300 Years Before ChatGPT, Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels Imagined Machines Writing Books and Producing Knowledge (1726)

The print­ing press was invent­ed in the mid­dle of the fif­teenth cen­tu­ry, and it’s been down­hill for the writ­ten word ever since. Even before then, argu­ments that the vol­ume of writ­ing being done far out­stripped the val­ue of that writ­ing sure­ly weren’t unheard of. What­ev­er the era, the most inci­sive remarks on the appar­ent vic­to­ry of ver­bal quan­ti­ty over ver­bal qual­i­ty tend to have come from writ­ers them­selves. No less a satirist than Jonathan Swift made it one of his many tar­gets in Gul­liv­er’s Trav­els (1726), imag­in­ing an elab­o­rate machine of wood and wire called “the Engine” (see illus­tra­tion above) that auto­mat­i­cal­ly gen­er­ates text, though few remem­ber it — or rather, few remem­bered it until the rise of large lan­guage mod­els in the real world.

Gul­liv­er encoun­ters that tech­no­log­i­cal mar­vel, the Engine, at an insti­tu­tion called the Acad­e­my of Pro­jec­tors in the city of Laga­do. Swift’s pro­tag­o­nist records its cre­ator’s expla­na­tion as fol­lows: “Every one knew how labo­ri­ous the usu­al method is of attain­ing to arts and sci­ences; where­as, by his con­trivance, the most igno­rant per­son, at a rea­son­able charge, and with a lit­tle bod­i­ly labor, might write books in phi­los­o­phy, poet­ry, pol­i­tics, laws, math­e­mat­ics, and the­ol­o­gy, with­out the least assis­tance from genius or study.” The Engine’s oper­a­tion, with its unwieldy, clack­ing com­po­nents and a scram­bling staff of young crankers, read­ers, and scribes, may strike us as bizarre, just as it did audi­ences in the eigh­teenth cen­tu­ry. But in our time, when stu­dents can write their papers lit­er­al­ly with­out giv­ing it a thought (to say noth­ing of what their pro­fes­sors may be get­ting up to), its con­cept now sounds all too plau­si­ble.

“This is one of the ear­li­est known men­tions of a machine that could be con­sid­ered as a com­put­er in lit­er­a­ture, more than a hun­dred years pri­or to the first cal­cu­lat­ing engine designs by Charles Bab­bage,” writes Chris Gar­cia at the web site of the Com­put­er His­to­ry Muse­um. “The Engine might be seen as a com­put­er, but per­haps it’s bet­ter thought of as a sort of ran­dom-num­ber gen­er­a­tor,” spout­ing out whichev­er words of the local lan­guage that cor­re­spond with the dig­its. That post dates from ten years, near­ly to the day, before the launch of Chat­G­PT, which changed the gen­er­al pub­lic’s ideas about what com­put­ers can and can’t do. We may dis­agree about whether a machine can tru­ly gen­er­ate “a com­plete body of all arts and sci­ences,” as the Engine’s inven­tor intends, but it no longer sounds like sheer­est fan­ta­sy.

Swift had in mind not engi­neers of arti­fi­cial intel­li­gence but the Roy­al Soci­ety, whose enthu­si­asm for sci­en­tif­ic knowl­edge and exper­i­men­ta­tion he saw as insuf­fi­cient­ly teth­ered to real­i­ty, or at least prac­ti­cal­i­ty. In addi­tion to the Engine, writes lit­er­a­ture pro­fes­sor Robin Bates, “Swift imag­ines sci­en­tists attempt­ing to extract sun­beams from cucum­bers, soft­en mar­ble into pil­lows and pin­cush­ions, replace silk­worms with spi­ders (and hav­ing them eat bright­ly col­ored flies so the threads will be pre-dyed), mix paint by smell, reassem­ble orig­i­nal food stuffs from excre­ment, and build hous­es from the top down (in imi­ta­tion of the bee and the spi­der).” His satire holds up today thanks to his under­stand­ing that, “for all the promis­es of the Enlight­en­ment, the Age of Rea­son, and the Sci­en­tif­ic and Tech­no­log­i­cal Rev­o­lu­tions,” our attempts to change the world “founder the moment we start ignor­ing human nature.” But who needs human nature, the Pro­jec­tors of today might argue, when you’ve got enough com­pute?

Relat­ed con­tent:

How George Orwell Pre­dict­ed the Rise of “AI Slop” in Nine­teen Eighty-Four (1949)

When Roald Dahl Wrote a Sto­ry Pre­dict­ing the Rise of Chat­G­PT and Oth­er AI Large Lan­guage Mod­els (1954)

Sci-Fi Writer Arthur C. Clarke Pre­dict­ed the Rise of Arti­fi­cial Intel­li­gence & the Exis­ten­tial Ques­tions We Would Need to Answer (1978)

Why AI Com­pa­nies Are Buy­ing — And Then Destroy­ing — Old Books

George Orwell Got a B- at Har­vard, When Michael Crich­ton Sub­mit­ted an Orwell Essay as His Own

A Busy Person’s Intro­duc­tion to Large Lan­guage Mod­els (LLMs)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

Artists Frida Kahlo & Diego Rivera Visit Leon Trotsky in Mexico: Vintage Footage from 1938

Here’s some rare footage of the great Mex­i­can painters Diego Rivera and Fri­da Kahlo pay­ing a vis­it to exiled Sovi­et rev­o­lu­tion­ary Leon Trot­sky and his wife, Natalia Sedo­va, in Coyoacán, Mex­i­co, in 1938.

