Dregs of Yore

The question of whether artificial intelligence might one day produce literature worthy of comparison to the masterpieces of the literary canon has, begrudgingly, become one worth asking. There is no denying that tools like ChatGPT, whose facility for mimicry and adherence to the formal mechanics of prose are nothing short of extraordinary. Yet, these tools—ingenious as they are—suffer from an incapacity: a detachment from the human condition. Their limitation is rooted in their immunity to privation, which, as I shall argue, is essential to the creation of literary works. Privation as a Prerequisite for Creativity Great literature emerges not merely from a mastery of language but from the writer’s engagement with the elemental struggles of existence. Privation—whether it be material, emotional, or existential—infuses literature with its vitality. It is the aching solitude of TS Eliot’s The Waste Land , the moral torment of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment , or the quiet yearning for ...

One of the most tiresome types of individuals one encounters in life is the habitual cynic. Cynicism directed toward grand abstractions—such as governments, nations, or institutions—is nasty enough, often serving as a convenient excuse for inaction or self-pity. But there exists an even more insufferable variant: the cynic who takes a perverse delight in recasting every act of kindness, every expression of love, as little more than thinly veiled self-interest. For them, altruism is a charade, generosity a transaction, and affection a mere tool of manipulation. This kind of cynic does not merely question human motives; they gleefully eviscerate them, leaving no room for sincerity or selflessness to exist. Why are Young People Particularly Susceptible? Youth, with its characteristic restlessness and lack of experience, is peculiarly prone to cynicism. This is not because the young possess any special insight into human nature or society, but because cynicism offers an appealing shortcut ...

There is a peculiar cruelty in the human penchant for parodying the essential. Work, which ought to be the dignified cultivation of human purpose and ingenuity, is no exception. Work, in its essence, has been humanity’s attempt to impose meaning on the chaos of existence—a pursuit to cultivate resources, solve problems, and create something lasting. Yet, throughout history, the idea of work has been grotesquely parodied, stripped of its purpose, and turned into an absurd exercise in futility.  In the 14th century, Muhammad bin Tughlaq, the Sultan of Delhi, ordered a monument to be built each day, only to have it destroyed at night, and then rebuilt the following day. The purpose was not architectural innovation but employment creation—a way to ensure that labourers had work to sustain themselves during periods of economic distress. It was, in its grotesque way, a form of benevolence, though it would be difficult to imagine a more despairing gift: work that existed solely to perpetu...

Just the other day, I ran into an acquaintance who gave me a disturbing bit of news. He was an auto rickshaw driver, a man I’d known for nearly a year and often relied upon to drive me places. It had been a couple of weeks since we’d last met, so I asked after him, after his life and his family. His wife had been expecting their second child, due last month, so I inquired about the baby.  He told me that his child had not lived for more than a few days after being born. I stood there, listening, as he told me of hospital runs that blurred into sleepless nights, of a wife worn thin with grief and sickness, and of money—more money than a man of his means could fathom—poured out in the hope of saving his baby. Three lakh rupees, gone, and still, the child was gone too. And yet, as he spoke, there was no quiver in his voice, no tears in his eyes. His calmness wasn’t the absence of pain but the bearing of it. Before he left, he asked me how I was, as if his world hadn’t crumbled just we...