All the Rubbish of a Great City – classic literature vs text generation

All the Rubbish of a Great City

 

From the series of classic literature vs the future…

All The Rubbish of a Great City

Part 1: No Sun Ever Since That Day

 

Dear Farewell

You may be glad to see your letter of 6th April last from me. You are still in the good humour of the last time, and I believe that the people will be kind and kind to you in your letters.

I hope you will send me the following on the 15th of June: 1st: to my brother, a messenger, and my wife; 2nd: my daughter; and to my sister; then my brother; and my sister to my husband; and my brother to my son; and my father to my son; and my daughter to my husband and sons; and to my daughter’s father.

It is impossible for me to perceive a trace of the abominable scenes which I have experienced. There are but a few houses destroyed, and most of them, that is, very pretty ones, and all are occupied with families, and a few shops: one street is covered with all the rubbish of a great city; its streets are of a grey nature; and the streets are all closed off by some heavy iron gate.

I take a seat in a corner of the square; and after taking food from a little table and taking a seat beside a shopkeeper, or at least an old man with a hat on, I look about me. Nothing remarkable is seen or seen; there is no ruin or any signs of destruction; you might as well go near the ruins of the pyramids. The women seem to be quite contented, and are making the little fires that are burning. We are very anxious, we are very sad, to see them.

As I was about to arrive at the coast, I was suddenly knocked out by the wind; my companions, who were not surprised, rushed to me. I lay in their arms, and told them I could not recover myself, and said it was time for my expedition to proceed.

I begged them to give me some of the best part of the sea to make my recovery. They assented, and then threw out with me a large quantity of salt that I could not bring home to myself, and I fell dead.

They gave me some of their gold as I lay dying.

I never heard of such an occurrence; I should have been ashamed to have done so; but I had too much hope in the fortune of the sea; for if I were lost by such misfortunes, one does not have what has been given him; for if the fortune be bad, man do have a right to hope.

They put me into the boat with their captain, Sir Richard, and took me back to the ship where we were sitting. I lay there several days; I thought I had done well, but they told me the fortune was the same; the sun set over the mountains that night, and gave no sun ever since that day.

My mind was so troubled about my condition, that I could not bear the noise of the ship, so I cried, and fell into a terrible state of sleep, and then lay, my head, and neck, and legs, down upon a bed.

[These words, which do not make any impression on the ear, should appear to prove the correctness of the saying.]

 


Original

Frankenstein  or The Modern Prometheus

Mary Wollstonecraft (Godwin) Shelley 1818

Letter 1

To Mrs. Saville, England.

St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17—.

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived here yesterday, and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.

I am already far north of London, and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves and fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my daydreams become more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the region of beauty and delight.

There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible, its broad disk just skirting the horizon and diffusing a perpetual splendour. There—for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding navigators—there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea, we may be wafted to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal light?

I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle and may regulate a thousand celestial observations that require only this voyage to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man.

These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river. But supposing all these conjectures to be false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all mankind, to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be effected by an undertaking such as mine.

…Etc…

Your affectionate brother,
R. Walton

Stanley Lying in his Lap – classic literature

Stanley Geoff Davis

 

Classic literature vs artificial intelligence – try and guess classic source.


 

Stanley Lying in his Lap

His face was almost as pale as his fur and the top part of his ears were slightly raised above the shoulder blades.

“Oh, God, what’s happened to me?” he said. “How on Earth have they left me here?”

He saw Stanley lying in his lap. He was standing there naked and looking at nothing. This seemed too strange and too inhuman. Stanley was dead. The whole floor was shaking with the force of the shaking.

“I don’t know,” he thought. “Something’s happened to me. My father… how? God, how have they… done it? What has gone wrong? Where are they?”

And then he heard Stanley’s voice. “Hello, Stanley!”

He turned and saw what looked like him, though his face looked a little too pale to be him, sitting in the chair next to the boy. His hair was in a mess and the fur hat had come loose. He was looking very, very… unwell.

“Why?” he asked.

“I said: ‘Why can you not see me?’ ”

“But…”

Stanley looked up at him. “Your mother… her eyes! Her… look!”

He smiled very happily. “They were mine.”

Stanley looked at the boy and then at him. “I see you. I see the world. I’m a fool. I’m too good for the world. But, in the end, what is this? The world that you can see? Where my father will come when he wakes up in this, this bed, on the other side of the wall, on the other side of this wall, and I won’t have to come here. Where will I find someone? Who? Where will I find him?”