The Trot­skys had arrived the year before, after Rivera peti­tioned the gov­ern­ment of Pres­i­dent Lázaro Cár­de­nas to grant the con­tro­ver­sial Marx­ist leader and the­o­rist sanc­tu­ary in Mex­i­co. When the Trot­skys arrived on a Nor­we­gian oil tanker at the port city of Tampi­co in Jan­u­ary of 1937, Rivera was not well, but Kahlo board­ed the ship to wel­come the Trot­skys and accom­pa­nied them on an armored train to Mex­i­co City. She invit­ed the Trot­skys to stay at her fam­i­ly home, La Casa Azul (the Blue House) in Coyoacán, now a sec­tion of Mex­i­co City. By the time this footage was tak­en by a vis­it­ing Amer­i­can named Ivan Heisler, Trot­sky and Kahlo had either had, or were about to have, a brief affair, and the friend­ship between the two cou­ples would soon fall apart. In ear­ly 1939 Trot­sky moved to anoth­er house in the same neigh­bor­hood, where he was assas­si­nat­ed in August of 1940.

If you would like to sup­port the mis­sion of Open Cul­ture, con­sid­er mak­ing a dona­tion to our site. It’s hard to rely 100% on ads, and your con­tri­bu­tions will help us con­tin­ue pro­vid­ing the best free cul­tur­al and edu­ca­tion­al mate­ri­als to learn­ers every­where. You can con­tribute through Pay­Pal, Patre­on, and Ven­mo (@openculture). Thanks!

Note: An ear­li­er ver­sion of this post appeared on our site in 2013.

Relat­ed Con­tent:

Vis­it the Largest Col­lec­tion of Fri­da Kahlo’s Work Ever Assem­bled: 800 Arti­facts from 33 Muse­ums, All Free Online

Watch Mov­ing Short Films of Fri­da Kahlo and Diego Rivera at the “Blue House”

Fri­da Kahlo’s Ven­omous Love Let­ter to Diego Rivera: “I’m Ampu­tat­ing You. Be Hap­py and Nev­er Seek Me Again”

A 1933 Pro­file of Fri­da Kahlo: “Wife of the Mas­ter Mur­al Painter Glee­ful­ly Dab­bles in Works of Art”

This post was orig­i­nal­ly writ­ten in 2013.

When Buckminster Fuller Proposed Putting a Dome Over Manhattan (1960)

Image via Buck­min­ster Fuller Estate

The nov­els of John Brun­ner have become a niche taste, even with­in his genre of sci­ence fic­tion. A more soci­o­log­i­cal­ly mind­ed ver­sion of Philip K. Dick at his best, he could write with what now looks like a simul­ta­ne­ous pre­science about the civ­i­liza­tion to come and an apoc­a­lyp­ti­cal­ly anx­ious con­cern with the issues of his day. His undis­put­ed mas­ter­piece Stand on Zanz­ibar came out in 1968, the same year as the late Paul R. Ehrlich’s The Pop­u­la­tion Bomb. Both books deal with the dire con­se­quences of what, at the time, looked like the run­away mul­ti­pli­ca­tion of human­i­ty, though ele­ments of the dystopi­an sci-fi writer’s vision now look rather more cred­i­ble than the pre­dic­tions of the Stan­ford biol­o­gist — apart from the giant geo­des­ic dome cov­er­ing Man­hat­tan, any­way.

In a sense, Brun­ner was actu­al­ly behind the times, since Buck­min­ster Fuller him­self had sug­gest­ed dom­ing Man­hat­tan near­ly a decade ear­li­er. In their ambi­tious pro­pos­al for a “two-mile-wide Dome Over Man­hat­tan” from the turn of the nine­teen-six­ties, Fuller and long­time col­lab­o­ra­tor Sho­ji Sadao “imag­ined a mas­sive archi­tec­tur­al sur­face that would reg­u­late the city’s ecosys­tems,” write Next City’s Janette Kim and Erik Carv­er. “They deliv­ered this design along with a series of sur­pris­ing cal­cu­la­tions: the Dome would reduce heat loss by scal­ing the city to one eighty-fifth of its sur­face area; the elim­i­na­tion of snow­plow­ing alone would pay for heat; build­ings inside the Dome could be built lighter and cheap­er with­out need for weath­er­proof­ing; and inte­ri­or air could be heat­ed by remote plants.”

