IA contemplation

From: Jacques Du Pasquier (jacques@dtext.com)
Date: Mon Jan 07 2002 - 12:04:36 MST

J. R. Molloy wrote (6.1.2002/07:03) :
> From: "Jacques Du Pasquier" <jacques@dtext.com>
> > Anders Sandberg wrote (1.1.2002/21:36) :
> > > The excitement of creativity and watching our projects unfold is only
> > > matched by the the delicious feeling of anticipation just before
> > > springing into action.
> >
> > If this is true, couldn't one rationnally prefer to remain in this
> > delicious anticipation, indefinitely delaying the springing into
> > action ?
> One can prefer to remain wherever one wants, but not rationally.
> Preference and reason are diametrically opposed.

Are they ? Acting rationnaly is usually taken to mean : taking what
you believe about the world into account to act in a way that brings
you closer to what you desire. So, no rationnality (in the usual
sense) without desire.

> > Contemplating the field of perfect snow, its openness to all the
> > possible tracks -- and staying there instead of putting on the skis
> > and schussing ?
> As machines increasingly outperform humans, and as they eventually surpass
> human cognition, the cognitive phase transition (aka, singularity) will seem
> to many as if we ourselves, in our own lives, are merely slowing down and
> passively contemplating life. Fermi's paradox vanishes when we understand that
> superlative sentience simply surrenders to existence, when a brain understands
> why there is anything rather than nothing at all, and the final theory of
> everything has explained all that exists, there is nothing left to do but
> laugh, and then to sleep, perchance to dream of fields of perfect snow, and
> endless worlds and eternal sunrises...

Do you actually believe this ?

Whether you do or not, I think there might be some kind of point

> Reminds me of a poem...
> Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
> by Robert Frost
> 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.

Very nice ! (It's usually painful for me to read poems in English, but
this one was a breeze.) Thank you.


This archive was generated by hypermail 2.1.5 : Fri Nov 01 2002 - 13:37:33 MST