When SBF, as he likes to be called, was arrested for fraud and money laundering a couple of months later, journalists and other literary sorts seized on his words as evidence of moral corruption. Expressing a disdain for books is not only “ignorant and arrogant”, wrote The Atlantic’s Thomas Chatterton Williams; it signals “a much larger deficiency of character”. “Sam Bankman-Fried doesn’t read,” ran the headline of a Washington Post editorial. “That tells us everything.”

But if SBF’s comeuppance provided comfort to the bookish set, it was of an icy variety. In dismissing books as outdated information-delivery devices, the young entrepreneur wasn’t saying anything out of the ordinary. He was giving voice to the zeitgeist. The philistines have taken over the culture.

What we’re seeing as we enter 2026 is a reversal of the situation C. P. Snow described in his celebrated 1959 lecture “The Two Cultures”. Snow, a Cambridge physicist turned popular novelist, argued that the culture of the West had split into two camps. On one side were “literary intellectuals” — novelists, poets, artists, critics. On the other were what we would today call STEM types — scientists, technologists, engineers, mathematicians. Between the two lay “a gulf of mutual incomprehension”. The intellectuals took pride in their lack of interest in scientific and technical developments, while the boffins remained largely ignorant of everything encompassed by the then-common phrase “high culture”. The two camps, Snow observed, might as well have lived on different planets.

Along with the knowledge divide came a power divide. To the public, the literary intellectuals — Snow pointed to the poet and critic T. S. Eliot as the “archetypal figure” — constituted the cultural elite. They were the ones who appeared in glossy magazines and high-brow television shows. They were the ones whose words determined what was worth talking about, whose tastes established the boundary between the great and the trifling. The scientists and engineers, with a few notable exceptions, remained out of the public eye, toiling in lab-coated anonymity. Their discoveries and inventions were shaping the future, but as individuals they held little cultural currency.

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Big Tech has stolen our children

By Matt Feeney

Today, the divides remain, but the power dynamic has been turned on its head. The STEM camp, in particular its technological wing, dominates the culture. Techies take prominent seats at presidential inaugurations and White House banquets. Their words and actions set much of the public’s daily agenda. And not only are they ubiquitous presences in the media; they’ve come to control the media, as news and entertainment have shifted onto the digital platforms they control. Mark Zuckerberg, Sam Altman, Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk: these are our new T. S. Eliots.

As for old-style public intellectuals, they’ve disappeared from the scene. There are still serious writers and artists and critics, but they work in insular obscurity, speaking less and less to the general public and more and more to one another. In universities, humanities departments shrink as students flock to STEM fields in pursuit of higher pay and greater status. In primary and secondary schools, art, music, and library programs are cut to free up money for EdTech investments. Those who once created and celebrated high culture now seem ashamed even to speak the phrase. They’ve come to doubt their own worth.

The cultural shift runs deep. People’s skills and habits are changing along with their perceptions. In the last 20 years, the number of Americans who read for pleasure plummeted by 40%, according to a University of Florida study published last summer. A third of US kids now graduate high school without basic reading skills, and a quarter of adults read at a third-grade level or worse. In the UK, the percentage of children who enjoy reading in their spare time fell from 55% to 33% over the last 10 years, according to a long-running National Literacy Trust survey. If the expansion of reading and writing was a defining characteristic of the 19th and 20th centuries, their withering is a marker of the 21st. As Times columnist James Marriott writes, “Welcome to the post-literate society.”

Those who built fortunes atop the rubble of literary culture smell victory. “Technology is the glory of human ambition and achievement, the spearhead of progress, and the realization of our potential,” proclaimed the venture capitalist Marc Andreessen in “The Techno-Optimist Manifesto”, a much-discussed 2023 blog post. He continued: “Technology is liberatory. Liberatory of human potential. Liberatory of the human soul, the human spirit. Expanding what it can mean to be free, to be fulfilled, to be alive. We believe technology opens the space of what it can mean to be human.”

One need not be blind to the joys and bounties of technological innovation to find such triumphalist blather repugnant. (In what might generously be interpreted as an adolescent attempt at provocation, Andreessen echoes the words of “The Futurist Manifesto” written more than a century ago by the proto-fascist F. T. Marinetti.) But, like SBF’s remark a year earlier, Andreessen’s screed catches the tenor of our time. It elevates technology to the position that art, literature, and even religion used to hold. Technology is the highest expression of human creativity, the dwelling-house of soul and spirit. Our instruments and our systems, not our inner lives, provide us with meaning and purpose. In Silicon Valley’s rigidly utilitarian conception of the human condition, there’s no room for imagination or aesthetics, metaphysics or faith. As for beauty, we’ll have to content ourselves with discovering it in an app interface.

The rise of generative artificial intelligence, as both a practical technology and a popular obsession, crystallizes Big Tech’s cultural takeover. AI turns reading and writing into automated industrial routines, optimized for speed and efficiency. It instrumentalizes intellect, allows the critical and creative work of the mind to be outsourced to machinery. The public, whatever fears it may have about the ultimate consequences of the technology, seems happy to employ it in myriad ways to save time and money.

