Sublime

Krishnamurti didn’t see intelligent machines as some strange, rival species ready to replace us. To him, machines were just an extension of the human mind — a brain built in our own image, with human and artificial thought as mirror reflections. When you think about it, AI developers aren’t pulling ideas out of thin air; they’re crafting AI based o

The architects of artificial intelligence still have no idea how to build a conscious self the way you might build an automobile engine—piece by piece and part by part, until the system is ready to be given a jolt of energy and spring into its work. Instead we are building machines that simulate the output of a human mind—writing, coding, poetry, e

to who or what is doing the perceiving—well, that’s the “self,” isn’t it, the “I behind the eyes,” one might say, the recipient of wave upon wave of sensory data, which uses its perceptual readouts to guide behavior, to decide what to do next.

The genius dominates, but he has another face, too: he’s also a servant. A servant to what? Well, to his own genius.

collection of working parts consisting of neurons and their interconnections. If, however, the mind is nothing but a calculating machine, then it is subject to the limitations of the Incompleteness Theorem, which leads to the thorny fact that numbers possess at least some properties that are beyond the power of the human mind to establish: “So this

Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman!, the most-gifted book of several people in this book, as well as in a wonderful short documentary called The Pleasure of Finding Things Out.