by Primo Levi
SECRETARY: DID?
POET: Didactic: very important. PORN . . . (The SECRETARY jumps) “Turning it on”—it may not appear to be the case, but it’s really very simple. Even a child could use it. (With increasing enthusiasm) Look, all you have to do is set the “commands”: there are four entries. The first is for the subject, the second is for the genre, the third is for the metrical form, the fourth (which is optional) determines the era of composition. The machine does the rest; it’s marvelous!
SECRETARY (challenging): Why don’t you try it?
POET (hastily): Sure, I’ll try it. Here: LYR, PHIL (two clicks); terza rima, hendecasyllable (click); seventeenth century (click; with every click, the drone of the machine becomes louder and changes tone). Go!
A buzzing sound: three short signals and a long one. Discharges,
jamming, then the machine begins to run in rhythmical bursts,
similar to those of an electric calculator when doing division.
VERSIFIER (very distorted metallic voice):
Bru
bru
bru
bru
bru
bru
bru
bru
ow
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
or
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
ow
Bla
bla
bla
bla
bla
bla
bla
bla
or
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
edge
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
or
Loud burst; silence, only the background drone.
SECRETARY: A fine result! It only makes rhymes; the rest you have to do yourself. What did I tell you?
POET: Well, it’s only the first try. Maybe I did something wrong. Just a minute. (Skims the brochure) Let me have a look. Ah, here, what an idiot! I forgot the most important thing: I set everything except the subject. But I’ll fix that straightaway. “Subject”—what subject should we give it? “The limits of human intelligence.”
Click, buzz: three short signals and a long one.
VERSIFIER (metallic voice, less distorted than earlier):
Lunatic brain, what is the aim of your great show?
To what end do you expend such great labor
Consuming long hours day and night to know?
He lies, he lies, who claims this to be your saviour
The desire to ingest vast knowledge,
A nectar of sorts, but bitter to its tastor.
Loud click; silence.
POET: That’s better, isn’t it? Let’s have a look at the tape. (Reading) “. . . do you expend such great labor” . . . “The desire to ingest vast knowledge” . . . Not bad, believe me: I know quite a few colleagues who couldn’t do any better. Oblique, but not too much so, syntax and prosody in order, a bit affected, yes, but no more than you would find in a decent seventeenth-century poet.
SECRETARY: Please don’t tell me you’re trying to claim this stuff is genius.
POET: Genius, no, but marketable. More than good enough for any practical purpose.
SECRETARY: May I have a look? “Who claims this to be your saviour” . . . hmm . . . “A nectar of sorts, but bitter to its tastor.” “Bitter to its tastor.” Tastor. Never heard of it: that’s not right. The word is “taster.”
POET: It’s a case of poetic license. And why shouldn’t it take a little? Actually, hold on, there’s a section, here it is, right on the last page. Here, listen to what it says: “License. The Versifier contains the entire official vocabulary of the language for which it was designed, and for each word it employs the accepted definitions. When the machine is asked to compose in rhyme, or in any other binding form . . .”
SECRETARY: What does that mean, “binding form”?
POET: Well, for example, assonance, alliteration, et cetera . . . “or in any other binding form, it will automatically search among the words listed in its dictionary and will choose first the words that are best suited in terms of meaning, and around these it will construct the appropriate verses. If none of these words fit, the machine resorts to license, which means it will adjust the words available, or coin new ones. The user can determine the degree of ‘licentiousness’ of the composition by adjusting the red knob located inside the casing to the left.” Let’s see . . .
SECRETARY: Here it is, behind here, it’s a bit hidden. The dial is marked from one to ten.
POET (continues to read): “This” . . . This what? I lost track of where I was. Oh yes, “the degree of ‘licentiousness.’” The word sounds a bit foreign. “This is normally limited to between two and three on the dial. Turning the knob to its maximum level will result in notable poetics, but they will be useful only for special effects.” Fascinating, don’t you think?
SECRETARY: Hmm . . . one wonders where all this will lead, a poem made up entirely of poetic license!
POET: A poem made up entirely of poetic license. . . . (With childlike curiosity) Listen: you can think what you want, but I’d like to try this. That’s what we’re here for, right? To understand what the machine is capable of, to see how well it performs. Anyone can do well with an easy theme. Let’s see: intuition . . . fruition, suspicion; no, too easy. Incubus: omnibus, succubus. Alabaster: no, no, disaster, broadcaster, et cetera. Ah, here . . . (to the machine with sinister amusement) “The Toad” (click); ottava rima, octosyllabic verse (click); genre: DID, yes, let’s do DID.
SECRETARY: But the theme . . . well, to me, it’s a bit dry.
POET: Not as much as it might seem—Victor Hugo, for example, did very well with it. The red knob at maximum . . . there, done. Go!
Buzz: three short signals and a long one.
VERSIFIER (shrill metallic voice; slower than usual):
Behold the toad among the batrachian,
Ugly to look at but useful amphibian.
