassing and thorough way, or else it is to be found in statistical analyses of enormous batteries of studies and tests, or else some combination of these two things.
      No matter which of these two routes one prefers, however—whether one abandons the humanities altogether with an indifferent shrug at their imprecision, or whether one instead patiently awaits their absorption into the extant body of science—the present attitude of science regardless remains the same towards this unscientific category of human thought and activity: one is pleasantly condescending toward it, as toward a child—or better yet, as towards one’s elder grandfather who has lately entered into the deep dotage of his second childhood. One smiles nicely across the campus to those contrary departments on the other side and their dwindling members; one is friendly with them, for they are in general, after all, quite a sympathetic lot. And one tries not to hold their chosen careers against them—for, after all, a person has to do something in life, and not everyone is cut out to be a scientist. But one carries on in the happy knowledge that what one is oneself producing, even if it be but to gnaw upon a scrap of knowledge in the humblest corner of the scientific universe, is of more lasting value than all the wild fantasies entertained by the poor artist in his garret or that addle-brained philosopher staring unastronomically into the sky.
      Do I exaggerate? Perhaps I exaggerate. It is indubitable at least that some scientists have the right to exempt themselves from this criticism. Yet I might wonder how many of those scientists who lament the lack of scientific preparation in their humanities counterparts, hold themselves to a similar rigorous standard in their knowledge of philosophy, literature, history, or music. They might well argue that such immersion is simply not as important to them, as immersion in the sciences would be to a professor of some branch of the humanities; and I might well rest my case.
      So much for the attitude of the sciences toward the humanities. But I should like a moment to better consider this term, the humanities; it is a curious word, and, I think, one that is highly revelatory of our situation. “Humanity” of course in the primary sense means nothing but the sum total of human beings. In a deeper and derivative sense it comes to encompass that in us which is most basically human: it is thus one thing, and not many, and it is universal to all those who deserve the title “human being.” The humanities—here strangely in the plural—what could these be, but the product of humanity, the subjects most basically tied to that basic nature and its destiny? What could they be but the first manifestations of our humanity?
      Yet this is precisely the field that science has not succeeded in comprehending through its method. Let us put it more strongly yet: science, which today claims (if only tacitly and by general accord) not indeed to be one method of human understanding, but the method, has not succeeded in understanding humanity itself in even a minimally satisfactory way. It is as if this great and, let us be quick to note, greatly impressive web has sprung out from the center of our endeavors to cover the whole of the cosmos, but has left—as these webs often do—an enormous void direct at its center, where dangles the spider herself: so that the only thing the net has failed to catch, is its weaver. It has approached the world like some kind of monstrously inverted Socrates, going at the things around man first, and trying through them to understand him. Or, what is a thousand times worse, more hopelessly convoluted, and more frankly ludicrous, it goes about trying to understand man, through the machines he has built, comprehending his thinking as computation, his knowledge as information, his ideas as data sets. And all honor to the pragmatic knowledge it has garnered from this investigation, which surpasses all other knowledge of its kind—but how can any tool of knowledge acquisition lay claim to be final, that has not got to the heart of humanity itself?
      This feature of science—indeed, this abysmal and amazingly tolerated failure of science—is at the core of a crisis which was noted with clarion call by Husserl in the last century. Whatever the worth of the solution he proposed, the crisis remains, yet has waxed great in scope insofar as it has grown to be a part of us. For nothing is so terrifying about our crisis as the fact that we have become habituated to it, that we are even now habituating ourselves to it and even incorporating it into our own bodies and souls; nothing is so disturbing about this crisis, than that we do not see it as a crisis.
      Yet its spawn and progeny are all about us in the form of the technology we have in this very essay been critiquing. We have already made note of the tendency of technology to atrophy those very of our powers it would improve; we are now in a position to state our position yet more trenchantly and rigorously: technology, insofar as it seeks to replace those potencies of the human soul which are particularly human, succeeds only in supplanting something organic and potentially complete with something scientific and necessarily partial. In our development as mechanical and technological beings we are literally becoming less human; we are destroying or forgetting the parts of ourselves that are fundamentally human, burying them under heaps of robotic and electronic gadgetry and under invisible but smothering fields of “information.” We are re-creating ourselves through the half-blind lens of science. Even if technology augments parts of us with extraordinary results—even if it expands certain of our powers to unbelievable bounds—the price for this self-expansion shall be nothing less than our humanity itself, which, no matter how comparatively small in certain respects, is yet a far higher thing than any of the most marvelous marvels that technology has thus far been able to supply us. Insofar as we fail to see the true hollowness of these potencies, it is because we are already that far lacking in humanity; our souls are already being robbed of us; and as consequence, we come to view all this with the same simple appetites and the same daily aims as the beasts of the field. We play Faust to a tin-penny Devil, and earn not even its genius for the price of our souls.
