I hadn't met Michalis for five, maybe more years. I had certainly heard of him since before the coronavirus. An old, successful and prominent writer and journalist, he had retired from active journalism a decade ago to devote himself to his writing.
A sincere relationship of friendship and mutual respect had long been cultivated between us, to such an extent that each did not hesitate to confide his innermost thoughts to the other, confident that there was not the slightest fear of misunderstanding or misinterpretation of what he said.
After the first cordial greetings, he began, without me giving him any hint, to make excuses for his long-term withdrawal from worldly affairs.
It is true that serious writing requires great sacrifices, unlimited endurance, self-discipline and endless days and hours of solitude. Writers of Michalis' level, as he once confided to me, live with their imagination within the pages of the book they are writing and "come out" from there only for food and to draw from other, external sources, information useful for their writing.
As he spoke, I could see in his eyes a sadness unusual for his characteristics. The disappointment in his words flowed with the same conviction that the words of his novels created emotions and images! Curiosity overcame me, and instead of answering his question, "How are you doing?", I asked him to explain to me what was bothering him!
After some slight hesitation, he asked me to sit on the adjacent bench facing the lake, and he confided in me the following incident, which I am revealing to you with his permission:
"During the Christmas holidays that passed, he began his story, he visited me at home with a box of melomakarona, a relative of mine. My beloved uncle, George. A typical but pleasant visit that turned into a tragedy for me.
I offered him tea and cookies, we sat in the living room near the balcony door, and then the journalistic bug woke up in me. With his permission, I turned on my journalistic tape recorder and started asking him questions, taking advantage of his vast knowledge of traditional subjects. “Tell me, uncle,” I said, “a story from the Christmas carols, as you used to call them, in the fifties and sixties!”
Another thing he didn't want! He told me about the way the children of that era sang carols, how they were welcomed into homes and shops by the housewives, and where and how they spent their minimal but very important pocket money! I remembered something from my own childhood, and I was moved.
My uncle George, after we talked for a while and exchanged wishes, left. However, the germ of journalistic research that lurked within me, it seems, was here to stay!
So I sat down in front of my computer and asked the artificial intelligence, certain that it would not succeed, to turn my uncle's narration, which I had in the meantime recorded, into a carol for me. Of course, the machine answered, in what style would you like me to convert it for you? It even suggested three options. I was surprised by the answer and wanted to make the question even more difficult, suggesting a fourth option: Adaptation to "Doxa Theo", the carols of that era that my uncle had mentioned earlier.
Not even half a second passed and a poem appeared on my screen. With interest and surprise, I realized that both in meter and rhyme it fit perfectly with "Glory to God" and it was wonderful! This was the first shock I received!
I saved the poem on my computer and edited it. Not to question the artificial intelligence, but because it did have some flaws. When I was finished and satisfied with the result, I uploaded it back to the artificial intelligence application and asked it to give me a comment. To my great surprise, I again found that it did not respond to me with the usual encouraging tactic that these machines follow, but like a colleague who could not hide his jealousy! That is, instead of telling me: “Excellent, congratulations, excellent, etc.”, as is usually the case, he told me: “I find it interesting”! This was the second shock!
- Come on, Michael, I interrupted him. Don't be too extreme, these machines follow some software that their manufacturer loaded into them. They don't function, nor do they feel like humans.
- "Knock, but listen," Michalis replied in his stoic style. And he continued:
After that, I asked who now owns the copyright to the poem and the machine replied to me, citing the corresponding references to legislation, that the rights to the narration belong to my uncle and the rights to the poem belong to me! It also confirmed to me that if I wish, I can include it in a poetry collection of my own without any problem! Where are you? I asked. Nowhere, it replied, I am a machine and I have no copyright. "That was the third shock!"
Here my friend's story ended. He stood and looked at me! The sadness in his gaze had now been replaced by a feeling of triumph that demanded confirmation! I did him no favor!
- You're exaggerating, I nodded at him. And back when computers were invented, there was the same grumbling. The same thing happened with search engines later. They're just tools that, whether we like it or not, have already entered our lives.
- It's not the same, he replied sharply! These machines are not just assistants. They present complete works in all fields, if you ask them. I consider myself very lucky that before artificial intelligence entered our lives, I managed to write some books!
- Why? I asked him naively!
- Because, unlike the works that will be published from now on, in my own works, no one will be able to question their authorship!
Now the shock was mine!
photo Greek News FL