In his most influential essay, “Tradition and the Individual Talent”, T. S. Eliot argued that poets and other artists, through years of deep reading and careful observation, forge within themselves an understanding of the works in their field so deep it turns instinctual. Beyond knowledge, they gain “the consciousness of the past”. Having internalized tradition, they can then apply the singular power of their own sensibility to transform it into something new, something that transcends the personal to become universal. Individual talent becomes the crucible that sustains tradition by carrying it, in new forms, into the future. In the aggregate, all these intricately connected acts of creation form the culture.

Generative AI gives us a parody of Eliot’s creative process. Tradition is replaced by a vast statistical model constructed of digital representations of the works of the past. Individual talent is replaced by a prediction function that mindlessly extracts patterns of data from the model and serves them up in the form of text, image, or sound. “Poetry,” Eliot wrote, “is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality.” He immediately added a crucial clarification: “Of course, only those who have personality and emotions know what it means to want to escape from these things.” Bots like ChatGPT, Gemini, and Claude have no personality or emotions to escape from. In speaking to us with the voice of nobody, they mock us. Their hollowness is our hollowness.

There’s a deep irony here. Under the reign of the STEM lords, the public’s trust in science and scientists is decaying. Far from promoting empiricism and objectivity, the cult of virtuality is encouraging a return to superstition, subjectivity, and myth. The overthrow of the old intellectual elite and its replacement by the new technological elite, we can now see, opened a cultural hole that has been filled by ideological fervor, financial speculation, and prideful ignorance, all amplified by a digital communication system that, in its inhuman scale and speed, leaves little room for reflection or discretion.

Whatever their shortcomings, the old avatars of high culture shared a set of values — a respect for talent, taste, and tradition; a disdain for the flimsy and the fake; a commitment to rigor in thought and expression — that encouraged the pursuit of excellence not only in art and literature but in science, engineering, and other practical pursuits. If Snow were alive today, he might feel nostalgic about the state of affairs he bemoaned at the dawn of the Sixties. He might now see that the divide between the two cultures was not as sharp as he supposed. Their differences masked a deeper bond.

When, in a recent jailhouse interview, Bankman-Fried revealed he had started reading novels, I couldn’t help but think of the concluding couplet of W. H. Auden’s “In Memory of W. B. Yeats”:

In the prison of his days
Teach the free man how to praise.

Maybe there’s hope.

The messages had a brief heyday in 2016, making the rounds of New York City editors and literary agents, in advance of a public reading I gave in the East Village. In the cultural moment just before Donald Trump’s emergence, these half-baked far-Right musings were a novelty; alas, Trump’s presidential triumph scuppered plans to make an eBook out of them. But I still re-read them, when I want to remember the old man. (He had, of course, hoped that I would: “I send these because life and death is about MIND over MATTER…….&& I want to reMIND u that it don’t matter…..”) Perhaps it was loneliness that made me wonder if his voice could ever be resurrected.

In my day job, as a senior content manager for a research consultancy, I often use GPT-4. It is competent at various brute-force operations — turning lengthy transcripts into notes, proofreading content — even if the inputs require constant fine-tuning and the outputs require careful attention to ensure accuracy. But could it write content that would bring back the dead? Could GPT-4, if sufficiently trained, analyse my father’s emails — and perhaps even write new ones?

“Well well well, my BOY, let ol’ FOG lay down some KNOWLEDGE on the import-ants of self-defense!” So began one of the emails produced by GPT-4, after I fed my father’s archive into it. As an opening it feels slightly more stilted than the source material, and I can’t recall my father ever referring to me as a “BOY”, but he did call himself the “FOG” (short for “effing old guy”) and randomly capitalise entire words and hyphenate others (“import-ants”), though he would never have bothered with the apostrophe after “ol’” (he’d merely write “ol”).

I know my father’s voice when I see it — it is a script that runs in my own head, like a built-in AI. And as GPT-4 generated more missives, I was increasingly certain: it could not replicate my father’s erratic punctuation usage. The mere ellipse was never enough for him; he would sometimes type out a dozen full-stops or more. These time signatures often appeared in the long, quiet sections in the saddest emails he wrote: “Go out there and just outwit the bastards………Nothing else to Life…..every body loses but some people stay in the game for a long time and have a happy life and family….I never did…..oh well…I saw it and I read the writing on the wall……” It was these inconsistencies that enabled me to hear his voice, these peculiarities that made his work human.

I doubt that a machine will ever be able to mimic his syntax. But given the right prior inputs, GPT-4 could respond to questions or develop political platforms (or children’s stories) in a manner that eerily resembled my father’s thought process. Was this a true reanimation, or merely what University of Washington linguist Emily Bender, a critic of equating AI outputs with human reasoning, might describe as “stochastic parroting”? The AI certainly captured subtleties in my father’s work that I and others overlooked during that reading in the East Village. Listeners then likely saw him as some outsider-artist variant of Alex Jones, spewing rote conspiracy theory. But ChatGPT, when asked to summarise his politics, cut through the outlandish expression to a more comprehensible core: “Your father’s concern for the environment and the need for sustainable practices aligns with the environmentalist movement [while] his preference for local communities and self-sufficiency has some connections to localism.”

