J.G. Ballard's futuristic computerized verses foreshadowed the advent of ChatGPT.
Date: 2024-05-12The novelist and concise tale scribe JG Ballard, is renowned for conjuring twisted and reimagined renditions of the realm he inhabited. Tackling peculiar exaggerations of realities and frequently detailing the collapse of societal norms, his unorthodox creations are challenging to pigeonhole.
Teetering on the brink of actuality, these disquieting visions often stirred controversy. Rejecting a sci-fi of the distant future, Ballard described his own oeuvre as existing in "a type of visionary contemporary".
Today, as we ponder generative AI crafting texts, composing melodies, and producing art, Ballard's visionary contemporary once more offers something prophetic and novel to impart.
In an interview from 2004, the wordsmith Vanora Bennett proposed to Ballard that he delves into "what is just about to transpire in a given community". Questioned about the "variety of real-life occurrence" that sparked the concepts in his fiction, Ballard replied:
I simply have an intuition in my bones: there's something peculiar afoot, and I investigate that by penning a novel, by endeavoring to discern the subconscious rationale that courses beneath the surface and seeking out the concealed wiring. It's as though there are all these peculiar illuminations, and I'm in search of the wiring and the fuse box.
The themes in Ballard's fiction often unveil just how finely tuned he was to the nuances of the burgeoning technological and societal shifts that were, as he articulates, just beneath the surface. The societal fuse box was frequently rewired in his musings.
And with generative AI, there is assuredly something peculiar transpiring, to which Ballard's attention appears to have been captivated long before it even unfolded.
Alongside the sundry iterations of OpenAI's now infamous ChatGPT, which crafts bespoke texts in reaction to concise prompts, an array of other applications are emerging that autonomously produce cultural artifacts. Google's Verse by Verse serves as an "AI-driven Muse", allowing users to select a poet along with several criteria, like syllable count and poem type, assisting the user in completing a poem by generating lines in response to the initial words entered into the system. Sora purportedly enables users to generate videos from textual instructions. Various versions of Dall-E can transform textual suggestions into visual artistic depictions. In the domain of music, applications such as Aiva, Loudly, and MuseNet can actively compose music on behalf of the user.
This represents a snapshot of a swiftly expanding array of such systems. They unavoidably bring with them profound inquiries regarding human creativity and our conception of culture. Nick Cave's well-known reaction to song lyrics penned by AI in his stylistic vein was one potent and broadly circulated response to the perceived absence of "inner essence" behind the words. It was, Cave opined, merely the imitation of creative cogitation. Others are now pondering if AI signals the demise of the human wordsmith.
While these discussions persist, I observed similar ones taking shape over half a century ago. Perusing the archive of an antiquated arts magazine that Ballard once helmed, I unearthed evidence that he was deliberating on this futuristic concept way back in the 1960s, before proceeding to experiment with the earliest incarnation of computer-generated poetry in the 1970s.
What I uncovered did more than merely unveil echoes from the past: Ballard's foresight actually unveils something novel to us about these recent advancements in generative AI.
The surprise of computer-generated poetry
Listening recently to the audiobook rendition of Ballard's memoir "Miracles of Life," one exceedingly brief excerpt appeared to directly address these contemporary discussions concerning generative artificial intelligence and the perceived efficacy of purportedly large language models that generate content in response to cues. Ballard, born in 1930 and passing away in 2009, contemplated how, during the initial 1970s, while serving as the prose editor at Ambit (a literary quarterly publication that ran from 1959 until April 2023), he became intrigued by computers capable of composing:
I desired more scientific content in Ambit, given that science was fundamentally altering the world, and less poetry. After encountering Dr. Christopher Evans, a psychologist employed at the National Physical Laboratories, I invited him to contribute to Ambit. We featured an extraordinary series of computer-generated verses which Martin claimed were on par with genuine poetry. I took it a step further—they constituted genuine poetry.
Searching through Ambit back-issues issues from the 1970s I managed to locate four items that appeared to be in the series to which Ballard referred
Ballard didn't elaborate further on these verses in the memoir, nor did he ponder their reception at the time. Scouring through Ambit archives from the 1970s, I unearthed four pieces that seemed to belong to the series Ballard mentioned. They all seemed to be crafted by computers and were printed between 1972 and 1977.
The initial two are compilations of what might be termed poetry. In both instances, each of these compact poems assembled has its own attributed author (more on this later), yet the entire compilation bears the names: Christopher Evans and Jackie Wilson (1972 and 1974). Ballard characterized Evans as a "rogue scientist" sporting "lengthy ebony locks and a rugged profile" who "darted about his lab in a pair of American sneakers, denim jeans, and an unbuttoned denim shirt revealing an iron cross on a golden chain."