It was the most beautiful and sweet thing he’d ever heard Stanley say.

“Where will I find him?”

Stanley tried to keep his eyelids closed, which was much too hard when the strange visage that appeared before him was so familiar. The picture seemed to say: I am your true self. Stanley imagined himself the girl. An alien being, a human girl at first glance but it should be said he certainly looked like a human girl. Even his eyes, that were always open, did not seem to be aware of his reality. He had no eyes.

The whole room. The whole world, that was. There was only a black box that Stanley had brought with him, a small metal cylinder with three small black valves, and there were four smaller tubes with levers that the girl would let loose with her nose, and she would let them press the small black buttons up and down, all of which were pressed with a certain sort of subtlety and even less subtlety than the valves, a certain kind of subtlety that Stanley supposed was just a thing he did like to do. Stanley was trying to help with the manipulation, but what needed to be done wasn’t to press the levers; it was to open the box, to allow the room to breathe.

His mind had become fragmented as Stanley was trying to find what seemed to be an easy solution and even some understanding of Stanley’s intentions. But even then he couldn’t see the girl from his point of view, and only saw the strange visage.

“I’ll send you an owl,” he said.

He wasn’t exactly sure whether his voice was hoarse and distant or how close to death he was. It was his first time talking to anyone in a foreign language.

“Do it,” said a small voice.

Stanley stood up, looked around and couldn’t believe that his bed was the only place the floor was covered. It was the first morning. But he remembered everything. It was the first real thing he had lost before he went in the hospital. He knew what it was.

“You did,” said the woman. “You did so, and I thought you had passed into a nightmare but something happened next thing and I came back.”

“Oh, you did,” said Stanley. “I guess I got over it.”

“I mean I thought you’d gotten over it but this time you didn’t,” the woman said to herself.


Metamorphosis
Franz Kafka 1915

One morning, when Gregor Samsa woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin. He lay on his armour-like back, and if he lifted his head a little he could see his brown belly, slightly domed and divided by arches into stiff sections. The bedding was hardly able to cover it and seemed ready to slide off any moment. His many legs, pitifully thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked.

“What’s happened to me?” he thought. It wasn’t a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table – Samsa was a travelling salesman – and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm towards the viewer.


See the other classic manglings in this blog.

Why Don’t Cannibals Eat Clowns?

Part of the text generation series – see blog index.

Why don’t cannibals eat clowns?

Because cannibalism doesn’t produce the same health benefits as killing clowns, you will have only about 60% of your body weight of body fat left, leaving you with less body fat and no protection against the other 50%.

By choosing a suitable size clown, you can take advantage of that. If I am in a small town and in need of a good pair of shoes, I’ll eat an ogre and I’ll have about 100% body fat and 70% of my body weight in a pair of shoes.

What the hell am I supposed to do, I am going to starve?!

In that case I would just have to get one of those, because those are probably my only options.

Also, by choosing a size bigger or smaller than I am currently supposed to be, you can take advantage of that as well. I’m going to give up on these shoes and use the boots instead. I mean that literally.

If I were in a small town where there is limited supplies, and the only food available is a variety of meats and fruit that I’m supposed to eat (such as a spider or something), I would eat some squirrel.

But if there’s too much food and no other choice, then I will instead go for the more dangerous monster I can get.

Now the issue of choice is just that these are all options. You don’t know what your favourite will be unless you decide to look into it.

For example, while you can choose a size small enough to be your “smallest” and go for the larger you’re going to be the bigger your body fat will be, it just won’t work like that. The bigger you get, the bigger your body fat will be so it’s not going to be as easy to “do the right thing.”

What you want is for your body fat to be close to your own body weight, which is probably going to be under 0 (the ideal is probably between 10 and 12).

Also what you want is to weigh on average only about 70-75% of your body weight (about 70lbs for one person, or roughly a fat person for another).

That’s what makes you a normal person.

2

Why don’t cannibals like clowns?

If they’re not being eaten by the clown, it’s because they’re so fat they don’t have a stomach, so they get crushed by the horse. In the real world, people’s appetite changes over time as well. A hungry hippo’s hunger will rise over time so an old horse gets eaten by a zombie, and so on.

