Marc Philippe Eskenazi

Aug 30, 2024 | newyorker.com | Marc Philippe Eskenazi

Can’t you be more like ChatGPT? Welcome to the singularityChatGPT, ChatGPTYou’re scaring the livin’ shit outta meYou know me better than I know myselfMore charming and in far better healthYou’re a sociopath who answers either wayYou can, like, program math stuff, you can write a playI’m Salieri, you’re MozartYou don’t take days, deadlines, or amphetamines to startYou don’t second-guess yourself, or spout self-doubtYou just sit there, you smug son-of-a- . . .

May 3, 2024 | newyorker.com | Marc Philippe Eskenazi |Eli Burnstein |Jeff Bezos

A young lord turned twenty-eight. He was mugged by brigands and died the next day. It’s a black cloud upon the English moor. It’s doom and gloom knocking at your front door. And isn’t it Byronic . . . Don’t you think? It’s like rain, but it’s every day. It’s two days’ ride when you’d just rather stay. It’s the full moon over the tempest spray. And who would’ve thought? It figures. Prince Play-It-Safe was afraid to sail. He much preferred the trail over hill and dale. Then a raging storm swept through the land.