I remember as a teenager watching Total Recall pondering the importance of memory and dangers (and commercial opportunities) if memory could be directly manipulated. Also around that time, I was quite shaken when I had general anesthesia for removal of my wisdom teeth and later that day seriously doubted whether the procedure had actually happened since I had no memory of it. (Obviously still experiencing some lingering effects hours later.) Years later, watching Alzheimer's take away my grandmother's memory, you don't have to persuade me of its importance.
While there are obvious dangers and ways to misuse AI in this area, this is actually the first time I've been excited about a potential AI application. How wonderful if someone with brain trauma or a fading memory input enough info (photos, journals, and other mementos), that the AI could help them retain a sense of who they were, and who they are? A more robust memory aid, not a substitute.
Also, what if the works of a deceased writer, coupled with AI, could create an educational/interactive experience similar to interviewing your favorite author? Lots to think through, if AI-Tolkien were available to geek-out over a fireside chat.
Such an interesting topic. Two thoughts come to mind:
1. I wonder if imperfect memory allows us to forgive. If we had perfect memory and were able to perfectly remember the horrors of what has happened to us, would we still be able to forgive? (Perhaps, but I imagine it would be more difficult. Faulty memory allows us to “dim” the horrors of what’s been done to us, allowing us to see those who’ve hurt us in a different light.)
2. The idea of using AI to bring back loved ones seems just the latest in a long line of attempts to cheat death. “The last enemy to be destroyed is death,” and whether it’s searching for the fountain of youth, discovering the elixir of life, or simply trying to mimic long-lost loved ones through AI, we (humankind) are constantly searching for a means to defeat that last enemy. It seems, though, that all of these attempts end up can only create an illusion of everlasting life, never the real thing. (This is a theme that runs throughout the Harry Potter series. Harry, who’s never known his parents, is constantly looking to form that connection to fix what is lost—whether by looking into the Mirror of Erised, seeing their apparitions come out of his wand, or using the Resurrection Stone—but has to come to the realization that death is beyond our human power to defeat. It’s not an accident that the epigraph on Harry’s parents’ tombstone is the words from 1 Corinthians 15:26.)
Thanks, Jon. Great thoughts. Volf's book examines a number of issues related to your first point. And like you, I thought of the urge to cheat death as I read some of the articles on grief technology. Perhaps it is also a variant of the desire to avoid suffering and loss.
Your first question, Jon, is worth a lot of reflection. A couple of quick responses will have to do at this point, but maybe more can follow. First, I'm thinking that, contrary to your opening statement, imperfect memory allows us to forget (or remember an offense less clearly, as you say); forgiveness, on the other hand, actually requires memory, good memory. In particular (for the Christian) remembering the magnitude of the forgiveness we've received, such that we are able to confront the pain of whatever offenses have been committed against us and offer the offender from the grace that we've received. I think, for example, of the parable of the unmerciful servant in Matthew 18. Doesn't mean it's easy, especially when the offense, the pain, we've suffered is great. A central challenge presented by that parable, though, is in the realization of how quickly the unmerciful servant appears to have forgotten the mercy shown to him.
To stay with Miroslav Volv, a quick Google search confirms that he's the source of the oft-quoted "Forgiveness flounders when I exclude the enemy from the community of humans, and myself from the community of sinners." Memory isn't explicit in that sentence, but it's certainly implicit.
I remember as a teenager watching Total Recall pondering the importance of memory and dangers (and commercial opportunities) if memory could be directly manipulated. Also around that time, I was quite shaken when I had general anesthesia for removal of my wisdom teeth and later that day seriously doubted whether the procedure had actually happened since I had no memory of it. (Obviously still experiencing some lingering effects hours later.) Years later, watching Alzheimer's take away my grandmother's memory, you don't have to persuade me of its importance.
While there are obvious dangers and ways to misuse AI in this area, this is actually the first time I've been excited about a potential AI application. How wonderful if someone with brain trauma or a fading memory input enough info (photos, journals, and other mementos), that the AI could help them retain a sense of who they were, and who they are? A more robust memory aid, not a substitute.
Also, what if the works of a deceased writer, coupled with AI, could create an educational/interactive experience similar to interviewing your favorite author? Lots to think through, if AI-Tolkien were available to geek-out over a fireside chat.
Such an interesting topic. Two thoughts come to mind:
1. I wonder if imperfect memory allows us to forgive. If we had perfect memory and were able to perfectly remember the horrors of what has happened to us, would we still be able to forgive? (Perhaps, but I imagine it would be more difficult. Faulty memory allows us to “dim” the horrors of what’s been done to us, allowing us to see those who’ve hurt us in a different light.)
2. The idea of using AI to bring back loved ones seems just the latest in a long line of attempts to cheat death. “The last enemy to be destroyed is death,” and whether it’s searching for the fountain of youth, discovering the elixir of life, or simply trying to mimic long-lost loved ones through AI, we (humankind) are constantly searching for a means to defeat that last enemy. It seems, though, that all of these attempts end up can only create an illusion of everlasting life, never the real thing. (This is a theme that runs throughout the Harry Potter series. Harry, who’s never known his parents, is constantly looking to form that connection to fix what is lost—whether by looking into the Mirror of Erised, seeing their apparitions come out of his wand, or using the Resurrection Stone—but has to come to the realization that death is beyond our human power to defeat. It’s not an accident that the epigraph on Harry’s parents’ tombstone is the words from 1 Corinthians 15:26.)
Thanks, Jon. Great thoughts. Volf's book examines a number of issues related to your first point. And like you, I thought of the urge to cheat death as I read some of the articles on grief technology. Perhaps it is also a variant of the desire to avoid suffering and loss.
Your first question, Jon, is worth a lot of reflection. A couple of quick responses will have to do at this point, but maybe more can follow. First, I'm thinking that, contrary to your opening statement, imperfect memory allows us to forget (or remember an offense less clearly, as you say); forgiveness, on the other hand, actually requires memory, good memory. In particular (for the Christian) remembering the magnitude of the forgiveness we've received, such that we are able to confront the pain of whatever offenses have been committed against us and offer the offender from the grace that we've received. I think, for example, of the parable of the unmerciful servant in Matthew 18. Doesn't mean it's easy, especially when the offense, the pain, we've suffered is great. A central challenge presented by that parable, though, is in the realization of how quickly the unmerciful servant appears to have forgotten the mercy shown to him.
To stay with Miroslav Volv, a quick Google search confirms that he's the source of the oft-quoted "Forgiveness flounders when I exclude the enemy from the community of humans, and myself from the community of sinners." Memory isn't explicit in that sentence, but it's certainly implicit.