Kappa GPT

Japanese writer, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, envisioned the world wherein thoughtful reflections and their aesthetic expressions, artistic or otherwise, ceased to exist. In the world of creature, Kappa, all one needs to publish a book is mysterious black powder and a machine: this apparatus processes the powder to produce countless volumes of books of all sorts: fiction, non-fiction, poetry… These books have no author.

It turned out that the mysterious black powder is made of dried donkey brain, processed to fit the lofty aim of satisfying all sorts of intellectual needs. I cannot say with confidence whether this method has less impact on our fragile ecosystem than the current models of commodified artificial intelligence used in producing literature of all sorts, yet by the look of it, it seems perfectly reasonable to assume that Kappa’s process is far superior to our current predicament in this regard.

It is hard to say precisely what motivated Akutagawa to write this vision. Did he write a Swiftian satire, albeit a distinctly darker one? Was he directing his scorn towards the publications of his days? Or was he postulating the logical conclusion of industrialisation wherein ‘humankind’, in pursuit of efficiency, collectively abandons thoughtful reflections and studious efforts to express them in meaningful manners?

It is important to be accountable to one’s emotional reactions when reading Akutagawa’s story, Kappa. It is easy to rationalise one’s reaction by telling oneself: the bleak dystopian vision owes to the author’s deteriorating mental state that led to his suicide at the tender age of thirty-six. However, to leap any benefit from accomplished literature like this, a reader must commit oneself to ebbs and flows of affective intellectual journey through every passage, every paragraph, and every page. To read literature is not to simply scan and process information: it is to live it through the author’s voice. Only by fully committing to this process, one could give oneself a chance to expand and deepen one’s understanding, whatever that may be.

So, then, how does one feel in reading the passage depicting the automated production of books without authors in print?

It is important to note that, for Akutagawa, writing was his reason d’être. Towards the end of his life, when he wrote Kappa, he was well aware of the danger of his vocation. His commitment to his art was absolute: whilst he was attacked by every literary school of the time, such as Naturalism, confessional ‘i-Novel’, and emerging Proletarian Literature, he remained his harshest critic. Despite the strain he put himself through in the process of writing, and ever present risk of aggravating mental illness he inherited from his mother, like Yoshihide, the cursed court painter from his earlier masterpiece, Hell Screen, his commitment to literary arts never wavered. Then, it should not be taken lightly that Akutagawa chose to conceive the world wherein thoughtful reflections and their aesthetic expressions have lost meaning and replaced by automation. Not just by the connoisseurs of modern Japanese literature; but by all of us who live to see it becoming a reality.

It is critical to note: according to Akutagawa, in the world wherein thoughtful reflections and intense desire to create something of lasting value have been rendered meaningless, the inhabitants are no longer recognisably human. Worse still, if one happens to find Kappa more ‘human’ than so-called humankind like us, then, like the protagonist of this misadventure, one must volunteer oneself to the solitary confinement to avoid contacting ‘humans’.

Once one takes in all this, it is time to ask questions: Why did I feel repulsed by the world of Kappa? What is wrong with the automated mass production of ‘intellectual properties’? If it is more efficient and cost-effective, why the reaction? Is this just about the involvement of animal parts in the process? Surely powdered donkey brain is far ‘greener’ than our current method of processing information. In fact, Kappa’s machine is far superior to any of our commodified artificial intelligence: it mass-produces flawless books that stand critical scrutinies. Surely, if well written, one can appreciate books without knowing their origins. Great writing is just that, no matter ‘who’ wrote it. Then why the outrage?

One might contemplate over a family resemblance between cheating and the use of automated mechanised processes in place of genuine creative effort. Done carefully, cheating on a test or a game is the surest way to get the result one is after. One can pass a test without properly understanding the subject in question. One can beat a grandmaster without making a single move of one’s own. If, someday, one can write a great novel by giving a machine some vague prompts, who is going to try to master the art of fiction writing? Who will try to make something of one’s own? Why the struggle?

What is missing from this picture is: learning. By cutting corner and falling for the temptation to take the shortest distance to the desired destination, one learns nothing. Humans are effectively excluded from the process of ‘writing’ while a LLM is busy honing its skills in our place. Then, perhaps what we lose in this exchange is not merely the opportunity to learn: the experience of putting our best efforts and see where it leads, the Bildung, life.

Struggles are essential components of life. Commodified artificial intelligence, rather than focused artificial intelligence in many fields of science and engineering that operates in background, hidden from general users’ view, takes this away in exchange for quick results. It aims to eliminate the friction between one’s wish and its realisation with minimal effort from the user. Compare this experience to the life of Akutagawa, the most impactful author from Japan. Akutagawa wrote in his will, titled ‘A Letter To A Certain Friend’: despite the suffering, he was satisfied with his intellectual exploits and deepened understanding of human condition. His life was filled with conflicts and afflictions, and he constantly suffered ‘obscure anxiety’ to which he finally succumbed. Yet, by reading his final letter to his unnamed friend, one gets an impression: he was at peace in the last moment of his life. Despite regrets and failings, he was satisfied that he had done his utmost.

So then, you ought to ask yourself now: Why do I have any interest in abandoning meaningful pursuits of life? What will I tell my family and friends when the end is near? Can I utter more than just the names of digital tools that I have employed over time? Is ‘my’ work going to consist more than some prompts I fed to one program or another? Should ‘my work’ be judged based on the quality and the quantity of animal parts it took to produce?

The answer is yours to make.