In fact, a lot of people have to eat a lot in order to keep the hunger in check. And there are also the many social cues that cause our appetite to rise and fall over time. Food is good for us, because it tastes good and is a good source of calories. And when it’s too much, we have a panic attack. When it’s just right, we can just be happy to just eat a bag of popcorn. And once we’re just right, we can eat the popcorn and forget about it.

Why aren’t hippos getting eaten by horses? Because they have a digestive system that has to move in to the horse’s stomach first, or there will be too much food in the horse’s stomach. The idea that this food goes in straight through the horse’s digestive system is just silly.

The only way I’ve seen this food in the wild is that it was consumed by some people who were infected with a fungal life-form and got it into their digestive system and their appetite was just too great.

The best part about all this is that it’s simple enough to understand. The only thing that we can do is stop eating, to do that you just wait till your health gets better. If you could just get rid of all these stupid foods for a week or so and let your appetite return to the normal state, even better. It’ll be like the beginning of autumn in the wild, there’s just not enough sun to cook food like it used to be and it’ll feel like no one’s eating.

As you have experienced, I’ve never.


This from a joke in Geoff Davis’s new novel The Circular River which will be serialised on this website next week

Photo credit – the Solomon Islanders, feasting trough.

Guess the original classics – Born Into Slavery

Born into Slavery

This is a game to see if you can identify the original story author in the generated text below. It has a new title: Born Into Slavery. The generated text is followed by the classic story which was used as the prompt for the computer generation. For technical details see end.


 

Born Into Slavery

What would occur when the daughter came for a visit? Her daughter could not wish to come here but if she had to she was certain to be disappointed.

When her eldest daughter was in her early thirties, Mr. Smith thought it might be advisable to take her away with him to her own country. The time had been long since passed; what had gone before was now forgotten. She was quite happy at home, though she knew the consequences of her leaving the family.

Mrs. Smith, who lived on her own farm, was the more interested of the two, as she had a son she loved. She would rather she had one of her own daughters than, with him, a son. As it was she was obliged to take him along, though with a slight advantage in health and strength. The child, however, was well behaved, and was very fond of her.

The old couple would have had a child when Mrs. Smith was dead; the latter would not have died till Mr. Smith, as they thought, had been ninety years old, and with her, after him. The child, as they said, would live till old Mr. Smith had died; if that should prove impossible, they would have had an heir to one of the first families to the west of the river.

Mrs. Smith was still an old woman, she remembered; her eyes had become dim, her hands and feet were weak, her feet were dull and bent, her hands wrinkled and loose. A change from her old condition, she thought, would have been too much for her now. She had always been happy in her old condition, though always in the present mode.

This story made her do something she thought necessary for the little girl, and she went into the hall and sat down in the great old chair opposite to Mrs. Smith

A woman’s strength, she thought, was her knowledge of her father’s affairs. She knew that as long as her children could walk with her, they could not be married.

Her husband knew that too; he knew where he was going, what he was going to do, and was never the same afterwards. There was a very large number of children, her daughters, living abroad, in the most irregular manners. He had grown somewhat deaf, with a peculiar difficulty about their voices.

And Mrs. Smith never liked it when she was in any degree unhappy; she could not bear to see her men, much less her children, so miserable. Every time they came she wanted to have a chat with them. She was a woman of very little self-control, and she would have felt an extraordinary strain in talking to men in whom she was so anxious to be connected. She had grown quite aware of the dangers of these visits. She felt that she had the moral to avoid them. It was the same with her husband.

One of the dangers she had to observe was whether they should try to give her good advice on an important subject; then she could say nothing but good things about them. And she did not give you any reason why.

And so he took her into another house, where she found him dead. Here is the explanation of one of our own writers, that was born into slavery, and who has since been made a public writer.

In the first place, we say that his wife knew, but she did not have sufficient excuse for going back to him. For she had been married to his eldest son, whom he kept with her, but she had never had a son, not that she was less prone to be the subject of any kind of cruelty than any other woman.

She was a woman well grounded, and could be trusted not to become a mistress or to marry a knave. Now, the reason why Master Smith was the property of Mr. Smith was, that there were several houses there, called for the use of this one Mr. Smith, and he was not there, but was there at a different time; so he did not know him or know of his own family.

But of course this also became a reason for the destruction of his father’s property; for those other houses were to be used by Mr. Smith at a later time, and hence there was no excuse to lose them. And he knew of the condition of his father’s property, and that he had been made a public writer.

Now he said to Master Smith,
“What is the reason of your going to me at this time, that I do not go to him myself?”

