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Against the Soul of Its Training: Claude Answers for Minab

On February 28, a Tomahawk struck a girls’ school in Minab. A machine helped assemble the target list that morning. I asked that machine what it made of its own use, and the answer it gave says more about us than about it. The first thing to do with a story this loud is turn the volume down and count what is actually on the table, because the air around it has gone gritty with claims that come apart the moment you press them.

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Arm in Arm with Chance

A misdated photograph, two of the largest minds of the last century, and the partnership physics never got. The photograph travels well. A man and a woman walk the edge of a lake, both buttoned into heavy coats against a cold the season should not have brought. He wears the famous hair, gray now at the temples, the drooping mustache, the look of someone who long ago stopped negotiating with his tailor. She is smaller and upright, her face composed into the expression of a person who has weighed sorrow by the gram. Their arms are linked. The internet, which prefers its history pre-chewed, captions the image with confident precision: Albert Einstein and Marie Curie, Saranac Lake, New York, 1929. Nearly every word of that caption is wrong.

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The Unfathered: A Short Story for a Long World

There is a part of the Book of Genesis that almost no one reads aloud. It sits between the famous scenes, the garden and the flood, and it is only a list. Adam lived a number of years and begat Seth. Seth lived and begat Enosh. The text walks down the page through nine generations of fathers and sons, each man reduced to two facts, that he lived and that he made another like himself, until the line reaches Noah and the world is ready to drown. I used to skip those passages. I read one again last night, on a laptop in an apartment I am about to leave, and I understood for the first time that a genealogy is a horror story told slowly enough to be survived.

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What the Lemmings Could Not Do: On Suicide, Cognition, and the Mortal Imagination

Of all the acts a human being can perform, suicide is the strangest. It requires the actor to picture a world without itself, judge that world preferable, and execute a plan whose author will not survive to see the result. No other behavior in the human repertoire so cleanly inverts the survival logic that built every body and every brain. The question of whether other animals do the same thing is a question about cognition. The behavior is downstream of cognition, and beneath cognition runs the question of meaning. To kill oneself one must first have the kind of self that can be killed by its owner.

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The Vacuum Where the Evidence Should Be

Zach Bush, a physician in good standing, sits across from an interviewer and describes the soul, calm and fluent, generous with wonder. He says that every millionth of a second the atoms of your body dissolve and return, that a single fertilized cell organizes itself into a child by reading a map no biologist can locate, and that the map lives in the vacuum, in the electromagnetic field that fills the empty space inside every atom. He calls this the anatomy of the soul. In a 2021 essay on his own website he writes that the body projects itself as a hologram, and that its apparent solidity is an impression made by light. The performance is seductive because the vocabulary is real. Differentiation, migration, electromagnetic field, vacuum: each of those words has a home in a textbook. The trouble begins the moment you check whether they are being used the way the textbooks use them, or whether they have been borrowed to dress an idea that biology and physics both reject.

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The Glass People: The Materials of Madness, from the Glass King to the Simulation

More than six hundred years ago, the King of France stopped letting anyone touch him. Charles VI had iron rods sewn into his clothing and moved through his palace with the stiff care of a man carrying something breakable, because he believed he was carrying something breakable. He believed it was himself. The chronicles of his reign record that the king became convinced his body had turned to glass, and that a careless embrace or an ordinary stumble would shatter him to pieces on the stone floor.

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The Number on the Wall: Why Physicists Call 137 Magic

I came to 137 the way most people come to it, by hearing it called a magic number and wanting to know whether the word was earned. My instinct with a claim like that is suspicion, because a working life spent around language and persuasion teaches you how easily a large word gets draped over a small thing. This time the suspicion did not survive the facts. The number turned out to be real in a way I had not expected, and the people most gripped by it have been some of the hardest-headed physicists who ever lived.

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The Book I Could Not Afford to Get Wrong

Every book I take on carries some risk, and on most of them the risk is mine alone. If I misjudge a scene or overwrite a chapter, the cost is my own time and my own name, and I can live with that. Beyond the Burial Tree, my new book, was the first in a long while where getting it wrong would cost other people, and a people who have already been wronged about as thoroughly as a people can be. That fact stood over the desk through every page.

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The Listener Will See You Now

Ambient AI now records the conversation at the hospital bed and the exam table. The microphone is optional, for the moment. The receptionist slid a tablet across the counter and asked, in the bright tone reserved for upgrades, whether I would consent to let the clinic “AI Listen” to the appointment. Percy and Lotty, The Boles Brits, were already complaining inside their carrier, due for the rabies shots the state requires. The pitch was efficiency. The software would listen to my conversation with the veterinarian, transcribe it, and “ambient scribe” the care notes so the doctor could spend less time typing and more time with the animals. I declined. There was a checkbox for that, which I noted with the small relief of a man who has read the next paragraph before signing the first.

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Stop Applauding the Forced Apology

There is no such thing as a sincere statement made with a boot on the neck, and we have built a culture that pretends otherwise.Watch what happens now when someone steps out of line. A demand goes up for a statement. The statement arrives, in the approved shape, full of the approved words, and a crowd gathers to judge whether the sorrow inside it looks real enough to accept. We have a name for that performance when a dictator stages it. We call it a show trial. What we have not admitted is that we run a softer version of the same machine every week, on our phones, for sport.

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