(Pause, jamming, distorted voice: “amphibian, obsidian, Indian,
minion, pinion, onion, bunion, runyon, grunion, union,
banyan . . .” Fades while wheezing. Silence,
then it starts up again with great effort)
He hides himself far in the brackian,
Seeing him, I become pale and tremblian.
His belly and back are wart-covered in,
But he eats worms, no fibbian!
(Pause; then, with evident relief)
With filth he stays ridden—
How often virtue lies hidden.
SECRETARY: There—you got what you wanted. It’s frankly despicable and makes me want to vomit. It’s pure vilification. Are you happy now?
POET: Vilification, yes, but ingenious, incredibly interesting. Did you notice how it picked up steam again when it got to the final couplet, when it felt it was out of the woods? It was positively human. But let’s return to the regular settings: limited license. Shall we try mythology? Not just for fun but to see if the machine’s level of general cultural knowledge is as extensive as the brochure boasts. Which reminds me, what’s taking Simpson so long? . . . Let’s see . . . here: “Seven Against Thebes” (click); MYT (click); free verse (click); nineteenth century. Go!
Buzz: three short signals and a long one.
VERSIFIER (cavernous voice):
It was hard, that rock, like the hearts
Of the swarming crowd.
Never was there more strife.
andthe first
to cut short the wait:
The earth thunders beneath their feet,
As the sea trembles and the sky rumbles.
POET: What do you think?
SECRETARY: A bit generic, I’d say. And what about those two blank spaces it left?
POET: Sorry, but do you know the names of the Seven against Thebes? No, right? And yet you have a degree in literature, not to mention fifteen years of work experience. Not even I know their names. It’s more than normal that the machine left those two blanks. But did you notice that the two spaces are sufficient to hold two names with four syllables, or one with five and another with three, as is the case with the majority of Greek names? Would you get the Dictionary of Mythology, please?
SECRETARY: Here it is.
POET (searching): Rhadamanthus, Semele, Thisbe . . . here it is, “Thebes, Seven Against”: do you want to see which two names fit? Look: “Hippomedon and Capaneus the first”; Hippomedon and Amphiaraus the first”; “Polynices and Adrastus the first”; and I could go on. The choice is ours.
SECRETARY (unconvinced): Right. (Pause) Could I ask you a favor?
POET: Sure. What is it?
SECRETARY: I’d like to give the machine a theme, too.
POET: Why, of course. Please, give it a try: actually, I’d like that very much. Here, sit here, in my place; you already know how to use it.
They switch chairs.
SECRETARY: “Open theme.”
Click.
POET: Open theme? And no other information?
SECRETARY: Nope. I want to see what happens. Go!
Buzz. Three brief signals followed by a long one.
VERSIFIER (resounding voice, like the voice-over for coming attractions at the movies):
A girl worth taking to bed . . .
The SECRETARY lets out a yelp, as if she had seen a mouse, and turns off the switch; loud click, the machine is quiet.
POET (angry): What’s wrong with you? Plug it back in immediately. Do you want to wreck the whole machine!
SECRETARY: It offended me! It was alluding to me, that . . . thing!
POET: Come on! What the hell is it making you think?
SECRETARY: There are no other women here. It’s talking about me. It’s rude and lecherous.
POET: Calm down, don’t go hysterical on me. Let it speak. It’s a machine, remember? I don’t think you should be afraid of anything that comes out of a machine, at least not in these circumstances. Be reasonable now: take your hands off the switch. I thought it got off to a good start! Oh, there’s a good girl.
Click; again the buzz: three brief signals and a long one.
VERSIFIER (in the same voice as above):
A girl worth taking to bed:
There’s nothing better, it’s said.
I wouldn’t mind trying it, too,
For me it would be something new:
But for her, poor thing, what torture!
My frame is rock hard, that’s for sure.
Bronze, cast iron, Bakelite, brass
She offers her hand and is met by things crass;
She offers her lips and is met by a grock.
She hugs me to her breast and gets quite a shock.
Click; silence.
SECRETARY (sighs): Poor thing!
POET: You see? Go on, admit it: even you are moved. There’s a freshness, a spontaneity that . . . I’m going to buy this machine. I’m not going to miss this opportunity.
SECRETARY (rereading the text):
. . . Bakelite, brass
She offers her hand and is met by things crass;
She offers her lips and is met by a grock.
Yes, yes, it’s amusing. It imitates well . . . it imitates human behavior quite well. “. . . and is met by a grock.” What’s a grock?
POET: A grock? Let me see. Okay, “grock.” I don’t know. Let’s look it up in the dictionary: “groat: a silver coin of England”; “grog: a strong drink.” No, it’s definitely not here; who knows what it meant to say.
Doorbell.
SECRETARY (goes to open the door): Good afternoon, Mr. Simpson.
POET: Good afternoon.
MR. SIMPSON: I’m back. I wasn’t gone long, was I? How are you doing with the test runs? Are you satisfied? And you, miss?
POET: I’ve got to admit, it’s not at all bad, in fact, quite good. Actually, why don’t you also have a look at this text: there’s an odd word that we can’t figure out the meaning of.
MR. SIMPSON: Let’s see: “For me it would be something new . . .”
