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I applied a mechanical process to a famous piece of writing to create something new. The result has left me with unanswered questions and I’d like your help to answer them.
I took Robert Frost's 1923 Poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. I recited the poem, in English, into the dictation software of an I-phone 6, with the language set to French. I then dictated the resulting French phonetic interpretation of the poem back into the mobile’s dictation software, now set to English. This was the result:
Who's wanted these are your sign in the express a J never read me is do a route in the girl said Eun explain who is shake. Who is mama did Beazer sank in no express is she nervous me out in yo who said you need to do a one year do you say S born roofing in my pussy is your Mail or she Musta required to sit down with going to Pham of new Duchak it evening over year begins year so I next bear was your shake as a Z I miss summer stag he only south this Weibo Vic easy way and and a unease as active what I love yay got up to a year but all miss you did you email your rent to go for a sleep a Anamaria rude to go before is that to Fairmont long message with the tip amount for your route to God for he sleep in my room to get off work I smile.
There’s some cool stuff in the new poem, some provocative imagery and creative word combinations. The lines: roofing in my pussy; and email your rent to go for a sleep resonate for me.
But I didn’t create those lines. They materialized, somewhere in the digital synapse between human inflection and computer simulation. That’s either just quirky, a one-minute distraction worthy of a response like: “oh, neat.” Or it’s meaningful.
I’m unsure. Unsettled.
The resulting – can I call it phonic impressionism? – leaves me with questions that feel important, even if I haven’t figured them out yet. Specifically, it makes me ask:
Is this new piece of writing original?
Is it art?
Does the new poem’s dependence on the original replicate the iterative process that is creativity itself?
Whose creativity is it? Who is the author? Me? Frost? Apple?
These questions invite me to contemplate life as I foresee it for all of us, having increasingly regular interactions with robots and artificial intelligence. From predictive text and ‘genius’ settings on our mobile devices that already curate our news and entertainment, we’re quickly filling the communications lacunae between humans being and machines trying to interpret what that means. Who’s leading who?
Returning to the poem, it’s interesting how the cadence of Frost’s original work still haunts the rhythm of the new piece, as if the great poet is still there, somewhere, insisting on his role as the progenitor of the work. The new passages almost read as if Frost had stood up to recite his poem and, upon taking breath, was struck with a bout of logorrhea. It gives me hope that we too can survive within the algorithm.
But I also think of the copyists, tasked with preserving ancient manuscripts by hand, and my mind conjures a novice scribe, a keen but grubby little monk, who, because of dim wit or candlelight, occasionally changed the text he was copying from, either by will or by accident. He too made something new. Whose life and whose gospel is it anyway?
For now, this nexus between human language and machine translation is an art form without a name. Who should name it? Us or them?
For your interest, here’s a breakdown of the phonetic interpretations.
This is Robert Frost’s original poem.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
This was the French, phonetic interpretation (note the interpretation is slightly different every time):
Pose-moi des paysages cinq heures et Nord express et j'ai 9h30 août il n'y en a que c'est une histoire poignée de CS bon je fais ma position Maëlle roche Mastin qu'il croyait tout ce temps où dans la femme avenue de Jack est Evening envoyer et Gaizier sera un expert aux échecs à ce qu'il faisait un mess sommes steak et anglais South de Swype avec Easy Way and and est un anniv avec tes boîtes à la vieille cartepeux-tu arrière plan mais si je t'équipe et Marion je te gobe forêt snipes elle ne m'a rien je te gobe fois un Heslein va te faire un plan mais si je t'équipe et Marion je te gobe forêt sleep in my je te garde enfoirés Smile.