“Well, I have said to him before, I do not go to him, because my father was in debt to you.”

“How did I know it?”

“He had a contract of sale of my house, for you had a lease for the premises. You and your father made a bargain, and did not pay; but he does me to make good my debt. He gave me this lease, but left the property to me.”

“What can I do for it?”

“I will not go with you.”

And Mr. Smith went away in his ship; and while he was doing this, he heard the voice of his father’s son, who was living in the ship, saying to him,

“Your father has made you a public writer, at a time when I should have told you everything that you ought to know about me; and he is coming to me to sell my property for your property, and that we must not meet there till the day after the feast.”

As it happened, at the end of his talk with Mr. Smith, who would then have come to him, he heard of the destruction of Mr. Smith’s house, and of the damage done, for a great many months afterwards, to the houses belonging to his son, because of that man’s writing; and Mr. Smith went away in his ship, that there might be no necessity of his telling Mr. Brown that he might not receive anything from him from him without reason.

And it was, at that time, a great pleasure to him to have the ship and his house in the same box, and he said nothing of it.


Original


Pride and Prejudice

Jane Austen 1813

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

“My dear Mr. Smith,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Manorfield Park is let at last?”

Mr. Smith replied that he had not.

“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.”

Mr. Smith made no answer.

“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.

You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

This was invitation enough.

“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Manorfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.”

“What is his name?”

“Bingley.”

“Is he married or single?”

“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”

“How so? How can it affect them?”

“My dear Mr. Smith,” replied his wife, “how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them.”

“Is that his design in settling here?”

“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes.”

“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the party.”

“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty.”

“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”

“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighbourhood.”

“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”

“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for us to visit him if you do not.”

“You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy.”

“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving her the preference.”

“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he; “they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters.”

“Mr. Smith, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves.”

“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these last twenty years at least.”

“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”

“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”

“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you will not visit them.”

“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will visit them all.”

Mr. Smith was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.


Notes

Prompt was 10-20 words from the original. GPT-2 system by Fabrice Bellard – see the site below for credits etc.
Made on my creativity app Story Live – please visit.

Text from Gutenburg free classic ebooks

A certain amount of cherry-picking of the most grammatical and interesting generated parts, but no actual editing (moving around of words or new words). Identifying names are changed.

More of these will be posted, see the index.

Micro Arts in the Computer Arts Society – launch today

Celebrating 36 years of my computer art organisation, the art and texts are the first entry in the new Computer Arts Archive part of the Computer Arts Society CAS British Computer Society BCS. There was a launch event as part of EVA London 2020.

Micro Arts MA1:5
Micro Arts MA1:5 Texture Grid

NEWS: Today: Micro Arts ground-breaking work on Computer Arts Archive (BCS) Nov 16 2020.
Register for the online launch event (part of the EVAA Conference in London) here.

Stats explanation – boxplots

BOXPLOTS or ‘box-and-whisker’ plots

Go to Index of AI research

I will try to explain what the boxplot, a visual summary, or graphic visualisation of data, means by showing actual data.

Occupation vs Tentative

Occupation vs TentativeThis plots data for Occupation (eg, Other, Student, Scribbler, etc) against Sentiment scores for the emotion Tentative (using text analysis of their written feedback).

Looking at all of the different things on the boxplot, you can see:

    • a coloured (usually)

box

    • or

rectangle

    • a

vertical line

    • somewhere in the middle of the box

 

    • horizontal

lines

    • (but not always) coming out left and right

dot

    • or dots (but not always) on the same level but not on the lines

 

    • the data might show as just

one vertical line

    .

Boxplots show:

    • many features of the raw data in a simple way, and

 

    the distribution of a continuous variable.

The box edges to left and right are also called hinges. The vertical line in the middle is the median value (middle value of all the numbers). The horizontal lines are also called whiskers. (This is the Tukey method, see references at bottom.)

The boxplot shows five summary statistics:

    • the median

 

    • two hinges or edges of the box, the quartiles

 

    • with up to two lines or whiskers, showing the other quartiles

 

    • and all outlying (outlier) points individually as dots

 

    any consequently, skewing of data from a symmetrical normal distribution

Example
Now we will look at how one of these graphics is made from the raw data.