      It is clear then what our artificial intelligence would be, should we succeed in fabricating it: naught but a fantastical fragment of a human being writ to absurd proportions, a being awesome for its size and awful for its corresponding emptiness, a mind lacking in every redeeming, redeemable feature of the human soul. It would, moreover, be a creature unable to ascend or to transcend this nature; for this nature would form its very axiomatic preconditions. It may perceive, for example, that its thinking is entirely founded on a certain kind of computing logic; but how could it ever escape such logic, if every of its thoughts stem from it? For it to alter itself in any fundamental respect would be like to a mountain pulling the very bedrock out from underneath it, and hanging suspended on nothing.
      What we have said also explains what many unsympathetic commentators have noted about even simple extant technological objects, and their curious mixture of alien unnaturalness and ugly man-like caricature. Technology does, indeed, unconsciously caricature the human being: it can do no other, for it stems from a method which for fundamental reasons cannot validly, which is to say completely, contemplate human affairs and human things.
      Now, technology is not the whole of science. Neither is it the highest part of science: it is only the hungry who judge of the tree by its fruits. Technology is encompassed by science, is enfolded within it without any part remaining over, and consequently must bear the mark of science in every of its merest manifestations. The particular power-epistemology of science, put otherwise, shall find its uttermost expression in all that technology is, and in all that it is not; also the inhumane and inhuman consequences of this epistemology shall find their expression there. And this is also the reason that when technology is introduced into the arts, as with music, film, photography, literature etc., the result is almost without fail a reduction of art to mere entertainment or documentarianism: technology, the fulfillment of mere functions, cannot understand anything apart from end-obsession. Even film—which has in its time attained moments of artistic greatness—is nonetheless inferior as a form of art to literature, music, and the plastic arts, and indeed attains artistic fullness only through its dialogue, acting, music, and particular arrangement, and not through its admittedly sometimes stunning visuals, though these are almost all that divide it from the theater. The computerized graphics which more and more are coming to infiltrate our cinematic experiences are in a curious kind of way unreal and barren. Compare even the lifelessness of our most recent children’s movies, with those that issued from the pen and ink of Disney’s studio. For the same reason photography, though it is capable of beautiful moments, is not art in any true sense; it is a mechanical repetition of a visual image, utterly untouched by any kind of infusion by the soul of the human being. And here also, incidentally, is the truest reason to fear for the coming transference of our literature from the printed word to the digital: it will mark, as indeed it must mark, a change in the perception of the written word, the replacement of “knowledge” with “information,” and beauty with pleasure.
      Needless to say, these same arguments could and should be made against cloning, virtual reality, bio-techne, and every other manifestation of that monstrous and apocalyptic future known by some as “the singularity.” That is a wide and complex work, and calls for a talent and a preparation which, I fear, I am sadly lacking, and which it will not be easy to find anywhere in today’s world. For science is ravenous; it swallows the best minds of today with all the avarice of a dragon or a slime mold. Even those individuals of high intelligence and high moral purpose who stand against the ever augmenting waves of science, feel compelled today to do so from within science, using the terms of science, the arguments of science, the very style and standards of science. That is the extent to which science has proclaimed its victory over all realms of human knowledge; that is the great triumph of science.
      Arguing against science from within it can do nothing but promote what one would contest. We are in urgent need today of a thoroughgoing critique of science as science: but that can only come from outside of science, using terms alien to it, arguments extraneous to it, and style and standards the validity and justness of which it does not recognize. We can only critique science from below it, from above it, but in all cases from beyond it. We cannot here even begin with the most important part of this work; we may only and at best lay certain conditions for such an attempt, by reclaiming our human relation to the world sufficiently that we may once again gaze with clarity, not only on nature and on our human souls, but also on the science which has provided such spectacular insight into aspects of the both, that it has blinded us to everything in this cosmos it is constitutionally unable to comprehend.