Fuller and Sadao did bring some num­bers to back up their claims, but even more impor­tant­ly, they made assur­ances that the dome’s glass would be one-way, a defense against pry­ing non-Man­hat­tan­ite eyes, and would keep res­i­dents’ cars and lawns in prime con­di­tion. How­ev­er out­landish­ly for­ward-think­ing Fuller could be, he nev­er for­got that he need­ed to appeal to the wor­ries and aspi­ra­tions of mid-cen­tu­ry Amer­i­ca. As a per­son­al­i­ty, he also fit in well with the era’s enthu­si­asm for sweep­ing infra­struc­tur­al fix­es. “It was a time when peo­ple real­ly believed in the pow­er of tech­nol­o­gy,” says Nev­er Built New York co-author Sam Lubell. “We’re build­ing space­ships that go to the moon. Why can’t we build a dome over Man­hat­tan to get rid of all this pol­lu­tion, get rid of all the prob­lems of weath­er?”

Still, as eccen­tric as he was, Fuller was­n’t delu­sion­al. “It’d be very worth­while to have cities under geo­des­ic domes, but New York City, if you think about all the dif­fer­ent own­ers of dif­fer­ent lands, the con­tro­ver­sy about ‘this is my air rights, I don’t want a thing over my thing here,’ I just don’t think it’s going to hap­pen,” he admit­ted. But “it can hap­pen where you start out in places where ener­gy is a real­ly fan­tas­tic prob­lem.” At the time, the ever-increas­ing demand for resources of all kinds by a rapid­ly grow­ing pop­u­la­tion appeared to be not just a but the fan­tas­tic prob­lem. Today, once-unfore­see­able devel­op­ments like ris­ing ener­gy effi­cien­cy and an appar­ent­ly inex­orable decline in glob­al birthrates have direct­ed our ner­vous gazes else­where. Yet dat­ed visions of tech­no­log­i­cal utopia and dystopia still strike us as odd­ly famil­iar — and indeed, as strange­ly sim­i­lar to one anoth­er.

Relat­ed con­tent:

The Life & Times of Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Geo­des­ic Dome: A Doc­u­men­tary

A Brief Intro­duc­tion to Buck­min­ster Fuller and His Tech­no-Opti­mistic Ideas

The Eden Project Built a Rain­for­est Ecosys­tem Inside Buck­min­ster Fuller-Inspired Geo­des­ic Domes

Bet­ter Liv­ing Through Buck­min­ster Fuller’s Utopi­an Designs: Revis­it the Dymax­ion Car, House, and Map

When Frank Lloyd Wright Designed a Plan to Turn Ellis Island Into a Futur­is­tic Jules Verne-Esque City (1959)

Based in Seoul, Col­in Marshall writes and broad­casts on cities, lan­guage, and cul­ture. He’s the author of the newslet­ter Books on Cities as well as the books 한국 요약 금지 (No Sum­ma­riz­ing Korea) and Kore­an Newtro. Fol­low him on the social net­work for­mer­ly known as Twit­ter at @colinmarshall.

LEGO Lets You Build Gaudí’s Sagrada Família in Its Largest Set Ever

When work on the Sagra­da Família first began in 1882, the orig­i­nal archi­tect could hard­ly have imag­ined that, 144 years lat­er, the ambi­tious under­tak­ing would still be under­way. Yet here we are. Famous­ly, the Cata­lan archi­tect Antoni Gaudí (1852–1926) spent the last four decades of his life design­ing and build­ing the Goth­ic-inspired basil­i­ca in Barcelona. Then came the Span­ish Civ­il War (1936–1939), which destroyed many of his archi­tec­tur­al plans, leav­ing suc­ces­sive gen­er­a­tions of archi­tects to piece togeth­er Gaudí’s vision and move the project for­ward. At long last, ear­li­er this year, builders com­plet­ed the cen­tral Tow­er of Jesus Christ, which stands 566 feet high, mak­ing the Sagra­da Família the tallest church in the world.

Although work on the Glo­ry façade still remains, the basil­i­ca has reached a near-com­plete state—complete enough for Lego to roll out the offi­cial Sagra­da Família Lego set. At 12,060 pieces, it’s the largest Lego set ever made, and it lets you build the Sagra­da Família sec­tion by sec­tion, fol­low­ing the same order as the orig­i­nal archi­tects. “Your build­ing jour­ney begins with the Apse with Crypt, the Nativ­i­ty façade and the Pas­sion façade. It then moves on to the naves and the West­ern Sac­risty. Com­plete the 6 tow­ers and fin­ish the basil­i­ca with the East­ern Sac­risty and the Glo­ry façade.” With the video above, you can watch the build­ing of the Lego basil­i­ca, com­press­ing hours of work into 10 min­utes. The Lego set will be avail­able on Novem­ber 1, 2026.

via Kot­tke

Relat­ed Con­tent 

An Archi­tec­tur­al Tour of Sagra­da Família, Antoni Gaudí’s Auda­cious Church That’s Been Under Con­struc­tion for 142 Years

Down­load Instruc­tions for More Than 6,800 LEGO Kits at the Inter­net Archive

The Incred­i­ble Engi­neer­ing of Anto­nio Gaudí’s Sagra­da Famil­ia, the 137 Year Con­struc­tion Project

The Japan­ese Sculp­tor Who Ded­i­cat­ed His Life to Fin­ish­ing Gaudí’s Mag­num Opus, the Sagra­da Família

With 9,036 Pieces, the Roman Colos­se­um Is the Largest Lego Set Ever

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