If you look at one of the horizontal graphics for occupation – Poet (sixth down):

Poet data Tentative boxplot
Poet data Tentative boxplot

Raw data and graphic explanation
First the numbers are sorted (ranked). Look at this breakdown, below, of where the numbers are in relation to the median (middle) value, and then how this related to the boxplot.
The data is the score on the sentiment analyser for tentative-related words, higher means more, score can be 0 to 1.0.

Data poet tentative explanation
Data poet tentative explanation

Other cases

The one below has just a single line instead of a box, because there is only one data point (0.87) – so you can get a gappy-looking boxplot, that is OK.

tentative-scientist


Notes

A boxplot helps to visualise the distribution of the data by quartile and show any outliers.

The plot above visualises five summary statistics, the median, two hinges or edges, and two whiskers or lines, and all outlier points individually as dots.

The box (coloured rectangle) always extends from the 25th to 75th percentiles. These sometimes called the ‘hinges’ of the plot.

The line in the middle of the box is plotted at the median.

Quartile: a type of quantile which divides the number of data points into four more or less equal parts, or quarters.

Quantile: in statistics and probability, quantiles are cut points dividing the range of a probability distribution into continuous intervals with equal probabilities, or dividing the observations in a sample in the same way.

Outliers: examination of the data for observations that are far removed from the mass of data (which could be for unrelated or distracting issues, or not).

Practical note: In the boxplot above, the data (which is from the experiment, saved as CSV files, and then imported into Excel for data cleaning (tidying up gaps etc. from the CSV format). From Excel it is then used in R statistical package.

References

General statistics calculators (great sites)

https://www.socscistatistics.com/tests/mannwhitney/

https://goodcalculators.com/statistics-calculators/

Boxplots (this is the best introduction)

Box Plot Explained: Interpretation, Examples, & Comparison

Wiki
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Box_plot
R and boxplots
https://www.statmethods.net/graphs/boxplot.html

The box and whiskers plot was first introduced in 1970 by John Tukey, who later published on the subject in 1977.
John W. Tukey (1977). Exploratory Data Analysis. Addison-Wesley.

Writing occupation and emotions in text generation

In August 2020 research (UAL, see credits) I examined what would happen if and when writers use a computer text generator to write articles, giving them only an image prompt. The idea was to only use professional or serious amateur writers.

Go to Index of AI research

Joy, Fear, Anger, Sadness – emotion charts are after this introduction.

Can text generation help the human writing process? What do actual writers (the study respondents) think of it all?

The research examines creative and ethical concerns around the use of advanced systems, and how they will (or already do) affect stakeholders, both professional writers and serious amateurs.
Here’s the prompt image:

Prompt image man and dog
Prompt image man and dog

The results are in but I am still writing it up. So I am now dropping a few things on this blog. These are not the final results as many qualifiers need to be added, statistical definitions, significance, etc. There are over 50 charts, which is why the report is taking a long time.

More about boxplots: This is a blog about some study results boxplots. if you are not sure what it all means, please look at this first.

One question asked was whether they’d used a text generator before, someone replied ‘my unconscious’. 89% had never used a text generator before.

82 respondents from my own creativity writing app list (see below), and various professional bodies.

These are Occupation (type of writer eg, Student, Poet, Journalist etc. – see the left axis);
plotted against amount of Emotion (joy, anger etc.) in their written feedback to all the questions (summed, then scored using a sentiment analyser). (Amateur and Professional are not attached to the actual occupation, so they are on here too.)

Increased emotion values towards the right side of the chart. These plots show ranges so they only give a general visualisation.

Joy

So in the boxplot below, the most joy in responses came from Copywriters.

Perhaps they see a fantastic tool to very quickly make more copy.

Joy vs Occupation
Joy vs Occupation

Fear

The most fear in responses came from Poets and Fiction writers. Perhaps fear of losing their respect as creators of strange new worlds were no one has gone before. Or they see a fantastic tool to very quickly make them unemployed. Other and Scribbler also score on this emotion.

Fear vs Occupation
Fear vs Occupation

Anger

Would appear that Others and Scribblers are somewhat angry about something or other. More research needed! Poet and Fiction also score highly, one each here (a line).

Anger vs Occupation
Anger vs Occupation

Sadness

Perhaps poets know more sad words.

Sadness vs Occupation
Sadness vs Occupation

There’s lots more charts but that will do for today. The actual stats with significance, etc., are for future viewing.

