"Your Plan Would Bring Weariness to the World"

Blessings and grace to you and yours in the grace of Christ our Lord. One of my favorite book series to go to when I want some wholesome entertainment for my younger childen is the Oz books by L. Frank Baum. Recently I have been reaidng Glinda of Oz with my two youngest (Glinda of Oz, published in 1920, was the final Oz book to be authored by Baum and was published posthumously). In this story, Dorothy and Princess Ozma of Oz embark on a journey to the distant corner of Oz to prevent the breakout of a war between two remote peoples.

If you're not familiar with your Oz lore, Ozma is a fairy princess, one of the most powerful entities in Oz. As such, Ozma possesses an impressive array of magical powers, including the ability to create things out of thin air with the aid of her magic wand. In Chapter 4, Dorothy and Ozma rest for the evening and Ozma uses her magic to conjure a royal tent stocked with provisions. The creation of the marvelous tent ex nihilo prompts an interesting conversation between Dorothy and Ozma about whether it were desirable for magic to supply for the needs of all, thus doing away with the need for labor:

On entering the tent they found a table set for two, with snowy linen, bright silver and sparkling glassware, a vase of roses in the center and many dishes of delicious food, some smoking hot, waiting to satisfy their hunger. Also, on either side of the tent were beds, with satin sheets, warm blankets and pillows filled with swansdown. There were chairs, too, and tall lamps that lighted the interior of the tent with a soft, rosy glow.

Dorothy, resting herself at her fairy friend's command, and eating her dinner with unusual enjoyment, thought of the wonders of magic. If one were a fairy and knew the secret laws of nature and the mystic words and ceremonies that commanded those laws, then a simple wave of a silver wand would produce instantly all that men work hard and anxiously for through weary years. And Dorothy wished in her kindly, innocent heart, that all men and women could be fairies with silver wands, and satisfy all their needs without so much work and worry, for then, she imagined, they would have all their working hours to be happy in. But Ozma, looking into her friend's face and reading those thoughts, gave a laugh and said:

"No, no, Dorothy, that wouldn't do at all. Instead of happiness your plan would bring weariness to the world. If every one could wave a wand and have his wants fulfilled there would be little to wish for. There would be no eager striving to obtain the difficult, for nothing would then be difficult, and the pleasure of earning something longed for, and only to be secured by hard work and careful thought, would be utterly lost. There would be nothing to do you see, and no interest in life and in our fellow creatures. That is all that makes life worth our while—to do good deeds and to help those less fortunate than ourselves."

If I am being honest, the advent of AI is really depressing me as of late. Perhaps I am feeling it more than others, as I am a history writer, and Microsoft's recent report on jobs to be imperiled by AI listed "historian" and "author" among the top five jobs predicted to disappear. People I speak to about this assure me that there will always be a need for what I do, blah blah, and maybe they are right. Yet even if the jobs don't disappear entirely, they will certainly be changed irreperably. They already have been. I recently logged onto some job search websites, just to see how AI was reshaping the writing landscape. At first I was pleasantly surprised to still see a ton of freelance writing jobs advertized, but my mood quickly soured as I saw that probably 90% of these were AI training jobs—essentially companies looking for writers willing to train their AI to replace them.

"Instead of happiness, your plan would bring weariness to the world," Ozma tells Dorothy. Can you already feel it? The advance of technology has already made us weary. We yearn to ground ourselves into something real, to reach down and touch the earth, to enjoy the crafts of our hands, to plant ourselves deep in authentic community. These things, once taken for granted as the fundamental facets of society, are increasingly being bleached away. 

When L. Frank Baum wrote the Oz books, the social context behind his vision was the hyper-industrialization of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. It is likely that Ozma's words to Dorothy reflect Baum's criticism of industrualization. Sure, we now have the capability to mass produce things that once required the skill of a craftsman. But are we any better for it? Are ease and efficiency the sole metrics of a happy society? Is not everything a trade off, where advances in one direction are offset by setbacks in another? I remember in college my physics professor told me, "Nature simply does not allow unchecked exponential growth." In other words, all progress comes at a price that eventually levels out all exponentialities. We always pay—be it socially, environmentally, economically—but there is always a price. There is no such thing as a free lunch, as economists say. And the size of the price tag is proportionate to the magnitude of the innovation. In the case of AI, technology which literally "knows the secrets laws and mystic words" capable of replacing as many as 60% of all jobs on the entire planet, what kind of price tag will be attached? I don't think we can even begin to fathom the scale of the consequences.

