Matter Turns Intelligent.

Hydrogen…, given enough time, turns into people.
Edward Robert Harrison, 1995

One of the most spectacular developments during the 13.8 billion years since our Big Bang is that dumb and lifeless matter has turned intelligent.

(...) there’s clearly no undisputed “correct” definition of intelligence. Instead, there are many competing ones, including capacity for logic, understanding, planning, emotional knowledge, self-awareness,  creativity, problem solving and learning. (...)

intelligence = ability to accomplish complex goals

This is broad enough to include all above-mentioned definitions, since understanding, self-awareness, problem solving, learning, etc. are all examples of complex goals that one might have. It’s also broad enough to subsume the Oxford Dictionary definition—“the ability to acquire and apply knowledge and skills”—since one can have as a goal to apply knowledge and skills. Because there are many possible goals, there are many possible types of intelligence. By our definition, it therefore makes no sense to quantify intelligence of humans, non-human animals or machines by a single number such as an IQ. (...)

It’s natural for us to rate the difficulty of tasks relative to how hard it is for us humans to perform them, as in figure 2.1. But this can give a misleading picture of how hard they are for computers. It feels much harder to multiply 314,159 by 271,828 than to recognize a friend in a photo, yet computers creamed us at arithmetic long before I was born, while human-level image recognition has only recently become possible. This fact that low-level sensorimotor tasks seem easy despite requiring enormous computational resources is known as Moravec’s paradox, and is explained by the fact that our brain makes such tasks feel easy by dedicating massive amounts of customized hardware to them—more than a quarter of our brains, in fact.

I love this metaphor from Hans Moravec: "Computers are universal machines, their potential extends uniformly over a boundless expanse of tasks. Human potentials, on the other hand, are strong in areas long important for survival, but weak in things far removed. Imagine a “landscape of human competence,” having lowlands with labels like “arithmetic” and “rote memorization,” foothills like “theorem proving” and “chessplaying,” and high mountain peaks labeled “locomotion,” “hand-eye coordination” and “social interaction.” Advancing computer performance is like water slowly flooding the landscape. A half century ago it began to drown the lowlands, driving out human calculators and record clerks, but leaving most of us dry. Now the flood has reached the foothills, and our outposts there are contemplating retreat. We feel safe on our peaks, but, at the present rate, those too will be submerged within another half century. I propose that we build Arks as that day nears, and adopt a seafaring life!"


The crowded club of the chosen ones.

Soy hija de una prestidigitadora y de un acróbata. Nací, y viví siempre, en el circo. Estoy casada con un domador de fieras. Tengo un don probablemente excepcional. Basta que alguien se acerque a mí, para que yo lea su pensamiento. Me resigno, sin embargo, a que mi actuación en el circo donde trabajo sea aún más modesta que la de los payasos: ellos, al fin y al cabo, pretenden provocar la risa. Yo, por mi parte, con falda corta y muy largas medias blancas, al compás de la música, ejecuto pasos de baile ante la indiferencia del público, mientras a mi alrededor jinetes, equilibristas o domadores se juegan la vida.

De chica fui vanidosa. Para mí no había halago comparable al de ser admirada por mi don. Pronto, demasiado pronto, sospeché que por ese mismo don la gente me rehuía, como si me temiera. Me dije: “Si no lo olvidan quedaré sola.” Oculté mi don; fue un secreto que no revelé a nadie, ni siquiera a mi marido.

De un tiempo a esta parte Gustav trabaja con un solo tigre. Hace poco nos enteramos de que un viejo domador, famoso entre la gente del gremio por tratar a las fieras como si fueran humanos, se jubilaba y vendía un tigre. Gustav fue a verlo y, tras mucho regateo, lo compró. La primera tarde en que Gustav ante el público trabajó con el tigre, yo bailaba en el centro de la pista. De pronto, sin proponérmelo, me puse a leer pensamientos. Cuando me acerqué a mi marido, toda lectura cesó; pero cuando me acerqué al tigre, cuál no sería mi sorpresa, leí fácilmente su pensamiento, que se dirigía a mi marido y ordenaba: “Dígame que salte”, “dígame que dé un zarpazo”, “dígame que ruja”. Obedeció mi marido y el tigre saltó, dio un zarpazo y rugió con ferocidad.


Adolfo Bioy Casares (1998) Una magia modesta