POET: No, further down. Here, toward the end: “and is met by a grock.” It doesn’t make sense; and we checked the dictionary. We’re really just curious, you know: it’s not a criticism.
MR. SIMPSON (reading): “She offers her lips and is met by a grock. She hugs me to her breast and gets quite a shock.” (With good-natured indulgence) Oh, yes, there’s a simple explanation. It’s factory jargon. In every factory, as you know, a particular jargon develops. This is jargon from the workshop where the machine was made. In the assembly room at NATCA’s Italian branch, here where we work at Olgiate Comasco, they say “grock” for a metallic brush. This model was assembled and tested at Olgiate, and it could have overheard the term. Actually, now that I think about it, it didn’t overhear the term—it was taught the term.
POET: Taught? Why?
MR. SIMPSON: It’s a recent innovation. You see, all of our devices (as well as those sold by our competition, of course) can break down. Now, our technicians thought that the simplest solution would be to train the machines to recognize the names of all their parts, so, in the case of a breakdown, they are capable of directly requesting the replacement of the defective part. In fact, the Versifier contains two metallic brushes, two grocks, in other words, which fit tightly over the tape-holder spindles.
POET: Ingenious, really. (Laughs) Let’s hope we don’t ever need to use this particular characteristic of the machine!
MR. SIMPSON: You said, “Let’s hope”? I must then deduce . . . that you . . . well, that your impressions have been favorable?
POET (suddenly very reserved): I haven’t decided yet. Favorable and unfavorable. We can talk about it, but . . . only when I have the estimate in hand.
MR. SIMPSON: Would you like to test it some more? Is there a really difficult theme that would show you once and for all how concise and brilliant the machine is? Those are, of course, the most convincing tests.
POET: Wait, let me think. (Pause) For example . . . ah, yes, miss, do you remember that request . . . I believe it was from November, that request from Mr. Capurro . . .
SECRETARY: Capurro? One minute, I’ll look for his file. Here it is, Cavalier Francesco Capurro, Genoa. He requested a sonnet, “Autumn in Liguria.”
POET (sternly): Was the order ever dealt with?
SECRETARY: Yes, of course. We answered by asking for an extension.
POET: And then?
SECRETARY: And then . . . you know how it is with all the pressure once the holiday season begins. . . .
POET: Right. And this is precisely how we lose clients.
MR. SIMPSON: You see? The usefulness of the Versifier is self-evident. Think about it: twenty-eight seconds for a sonnet—the time it takes to recite it, naturally, because the time it takes to compose it is imperceptible, a couple of microseconds.
POET: So, we were saying . . . Oh yes, “Autumn in Liguria,” why not?
MR. SIMPSON (with mild sarcasm): Mixing a little business with pleasure, right?
POET (annoyed): Of course not! It’s a practical test: I want to put the machine in my shoes, in a concrete situation of everyday business, of the sort that occurs three or four hundred times a year.
MR. SIMPSON: Of course, of course; I was joking. All right, then: will you choose the settings?
POET: Yes, I think I’ve learned how to run the thing by now. “Autumn in Liguria” (click); hendecasyllabic sonnet (click); EL (click); year 1900 plus or minus 20. Go.
Drone: three brief s
ignals and one long.
VERSIFIER (a warm and inspired voice, becoming increasingly agitated and breathless):
I like to revisit these lanes, dank and old,
the pavement now rubble, heavy the air
with autumn-ripe figs, their smell rather bold
mingled with gutter musk and some to spare.
I follow along where the worms blindly stroll
I follow along the sly cats’ thoroughfare
glimpsing things known that we once did share
Of bland gestures and thoughts free of care
Of friars, and heroes, and those who would dare
And into my mind there sneaks like a prayer
Memories of those who were fleetingly there
With heretics and self-taught now in a pair
Two connections ignite into one hot flare
We seem to be blocked by rhymes made up of “air.”
And we have become like beggars so beware
Mr. Sinsone is aware of the scare
Come now with your tools and set right this affair
Change the fuses with this here serial numbair
Eightthousandsixhundredandseventeenare
And please do take care when you make the repair.
A loud drone, shattering, whistles, jamming, roaring.
POET (yelling in order to make himself heard): What the hell is going on?
SECRETARY (very frightened, jumping about the room): Help, help, it’s smoking. It’s going to catch on fire. It’s exploding! We must call an electrician. No, the firemen. Emergency services. I’m getting out of here!
MR. SIMPSON (he, too, is nervous): Hold on a moment. Calm down, please. Please calm yourself, miss: have a seat here on the couch, be quiet and don’t make my head spin. It’s probably nothing; in any case (click), here, let’s unplug it, just to be safe. (The racket stops) Let’s see. . . . (He busies himself with some metal tools) By now I understand a fair amount about how these contraptions work . . . (busying himself) nine times out of ten it’s some small problem easily fixed with its own tools. . . . (Triumphant) Here’s the problem, didn’t I tell you? It’s right here: a fuse.
POET: A fuse? After the machine’s been on for barely even half an hour? It’s not very reassuring.