Words&Dirt

“In some domains, quantity is a poor substitute for quality. One solitary genius working out of a cork-lined bedroom can write In Search of Lost Time. Could an equivalent masterpiece be produced by recruiting an office building full of literary hacks? Even within the range of present human variation we see that some functions benefit greatly from the labor of one brilliant mastermind as opposed to the joint efforts of myriad mediocrities. If we widen our purview to include superintelligent minds, we must countenance a likelihood of there being intellectual problems solvable only by superintelligence and intractable to any ever-so-large collective of non-augmented humans.

There might thus be some problems that are solvable by a quality superintelligence, and perhaps by a speed superintelligence, yet which a loosely integrated collective superintelligence cannot solve (other than by first amplifying its own intelligence). We cannot clearly see what all these problems are, but we can characterize them in general terms. They would tend to be problems involving multiple complex interdependencies that do not permit of independently verifiable solution steps: problems that therefore cannot be solved in a piecemeal fashion, and that might require qualitatively new kinds of understanding or new representational frameworks that are too deep or too complicated for the current edition of mortals to discover or use effectively. Some types of artistic creation and strategic cognition might fall into this category. Some types of scientific breakthrough, perhaps, likewise. And one can speculate that the tardiness and wobbliness of humanity’s progress on many of the ‘eternal problems’ of philosophy are due to the unsuitability of the human cortex for philosophical work. On this view, our most celebrated philosophers are like dogs walking on their hind legs––just barely attaining the threshold level of performance required for engaging in the activity at all.”

––Superintelligence: Paths, Dangers, Strategies, by Nick Bostrom, pg. 58-9

“Both of the men had felt all along, on certain evenings as they hurried from the transmitter tower or the Hangar back toward the hatch that led to safety and warmth, a stirring at the fringes of the station, a presence, something struggling to be born out of the winds, the darkness, the looming towers and jagged teeth of the ice. The hair on the back of the neck stood erect and you ran, in spite of yourself, ribs ringing with panic, certain as a child running up the cellar stairs that something very bad was after you. Antarctica was beautiful––even Joe, who loathed it with every fiber of his being as the symbol, the embodiment, the blank unmeaning heart of his impotence in this war, had felt the thrill and grandeur of the Ice. But it was trying, at every moment you remained on it, to kill you. They could not let their guard down for a moment; they had all known that from the start. Now it seemed to Joe and the pilot as if the evil intent of the place, the glittering ripples of dust gathering in the darkness, would find a way to get them no matter how warm their berth or full their bellies, now matter how many layers of wool and hide and fur they put between them and it. Survival, at that moment, seemed beyond the reach or agency of their plans.”

––The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon, pg. 436