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I always deemed him the victim of two evil powers—ambition and indigestion.

I placed his desk close up to a small side-window in that part of the room, a window which originally had afforded a lateral view of certain grimy back-yards and bricks, but which, owing to subsequent erections, commanded at present no view at all, though it gave some light. Within three feet of the panes was a wall, and the light came down from far above, between two lofty buildings, as from a very small opening in a dome. Still further to a satisfactory arrangement, I procured a high green folding screen, which might entirely isolate Bartleby from my sight, though not remove him from my voice. And thus, in a manner, privacy and society were conjoined

The enemy is clearly delineated: he is a perfect model of malice, a kind of amoral superman—sinister, ubiquitous, powerful, cruel, sensual, luxury-loving. Unlike the rest of us, the enemy is not caught in the toils of the vast mechanism of history, himself a victim of his past, his desires, his limitations. He wills, indeed he manufactures, the mechanism of history, or tries to deflect the normal course of history in an evil way. He makes crises, starts runs on banks, causes depressions, manufactures disasters, and then enjoys and profits from the misery he has produced. The paranoid’s interpretation of history is distinctly personal: decisive events are not taken as part of the stream of history, but as the consequences of someone’s will. Very often the enemy is held to possess some especially effective source of power: he controls the press; he has unlimited funds; he has a new secret for influencing the mind (brainwashing); he has a special technique for seduction (the Catholic confessional).

I’m a science fiction writer, which means that my job is to make up futuristic parables about our current techno-social arrangements to interrogate not just what a gadget does, but who it does it for, and who it does it to

And obviously, a reverse centaur is machine head on a human body, a person who is serving as a squishy meat appendage for an uncaring machine.

“There is no alternative” is a cheap rhetorical slight. It’s a demand dressed up as an observation. “There is no alternative” means “STOP TRYING TO THINK OF AN ALTERNATIVE.” Which, you know, fuck that.

The promise of AI — the promise AI companies make to investors — is that there will be AIs that can do your job, and when your boss fires you and replaces you with AI, he will keep half of your salary for himself, and give the other half to the AI company.

“And if the AI misses a tumor, this will be the human radiologist’s fault, because they are the ‘human in the loop.’ It’s their signature on the diagnosis.”

This is a reverse centaur, and it’s a specific kind of reverse-centaur: it’s what Dan Davies calles an “accountability sink.” The radiologist’s job isn’t really to oversee the AI’s work, it’s to take the blame for the AI’s mistakes.

And one of the reasons the AI companies are so anxious to fire coders is that coders are the princes of labor. They’re the most consistently privileged, sought-after, and well-compensated workers in the labor force.

Let me explain: on average, illustrators don’t make any money. They are already one of the most immiserated, precartized groups of workers out there. They suffer from a pathology called “vocational awe.” That’s a term coined by the librarian Fobazi Ettarh, and it refers to workers who are vulnerable to workplace exploitation because they actually care about their jobs — nurses, librarians, teachers, and artists.

And in the meantime, it’s bad art. It’s bad art in the sense of being “eerie,” the word Mark Fisher uses to describe “when there is something present where there should be nothing, or is there is nothing present when there should be something.”

AI art is eerie because it seems like there is an intender and an intention behind every word and every pixel, because we have a lifetime of experience that tells us that paintings have painters, and writing has writers. But it’s missing something. It has nothing to say, or whatever it has to say is so diluted that it’s undetectable.

So what is the alternative? A lot of artists and their allies think they have an answer: they say we should extend copyright to cover the activities associated with training a model. And I’m here to tell you they are wrong:w rong because this would inflict terrible collateral damage on socially beneficial activities, and it would represent a massive expansion of copyright over activities that are currently permitted — for good reason!.

And today, the media industry is larger and more profitable than it has ever been, and also: the share of media industry income that goes to creative workers is lower than its ever been, both in real terms, and as a proportion of those incredible gains made by creators’ bosses at the media company.

So how it is that we have given all these new rights to creators, and those new rights have generated untold billions, and left creators poorer? It’s because in a creative market dominated by five publishers, four studios, three labels, two mobile app stores, and a single company that controls all the ebooks and audiobooks, giving a creative worker extra rights to bargain with is like giving your bullied kid more lunch money.

This is the guy who signed that press release in my inbox. And his message was: The problem isn’t that Midjourney wants to train a Gen AI model on copyrighted works, and then use that model to put artists on the breadline. The problem is that Midjourney didn’t pay RIAA members Universal and Disney for permission to train a model. Because if only Midjourney had given Disney and Universal several million dollars for training right to their catalogs, the companies would have happily allowed them to train to their heart’s content, and they would have bought the resulting models, and fired as many creative professionals as they could.

When Getty Images sues AI companies, it’s not representing the interests of photographers. Getty hates paying photographers! Getty just wants to get paid for the training run, and they want the resulting AI model to have guardrails, so it will refuse to create images that compete with Getty’s images for anyone except Getty. But Getty will absolutely use its models to bankrupt as many photographers as it possibly can.

All through this AI bubble, the Copyright Office has maintained — correctly — that AI-generated works cannot be copyrighted, because copyright is exclusively for humans.

We can do it ourselves, the way the writers did in their historic writers’ strike. The writers brought the studios to their knees. They did it because they are organized and solidaristic, but also are allowed to do something that virtually no other workers are allowed to do: they can engage in “sectoral bargaining,” whereby all the workers in a sector can negotiate a contract with every employer in the sector.

The AI Safety people say they are worried that AI is going to end the world, but AI bosses love these weirdos. Because on the one hand, if AI is powerful enough to destroy the world, think of how much money it can make!

If there is any coherent message to the sprawling folk-art practices of Goonworld, it is this: kill yourself. Not literally, but spiritually. Where mainstream porn invites the straight-male viewer to imagine himself as the man onscreen, gooner porn constantly reminds viewers that they are alone, that they are masturbating to porn because no one would ever deign to sleep with them.

What are these gooners actually doing? Wasting hours each day consuming short-form video content. Chasing intensities of sensation across platforms. Parasocially fixating on microcelebrities who want their money. Broadcasting their love for those microcelebrities in public forums. Conducting bizarre self-experiments because someone on the internet told them to. In general, abjuring connective, other-directed pleasures for the comfort of staring at screens alone. Does any of this sound familiar? Do you maybe know some folks who get up to stuff like this? It’s true that gooners are masturbating while they engage in these behaviors. You could say that only makes them more honest.

I had to do so much active work during the first 40 minutes of the film—which felt unintentionally farcical to me—to understand what he was telegraphing: people sublimating traumas into trying to push revolutionary movements but disconnected from the principles of it, so they only produce chaos.

Anderson has a practiced talent of pace and structure, and it makes sense so many reviewers have dubbed this an "American epic," because it looks and plays like one, even if it lacks the essential heart and soul of one. It reminds me of the brand of prank/social experiment in which someone sets up a fake gourmet restaurant, where they serve pedestrian takeout carefully organized on fancy dishware to resemble high cuisine.

On the backstretch of 2025, it portends profound losses in the battles that loom on the horizon. Where we need honest self-assessment and bold political imagination, we are still passing off posturing as revolt, empty measures as countermeasures. In that sense, Anderson’s film does capture our moment: To date, we've proven incapable of rising to meet it. We haven’t even found the language or self-awareness to name it. We can’t begin to imagine what collective resistance looks like, or what shape communal support in the face of economic collapse might take.