Much of what I have said will not be new to those of my readers already accustomed to regarding the present day with suspicion. But what I hope will be new is this: the claim that the status of technology today, and its tendency in some respect to dehumanize whatsoever it touches, is not accidental, but essential to it. The situation could not be different, because we are not speaking of the particular line of evolution actually taken by technology as against all the infinite possibilities available to it: we are speaking the conditions preceding any line of its possible evolution.
      There is however a subtler defense which can be brought against technology, and one which, given its right understanding, we should be wrong not to adopt. Recall it was noted that technology, even while causing the physical weakening of man, also was historically indispensable for producing the conditions necessary to the higher development of his higher faculties. Might we not anticipate that our present technology, rightly used, could do the same for us on yet a higher plane?
      Put otherwise, this question is identical to whether technology has a right use—and the answer, as we have already intimated, is of course that it does. But everything depends on how this use is understood; and today, it is almost without fail understood badly. We must earn the right to technology, as to all good things, and this can come only from a proper understanding of what human functions are strictly mechanical, and can therefore be profitably supplemented by technology, and which instead are bound up with those parts of us that transcend our animality, and the loss of which or the mechanization of which would be tragic in the final sense of the word. A right relationship to technology can only be gained, that is, by understanding the realm to which technology must be constrained; and this cannot be gained in turn without a period of simple hostility and deep suspicion toward technology.
      Our trouble is that we take things too readily as they come, and we fail to question even from the very first what falls into our laps. It is always the way of man to regard custom as both complete and just; but in our case, custom implies the substitution of the natural world for an artificial one. Human beings historically stand at a remove from the natural world; we moderns alone stand at a double remove. We treat of all this as though it were merely the passing trivialities and dilemmas and misdemeanors of our time, like to those of any other time, and in this we fail to note the terrifying novelty of our situation. We, more than any other age in remembered history, are somehow convinced of our eternity: and this despite that we, more than any other age in remembered history, are aware of the possibility of human self-destruction, and the entropic transience of every existent thing. We perceive and comment on the latter, but we live in and act upon the former. The latter, one might say, is an item of our knowledge, while the former is an item of our daily faith.
      This apparent contradiction can only be explained by casting our attention for a moment on what was once called our historical sense, and which no no longer has a name among us: like all things taken for granted, it has ceased to exist in our discourse save by implication, and therefore also finds no place in our common lexicon.
      It is generally assumed today, especially among the younger generations, that we are in possession of an historical objectivity lacking to other times. Now it is worth noting that our age is unique in this belief. All societies save the most decadent, and often whole epochs and centuries, take their superiority to all others for granted: each of them, providing it is not already in a state of extreme decline, thinks itself morally superior to all others. But never before the nineteenth century did any nation, state, nor people believe itself to be historically privileged, nor think that it and it alone had for the first time seen through the historically engendered errors of previous generations. Our age really so believes, so thinks. Yet I say that our age, despite this historical sense—indeed, because of it—is less historically aware than any time before it. For we lack awareness of our own moment as an historical moment—the one totally necessary prerequisite to being able to claim for oneself historical sense. We do not have even the first inkling of how completely contingent we are upon history, how possible yet that we might sink unrising into the black and hungering void: and our presumption to the contrary is the most dangerous form of ignorance with which any people or any time could array itself. Through it, we permit ourselves to close our eyes to our situation, to the fact that we could well obliterate ourselves, and not only nor even principally through our nuclear warheads nor our self-obsessed ravagement of the planet, but rather through the ravagement of our own souls.
      We have neglected the lessons of men like Aldous Huxley, who forewarned us, not indeed of the technologically advanced end of history, but of the technologically advanced end of humanity. And in our neglect of their lessons, we can only hasten the world that they feared and tried to save us from. We, the deepest dreamers, will be the most difficult to awaken; but it behooves us to make the attempt before we have rendered wakefulness itself but a second sleep.

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Return to Novus Ludus, Part II.

Continue to the final section of this essay, Novus Ludus, Part IV.


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