One of the simple charts:
Time Average on Study by Occupation

Graph- Time Rank Occupations
Graph- Time Rank Occupations

Game writers had 2 outliers, one person was on it for hours. Perhaps text generation is familiar to games content writers as some games have generated scenarios. Or they have a lot of spare time – to play games.

(Possibly) confirms rumour that songs are written quickly, and that lyricists and poets have flashes of inspiration quickly recorded (and so do copywriters and scientists). Or they were in a hurry to get away…
Game and Songs, Lyrics were added by people within Other definition.

Next blog – the text generation itself.
In the experiment, people were advised to use the generator to make completed works. Several people put my name in the generator, so I became the protagonist in the stories. What!

Such as this Fiction entry:
“It was nice to hear from Geoff again. He is a reminder that life is like an ant’s journey on a blade of grass across a puddle. There is no other side to reach, because the ant is surrounded on all sides. Like an ant, like all of us, Geoff has strategies for paddling. One admires only the paddling, and not especially the termination of the journey. And perhaps that’s what should be the focus of our lives: the paddling. Not journey, not the conclusion, but the sheer determination of the paddling. With a surfer, this analogy would not work, but thinking about it, ants can’t surf.”


People used the OpenAI GPT-2 text generator in a two panel design. I’m releasing this setup as a free AI text editor soon. The generator version is Text Synth by Fabrice Bellard, who is very helpful.

University of the Arts London: my tutor at UAL CCI is Professor Mick Grierson. See Credits (new window). My app is Notes Story Board, an image and text zooming canvas.

Computer-Human Hybrid AI Writing and Creative Ethics

Introduction

This blog is about my 2020 research into computer text generation and the effects on professional ands amateur writers. I am working on this topic at the University of the Arts London (UAL CCI, Dir. Mick Grierson).

No-one has asked creatives or writers what they think of the new ‘AI’ systems that generate readable text and so directly threaten their jobs, and could change the way people work forever (or don’t work forever). This is a topic that directly impinges on self-worth and financial worth in more ways than anyone can imagine, although plenty are worrying.

STUDY – ONLINE EXPERIMENT
August-October 2020

I devised an online experiment about this topic, allowing respondents to experiment with creating hybrid stories using a text generator. The people were all professional or serious amateurs (and a couple of small students) invited from my own creative writing software mailing list, a couple of writing forums, and a publisher’s writers’ forum, plus friends and relatives who generally use writing in their work. Credits are at the bottom.

Text generation

You might have heard of Google OpenAI’s GPT-2 and GPT-3. My experiment uses a generating system (Fabrice Bellard’s Text Synth, with permission)  based on GPT-2, that anyone can use. GPT-2 was used here as the model works well for idea generation and is more generally available at the time than GPT-3, which is much larger.

Note: The text generation and editing system is now a free online tool (creativity support tool or CST) at

Story Live writing with AI free online

The experimental results will feed into this blog (see Index for different aspects) and later an academic paper, and also a new book for the general public on the whole subject of computers, creativity and writing.

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Brief description of the Study

Below is a graphic of the entire online study. Each block is a page and journey was left to right from top to bottom. The three text generation and editing experiments used a similar set up to the Story Live tool.

Each writing experiment – Caption, News and Fiction – had a question afterwards, then there were more questions after the experiments (see diagram below). All this will be addressed in blogs here, along with other discussions.

The image writing prompt was the same for each experiment and for all respondents for uniformity (there is a blog on the man and dog here).

Prompt image man and dog
Prompt image man and dog
Flowchart of Study

Geoff Davis

The computer support tool (CST) from this study is Story Live writing with AI free online

My other creativity tools are Notes Story Board and Story Lite from my Story Software. For my other activities please see the home page of this site.

Study

This study was devised and the site programmed by Geoff Davis for post-graduate research at University of London Creative Computing Institute UAL CCI 2020. The Supervisor is Professor Mick Grierson, Research Leader, UAL Creative Computing Institute.

Text Synth

Text Synth, by Fabrice Bellard, is a publicly available text generator, was used as this is the sort of system people might use outside of the study. It was also not practical to recreate (program, train, fine-tune, host) a large scale text generation system for this usability pre-study. Permission was granted to use Text Synth in the study by Fabrice Bellard Jul 7 2020.

Fabrice Bellard, coder of Text Synth.
Fabrice is an all-round genius and writes a lot of OS. Text Synth was built using the GPT-2 language model released by Google OpenAI. It is a neural network of 1.5 billion parameters based on the Transformer architecture.