The above is an
in the style of J.S. Bach, produced automatically by my laptop over
the course of an arduous 60 milliseconds of work. The
code to implement the algorithm
(called a Markov chain)
comes to 17 lines of Lisp, which code was then seeded with Bach’s 1st
Cello Suite (here
performed by Pau Casals).
It can be a bit spooky at first to think of a computer composing
plausible Bach after listening to six pieces once, especially when a
music student would require quite a bit more time to gain the same
"How can a machine be creative?", one is oft asked. The answer, which
typically only increases the interlocutor’s unease, is that it does it
the same way we do: by observing patterns and gradually creating an
internal model from which to steer serendipity.
That we are rule inferencing and pattern driven is clear in the
cultural artifacts we leave. Beethoven cannot have composed jazz or
rock or Carnatic music because his pattern recognition facilities
received only the music of his own time and place. This is also why
Brahms’s First Symphony is sometimes referred to as “Beethoven’s
It isn’t just music, either. These sorts of probability chaining
algorithms work over many domains. They’re used by physicists,
biologists, hedge fund quants, and so on, yielding interesting results
in all cases. For example, if I feed the same code a diet of Cavafy’s
poetry, it yields a synthetic poet whom I shall call Markovafy:
His mouth, his flesh
all of it suffers unremittingly from desire,
from the feel of that other
Delectable intelligence of their well-delineated, close-knit flesh:
they do not tread the ground,
but only run the waters
His body is honor,
and here is the statue at which I now gaze in ecstasy
Choking, almost silenced by desire,
answers came back the same way from
the distracted voice
Here in the water with his beauty,
his delicate beauty.
My computer now seems to long for a steamy Greek bathhouse. But, of
course, it has no desires at all.
Most of us harbor a lingering intuition that that which makes us feel
must have come as a flash of communication from another soul, but once
there is no soul, no special ghost driving the body, what’s left is a
biochemical process, a mass of neuroanatomy that learns from what it
experiences and remixes what it has learnt.
In addition to the obvious lessons one can draw from this regarding
copyright, the concept of “artistic theft” and the vilification of
remix culture, a careful reader will also see an echo of Aristotle:
we are what we do repeatedly.
If you want a particular future for yourself, you must live that
future’s past today. Or as, while musing over whether the best trained
athlete would win the Olympiad, Markovafy once put it:
When the month has passed away,
the things now coming can be told
before they are known.