When I discuss the future with friends, more and more I hear a phrase that I have only begun to hear spoken of late—"At least I'll be dead by then." O mores! O tempora! There was once a time, not long ago, when mankind, basking in the light of progress as it were the fire of Prometheus, believed our own scientific achievements would lead us into a new and glorious age of human prosperity. Men looked forward to the future. Whatever was "new" was considered an improvement. Obviously this view was fallacious, as every traditional Catholic knows, but the point isn't whether our fathers' optimism was justified; the point is that technology was still viewed as a boon to mankind. Now we are at a point where men look at the trajectory of technological development and console themselves with the thought "at least I'll be dead by then." If that is not the sign of a civilization in crisis, I don't know what is.

After Ozma explains to Dorothy that the power to solve all human want with the stroke of a wand would actually sink the human race into a mire of meaninglessness, the conversation continues:

"All the same," said Dorothy, "I'm mighty glad you could make this tent appear, with our dinners and beds all ready for us."

Ozma smiled. "Yes, it is indeed wonderful," she agreed. "Not all fairies know that sort of magic, but some fairies can do magic that fills me with astonishment. I think that is what makes us modest and unassuming—the fact that our magic arts are divided, some being given each of us. I'm glad I don't know everything, Dorothy, and that there still are things in both nature and in wit for me to marvel at."

Another profound insight from the fairy princess—the fact that "arts are divided" amongst many leaves room for discovery, for insight, and for wonder. Ozma understands that her imperfect knowledge is not a limitation; in fact, it is a kind of power, as it enables her the freedom to experience aspects of reality that would otherwise be innaccessible: the freedom to discover, freedom to grow, the freedom to simply marvel at the wonder of it all. "Wonder," says Socrates in Plato's Theatetus, "is the feeling of a philosopher, and philosophy begins in wonder." Have we lost the ability to recognize our limitations as strengths? What will be left of wonder (or philosophy!) when the unification of knowledge means our arts are no longer separated? What will learning look like when all cognitive power in the world is vested in a monstrous new Babel?

It is a dire vision, indeed, but depressing though it is, I am refuse to let it beat me. If anything, it gives me cause to dig further down into the depths of being, to discover the wonder and radiance of all that is around me. And ultimately, I remain optimistic that mankind, aided by the beneficent hand of our Creator, will find a way. To quote from another work a bit darker than Oz, there is a passage at the end of Orwell's 1984 where the protagonist, Winston, defiantly tells O'Brien, the Party apparatchik who is tormenting him, that the totalitarian state crafted by the Party can never endure. It is a lengthy quote, but worth citing in full. O'Brien has just famously described the Party's vision for the future as "a boot stamping on a human face—forever." O'Brien continues:

That is the world that we are preparing, Winston. A world of victory after victory, triumph after triumph after triumph: an endless pressing, pressing, pressing upon the nerve of power. You are beginning, I can see, to realize what that world will be like. But in the end you will do more than understand it. You will accept it, welcome it, become part of it.'

Winston had recovered himself sufficiently to speak. 'You can't!' he said weakly.

'What do you mean by that remark, Winston?'

'You could not create such a world as you have just described. It is a dream. It is impossible.'

'Why?'

'It is impossible to found a civilization on fear and hatred and cruelty. It would never endure.'

'Why not?'

'It would have no vitality. It would disintegrate. It would commit suicide.'

'Nonsense. You are under the impression that hatred is more exhausting than love. Why should it be? And if it were, what difference would that make? Suppose that we choose to wear ourselves out faster. Suppose that we quicken the tempo of human life till men are senile at thirty. Still what difference would it make? Can you not understand that the death of the individual is not death? The party is immortal.'

As usual, the voice had battered Winston into helplessness. Moreover he was in dread that if he persisted in his disagreement O'Brien would twist the dial again. And yet he could not keep silent. Feebly, without arguments, with nothing to support him except his inarticulate horror of what O'Brien had said, he returned to the attack.

'I don't know—I don't care. Somehow you will fail. Something will defeat you. Life will defeat you.'

'We control life, Winston, at all its levels. You are imagining that there is something called human nature which will be outraged by what we do and will turn against us. But we create human nature. Men are infinitely malleable. Or perhaps you have returned to your old idea that the proletarians or the slaves will arise and overthrow us. Put it out of your mind. They are helpless, like the animals. Humanity is the Party. The others are outside—irrelevant.'

'I don't care. In the end they will beat you. Sooner or later they will see you for what you are, and then they will tear you to pieces.'

'Do you see any evidence that that is happening? Or any reason why it should?'

'No. I believe it. I know that you will fail. There is something in the universe—I don't know, some spirit, some principle—that you will never overcome.'

I do ultimately believe that light will triumph over darkness, good over evil, and that human nature, renewed in the spirit of God, will be glorified against those who try to debase it. I believe that Christ will win in the end, and that the spread of darkness only serves to create more opportunities for grace, "for where sin aboundeth, grace aboundeth all the more" (Rom. 5:20)