Meditations of the cat Murr

For just over a year now, I've had a tortoiseshell cat named Susi. Ever since she arrived home when she was a month old, she's been fascinated with the computer. Sometimes, when I'm writing—I always use a laptop—she'll jump in front of me and stare at me, bewildered. Other times, she scratches her underarm on the angle of the screen. If I get up from my chair and leave the office, she discreetly approaches the computer and sits on it. She must be thinking: if this guy spends day and night typing, he must be really cool. I've never caught her, but I know she types too, in her own way, because often when I come home, I find the computer in airplane mode, and once I left WhatsApp Web open, she sent a message to Tessa Calders, daughter of the writer Pere Calders. "Sorry, Tessa, the cat wrote that!" I wrote, as Susi walked away, very offended because I'd kicked her off her throne. “Well, he writes better than many writers,” Tessa told me, amused.

He texted Tessa Calders. “Sorry, Tessa, the cat wrote it!”

I explain this to my friend Rosendo, who has a cat named Lucky and a cat named Bowie, and he replies with an incredible story. Rosendo designs books for a publishing house in Albacete that publishes copyright-free classics. One of the latest he designed is Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert, in an old translation he doesn't pay for. The book comes out, and a few days later, a man calls the publisher, outraged because he was reading the novel, Emma Bovary and her lover spend the day locked in a room at the Hôtel de Boulogne, all at once. Suddenly, the narration is interrupted by a string of fs, gs, hs, ts, and js: an entire paragraph is unintelligible. The editor calls Rosendo to see what happened. My friend opens the PDF, "Bovary.def," and the text is fine. He opens "Bovary.def.def," and it's fine too. And “Bovary.def.def.ultimo” is the same. But in the PDF, “Bovary.def.def.ultimo.final” finds the consonantal paragraph incomprehensible. My friend also has an office at home, and on his way to get some fresh air by the window, the two cats walk right past him. They jumped over the keyboard and added a few lines to the immortal pages of Flaubert's novel. No one noticed, and he went to the printer with that mess. Rosendo wanted to strangle the cats. “At first, they followed the little cursor arrow,” he recalls. “They would spend hours like that. But this is something else!” I try to console him by saying that with AI, it will be worse than with the cats. I have read a very good article by Paul B. Preciado with a call for a click strike: we have to stop feeding the AI ​​because it is an attempt to colonize language, soon we will have to pay to be able to speak vkfjvzvjsllñjñjjjlgjjffhffcjehegjhkcjbljldfrkghshgkskhgdkjhdgjdg lbjdljdljhdjhrjhdthldjñsldjhdsjldjñdjklsdhjklhdsjkñldkhñdkñhdlhkñhdkñdkdlkñdkñdkhdhñkhshfgksksf