This was, of course, true, though I never thought about it in this way — nor did I consider that his “focus on gender equality and women’s empowerment aligns with progressive politics”. My father was the sort of man who moved to a “mountain house” in Montana to live out his final days; he was far closer to the libertarian Right of Karl Hess — who also retired to the wilderness — than the more culturally conservative, evangelical Right that dominated his era (or the MAGA movement that dominated mine). The AI analysed and reproduced a version of my father distinct from who I remembered. But perhaps there were things I had missed.

The progress AI has made in understanding and generating human-like text over the past six months is impressive — a great feat of engineering that will, in time, be remembered alongside the construction of the Pyramids or the Great Wall of China. However, AI models are still unable to mimic the voices of highly idiosyncratic, distinctive writers. The polymath University of Paris professor Justin E.H. Smith, for instance, has found AI largely incapable of simulating his unique voice. But in his case the content, rather than simply the form, of his communication is highly complex.

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AI is a false prophet

By Jacob Howland

The writing of Right-leaning political blogger Curtis Yarvin, on the other hand, appears stylish on the surface, but is often considered lacking in substance — a fellow editor noted that removing every other sentence from Yarvin’s excessively ornamental prose would not change its meaning in the slightest. Yarvin believes that GPT-4 cannot reason or think, merely discern and reproduce patterns. His writing, however, is undeniably replicable; a sentence such as “the only way to write about finance is to be either neither bull nor bear, or both” seems sophisticated at first glance, but it exemplifies what one of my old writing mentors might call “all sizzle and no steak”. In other words, Yarvin, like many commentators succeeding on the internet, can skilfully assemble sentences that can be skimmed for hours but forgotten in minutes — meaning that imitating his work is the ideal scenario for an LLM that ceaselessly creates a persuasive imitation of style, without any regard for substance.

The general public, most of whom skim content rather than paying attention to form, may struggle to differentiate between authentic and AI-generated content. More perceptive readers can sometimes detect minor discrepancies that reveal the artificial nature of the imitation — but even they aren’t perfect. In one study, researchers investigated if LLMs could be as good as humans at creating philosophical texts, by fine-tuning GPT-3 with philosopher Daniel C. Dennett’s works. While experts and philosophy blog readers performed above chance level in distinguishing Dennett’s answers from the model’s, they still fell short of the expected success rate.

The implications here are alarming. If most people are unable to distinguish between human-generated and AI-generated content, creativity and critical thinking will become rarer attributes. A new class divide could spring up, between the privileged few capable of discerning the nuances of AI-generated content, and a growing mass of individuals left to consume, without question, whatever is presented to them. The “priestly class” would consolidate power by reading between the hieratic lines of AI-generated content — just as the literate elites in ancient Egyptian and Sumerian civilisations did, by controlling access to sacred texts and legal knowledge. Their ability to recognise genuine information would give them a competitive edge in everything from financial markets to politics, further widening the gap between the informed and the uninformed. Meanwhile, the vast majority — an ever-expanding pool of digital-age helots left to hew wood and draw water — would become increasingly vulnerable to manipulation and misinformation. The forces that shape our lives would be less accountable, and it would be ever harder to address ethical concerns or make well-informed decisions.

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Why is my chatbot hitting on me?

By Kathleen Stock

Unfortunately, it is difficult to even imagine the mass education needed to achieve the necessary levels of discernment — much less its effectuation. Most people would rather be watching 15-second TikTok videos than close reading. And while a significant percentage of the world’s population will always, unfortunately, lack the cognitive skills or cultural capital to navigate our swiftly-changing content ecosystem, even the well-educated are in danger. We are witnessing a decline in the humanities, which traditionally turn future workers into critical thinkers, capable of discerning the idiosyncrasies in human expression.

As AI-generated content becomes increasingly sophisticated, we must prize those idiosyncrasies. They are, as I saw when I attempted to replicate my father’s emails, what make each writer’s voice distinct and authentic; they are the reason discerning readers might pay to read a mind-expanding Substack instead of boring, one-note op-eds or paint-by-numbers YA fiction. By embracing the unique aspects of the way they communicate, writers may create work that resonates on a deeper level, appealing to an audience that still wants to read the best work that humans can produce.

My father’s voice is one of a kind. But to find out if my conclusions are replicable by a machine, I decided to ask ChatGPT to provide its own opinion on the likelihood of it fully “replacing” a given writer. “It’s important to consider that my responses are based on patterns and structures found in the data I’ve been trained on, rather than personal experiences or emotions,” it replied. “As a result, even though I can generate text that appears to be in the style of a specific person, it is still an approximation and not a direct reflection of their thoughts or ideas.” Of course, when I am communicating with a machine that reproduces the thoughts of my dead father with a reasonably high degree of precision, it’s pretty to think it might be otherwise. But more alarming is the question I am left with: Could I have put it better myself?