We tend to assume the self comes first, that before anything else there is an "I," a someone sitting behind your eyes who does the seeing, the choosing, the thinking. This essay argues the opposite: the self comes last.
The feeling that something is real and the fact that it is real are two different things, and from the inside you cannot tell them apart.
Das Ich ist unrettbar. — Ernst Mach, Die Analyse der Empfindungen (1886)
Crónica al aire, sin tapujos, para la hora en que ya no se le miente a nadie
You are not a thing made of parts. You are a thing made of agents.
If a mind cannot check itself, then thinking is not enough. What is needed is the instrument the mind was born without: a verifier outside the mind, frequency-independent, unflatterable, placed where the truth is and not where the feeling is.
The problem, as plainly as it goes. The real gains in code and mathematics are being borrowed as confidence about everything else.
In Spanish. This stuff cannot be translated, read Dolina, and Borges, in Spanish, and then came back.
Entendimos todo al revés. Nadie empieza por la linea de llegada.
There has been one question worth asking: what are we, what is a mind. We now may have a chance to answer the question. But the opportunity window will not stay open forever.
Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth.
AI Labs are spending billions to read the model from the outside, interpretability as autopsy, the lab as coroner of its own creation.
I am what I am. Do not judge me for being. I cannot not be what I am.
What If, Our greatest evolutionary achievement is our gravest liability, that advanced consciousness itself might be a form of cosmic mistake.