The 1972 assembly is denoted with the overarching title "The Yellow Back Novels," a playful twist on an informal phrase applied to popular fiction works, while the 1974 compilation is dubbed Machine Gun City. Both feature succinct notes providing further insights into how these poems were computer-generated and into Ballard's reflections on them.
The verses themselves are, it must be acknowledged, a challenging perusal. I wouldn't presume to speak on his behalf, but upon reading the pieces, it becomes difficult to truly believe that Ballard genuinely endorsed the assertion that they were "as proficient as authentic works" or, indeed, that they constituted the "real deal" – there might have been an element of incitement in such proclamations. Regardless of quality, however, there's an intriguing aspect in how contemporary debates surrounding content generation – nudging us towards inquiries into the essence of creativity and even the definition of humanity – find an antecedent in these 1970s computer-generated compositions.
Ballard's plot
Ballard's perspective on the verses in 1974 appears to align with the more recent remark featured in his memoir. A brief introductory note to the second compilation of pieces commences with what purportedly is the "verbatim content of a letter from prose editor JG Ballard advising against acceptance of a well-known writer's submission." Supposedly, Ballard composed the following, which is cited within parentheses preceding the concise pieces:
"B's work is truly abysmal – he's a complete cul-de-sac and seems oblivious to it … Much more intriguing is this computer-generated content from Chris, which I strongly believe we should feature a section of. What's fascinating about these detective tales is that they were crafted during the duration of a lecture Chris delivered at a significant psychological symposium in Kyoto, Japan, with the narratives being generated by a terminal on the platform connected via satellite to the computer in Cleveland, Ohio. Now that's something to give these English so-called experimental authors pause for thought."
Keeping his eye out for odd developments, he was intrigued by the new types of composition
Whether these miniature computer-crafted texts qualify as tales, novels, or verses is uncertain and likely constitutes a secondary concern to the automatic generation of cultural content showcased here. Ballard appears to have been captivated by the new potentials, relishing the provocation it posed to fellow writers.
The imagery of the terminal onstage generating poems while its operator addresses the audience is a potent one, evoked here by Ballard. He evidently admired the ingenuity and what it implied about creativity. Keeping a keen eye on peculiar developments, he was fascinated by the novel forms of composition.
However, we ought not to interpret his note too literally. The whimsical framing and rebellious tone caution us against taking it at face value. Moreover, there's another reason for us to proceed cautiously. Ballard's fascination was likely sparked by these occurrences as he had penned a short story featuring machines capable of precisely the task of crafting poetry some 11 years earlier. The short story itself appears to present a more contemplative perspective on what it would entail for a computer to write and generate prose.
Life imitating art
Penned in 1961, Ballard's narrative "Studio 5, The Stars" showcases an editor of an "avant-garde poetry journal" toiling on the forthcoming edition. Sounds familiar. The poets he curates are all utilizing automated "Verse-Transcribers", affectionately referred to as VTs. These VT machines autonomously churn out poems based on predetermined criteria. Poetry has been perfected by these machines, rendering the poets disinclined to write independently of their VTs. When handed a freshly generated poem from a VT, the editor in the tale doesn't even feel compelled to peruse it. He already anticipates its suitability.
The poets have grown accustomed to collaborating with their VT machines, but their dependency on the machines for creative inspiration starts to waver due to certain events. At one juncture, the editor is asked his opinion on what's amiss with modern poetry. Despite appearing to advocate for the automation of creativity, he muses if the issues are "mainly a question of inspiration." He confesses he "used to produce a decent amount … back in the day, but the urge waned as soon as I could afford a VT set."
Ballard's narrative forecasts that once crafting poetry becomes a technical affair, the compulsion to engage in the act of writing diminishes. In lieu of creativity, the editor suggests, lies a "technical prowess" that is "merely a matter of pushing a button, adjusting meter, rhyme, assonance via a dial, there's no call for sacrifice, no ideal to conjure up to render the sacrifice worthwhile." Not too dissimilar from the types of prompts that today's generative AI relies on to elicit its outputs. Often, as evidenced by the aforementioned applications, a set of criteria, a phrase, or any form of written instruction are utilized to initially guide the outputs of generative AI.
A shadowy figure named Aurora, the tale's antagonist, disdainfully asserts that "they're not poets but mere technicians." When all the VT sets in the vicinity are sabotaged by Aurora to "preserve a dying art," the absence of human creativity is laid bare. Not a single machine remains intact, with even "Tony Sapphire's 50-watt IBM" being pounded to pieces and "Raymond Mayo's four new Philco Versomatics" being obliterated beyond repair.
In Ballard's 1961 story it is only the sudden absence of functioning machines that drives the poets to start writing creatively again
The editor finds himself faced with the upcoming issue of the magazine to fill and no automated content to populate it. Aurora's audacious suggestion to "Pen some yourself!" elicits shock. Tony, the editor's colleague, offers a modicum of solace, wryly reminding him that "Half a century ago, a handful of individuals penned poetry, yet no one perused it. Now, no one writes it either. The VT set merely streamlines the entire process."
In Ballard's 1961 tale, it's only the abrupt absence of functional machines that compels the poets to resume creative writing. Their reliance on the VT is shattered. The story concludes with the tearing up of an order form for three new VT sets. The narrative appears to serve as a cautionary tale against the automation of creativity and the ramifications it may entail if realized. In the 1970s, it materialized in a rudimentary form, and Ballard seems, superficially at least, to have had a markedly different reaction to its presence.
How did the computer write the poems?
Each miniature piece featured in the 1972 and 1974 compilations comprises a title, author, and six lines of text. These six lines follow a highly structured formula. A cursory glance reveals recurring patterns across the various opening lines. These include openings like "the thunder of the engines fractured the lake", "the roar of the aircraft shook the dwelling", the vivid "the rage of the turbines fractured the throng" and "Dr. Zozoloenda pondered as the aircraft jolted".
While the 1974 compositions exhibit slightly more diversity than their 1972 counterparts, they still adhere to similar formulas. The persistence of this form can partly be attributed to the brief concluding note by Evans and Wilson that concludes the initial compilation. They commence by asserting:
These concise SF narratives have been generated by a computer programmed to produce them indefinitely, if necessary, upon the command RUN JWSF.
RUN is a quintessential computer directive to launch a program. The meaning of JWSF remains ambiguous, but the concept evokes an image of an unceasing writing apparatus that perpetually operates without pause. They concede that this program itself is, as they phrase it, "exceedingly straightforward". They then proceed to briefly outline its functioning, indicating that the "computer selects randomly from a reservoir of specially selected keywords or phrases". Hence, this is text generated randomly from a curated lexicon.
Additionally, there are frameworks in which the randomly chosen words are inserted. They elucidate that "the inaugural line of the narrative essentially entails the computer completing the phrase: THE (EMPTY) OF THE (EMPTY) (EMPTIED) THE (EMPTY)".
The use of structure alongside randomness is presented as providing an almost endless source of new content
As per Evans and Wilson, within this structure of opening lines, "the placeholders are filled by scanning through reservoirs of words, resulting in THE WINE OF THE MOTORS FRACTURED THE HOUSE or THE RUSH OF THE HELIOS SCORCHED THE DESERT". The examples they provide encapsulate the essence of many of the opening lines in the brief compositions. The outputs are repetitive and foreseeable yet maintain an air of peculiarity. One enigma left unresolved is the methodology behind the creation of the word reservoirs.
The utilization of structure alongside randomness is depicted as furnishing an almost inexhaustible fount of fresh content that can be generated on demand. Evans and Wilson assert that their method, "generates 10,000 potential distinct sentences". Following the initial sentence, they elucidate that "the second line is a random selection of 10 complete sentences. The third line reverts to the approach of the first line. The fourth line is again a random pick of ten complete sentences, and so forth".
This alternating structure of the lines constitutes the essence of all the pieces generated and published in 1972 and 1974. The second puzzle revolves around how the complete sentences randomly chosen for the alternate lines were conceived and chosen. No other traces seem to exist, leaving these intricacies likely to remain shrouded in mystery.
The perpetual generation of material is initially framed in terms of the multitude of potential sentences. Yet a more contemplative aspect is also introduced, namely, the generation of ideas. Evans and Wilson ponder, "How many innovative and distinct SF mini novels can the computer generate before exhausting its ideas?"
Their speculative response, given the unknown quantity of words in those reservoirs, is simply that "typing at a rate of 10 characters per second, this would require (roughly speaking) 10,000,000,000,000,000,000 [a hundred quintillion, or 10 to the 20th power] years, which would probably witness the Universe cycle through multiple iterations". The generation of poems by this machine is, essentially, boundless. However, one can question whether it possesses any "ideas" in the first place.
Like the content, the author names affixed to each six-line piece are also computer-generated. The authors' names are again "selected from a pool of suitable SF-style monikers, paired in the same random fashion". What qualifies as an SF-style name remains ambiguous, but some of the author names produced include ZQ Johnson, Blade Sinatra, Frank Archer, Marsha Fantoni, Blade Van Vargon, and even Tagon "X".
Appending names imbues the writing with a semblance of humanity, even though the names themselves mostly appear conspicuously fabricated. Bestowing these pieces with named authors actually brings into focus inquiries regarding authorship and the convergence of human creators with technology.
Computer generated poems or a hoax?
The subsequent entries featured in Ambit in 1976 and 1977 seem to diverge from the pledge made in 1974 that these brief compositions would continue appearing in an "endless flow in Ambit." Instead, they took a different trajectory, transitioning from computers generating text to engaging with humans. The 1976 piece titled "Hello, your computer calling," once again attributed to Chris Evans and Jackie Wilson, presented a peculiar yet prescient interaction introduced as "an experiment to ascertain whether computers can aid doctors in diagnosing illnesses."
The 1977 entry, "The Invisible Years," is even more perplexing. This time credited to Tim Bax, JG Ballard, Chris Evans, and Ronald Sandford, the piece is presented in awkward angular boxes and is introduced with the statement: "This year Ballard responds to the inquiry of Chris Evans and a computer. Accompanied by drawings conceived by Mr. Ronald Sandford." This bizarre intervention appears to mark the culmination of this series of computer-generated contributions.
One might begin to question, particularly with their peculiar framing and increasingly eccentric content, whether these texts are genuinely computer-generated at all, or if, given the nature of the publication and the individuals involved, they represent some other form of expression, perhaps even a parody or satire. The chapter in Ballard's "Miracles of Life" discussing Evans hints that their collaboration extended into fictional concepts as well. It could even be a ruse of sorts, devised to provoke contemplation on what automation means for culture and ideas.
The enthusiasm for the possibility of computers writing is evident even back then
It's now virtually impossible to ascertain precisely what transpired or whether any technology was involved at all. It appears probable that a computer program played some role in shaping the final product, and whether these are fully automated snippets of writing is essentially a tangential matter when considering the significance of these petite compositions. Whatever the nature of these peculiar computer-generated poems, this case unveils something about the fascination with computerized generation of ideas and cognition that is manifesting in more sophisticated forms today. This episode from the 1970s exemplifies how this mindset has evolved.
The eagerness for the prospect of computers composing is palpable even from that era. However, the apparent fervor surrounding these Ambit verses might also have been a reaction, perhaps even an ironic and whimsical response, to the burgeoning computer systems and even AI that were emerging in the 1960s and 70s. The inquiries surrounding creativity and human worth implicit in Ballard's short story may hint at this. Yet the types of inquiries, outcomes, and ramifications of computer-generated writing had yet to crystallize into the kind of discussions we witness unfolding today.
A sensitivity to automated creativity
If we accept at face value the depiction of the generative processes outlined in the accompanying notes for these poems, as well as Ballard's later autobiographical account, then the primary disparity between the commissioned pieces by Ballard and today's prevalent embrace of AI lies in the transition from randomness to probability. The creation of poems drawing randomly from curated text pools differs significantly from generating texts based on probabilities derived from extensive datasets. Nonetheless, the underlying mindset and rationale remain consistent; both are driven by a evolving desire to automate more facets of social and cultural existence.
Whether the phenomenon observed with these 1970s poems is genuine or whether it constitutes some form of performance or playful satire, it still sheds light on the emerging attitudes toward the potential of computational creativity in its nascent stages.
Ballard's enthusiastic reception of the new possibilities hinted at by the poems in the 1970s stands in contrast to the more dystopian outlook in his 1961 short story. Ballard appears to embody what could be termed as the tensions of algorithmic thinking – the irreconcilable and competing forces that simultaneously push in disparate directions when faced with advancing automation. On one hand, there's the concern about the diminishing human involvement in human activities, while on the other, there's the issue of knowledge being extracted from cultural creation. Both the short story and the poems in Ambit encapsulate the tension that accompanies today's AI-generated text, art, and music.
From various perspectives, to borrow Ballard's own terminology, we are being shown the "wiring and fuse box of creativity." Ballard's focus was drawn to "something odd going on." This peculiarity becomes even more pronounced as the utilization and ramifications of generative AI continue to broaden.
This article originally appeared on The Conversation, and is republished under a Creative Commons licence.