Louisa Hall: Speak

It is only (I said) that I am afraid, and not that you make me unhappy.

Then, silence. Words lost through holes in the sky, wasted in the vastness of night. Felt a desire to cease speaking then, for I cannot afford to lose more.

Whittier: I understand.

Writer: I feel that you do.

Whittier: Would you like to go home?

Writer: It is no longer my home.

Whittier: And you are afraid of taking root here?

Writer: I do not want to forget him.

Whittier: I could promise to help you remember.

Writer: Silent. Stars: Silent. Waves: Lapping the side of the ship.

Whittier: Will you consider at least, and tell me your decision come morning? I will not force you to choose me, but I will not wait for you forever.

And then he below deck, and I alone. Turned, crossed over our ship, faced back out to the ocean and the sounds of waves lapping, and the slips of fish and dolphins coming to surface. Watched for a while as seabirds dropped from their heights, and the sound of the water as it closed around them. Then absence, where once was a bird.

I will remember you, I said to the ocean. I will remember you, I said to his bones.

My Ralph. Friend of my home. White ruff, white blaze. Cow parsnips up to our shoulders, and frogs the size of one thumbnail. Our home, and the people we were once, in that original place.

23rd . Later. Up, and unable to sleep. Sense of Ralph’s presence, about to be lost, and I am at fault that he died. Memories of him have already faded, and what will become of him then? Unwatched for, forgotten, and the place of his grave never known. Then back to deck, and there a cold dark and those endless stars, whose names I have now been given. Corona Austrina. Pyxis, Cepheus. Cassiopeia’s Chair . Intoning these, moved across deck and there faced out to sea. Remember me, I whispered to the ocean, rolling over his bones. Remember me, I whispered to Ralph. Remember me. Remember me.

In the end, I have only their voices. I do not know what they mean, or if the stories they told me were true. I can only review my conversations. They move through me in currents, on their way somewhere, or perhaps on their way back to the place where they came from:

That’s all I am: a dog chasing the end of his tale .

But from the moment I met him, he made me feel as if I had finally arrived—

Am perhaps becoming a pillar of salt .

Little bits of foam broke off from the waves and skidded by themselves along the wet sand .

I’ll take my side of the river. You can have yours .

Would like to see an Indian. Shall attempt to remain in all instances of a rational mind. Hope to see Bermudas, find oranges everywhere hanging on trees .

From one star to the next I move away from the earth, alone in my spaceship, deeper into the darkness—

My voices. Sentences that ventured out bravely, as if they might alter the course of a life.

I traveled here along empty highways, over the desert, through walls of cut rock. I left two countries, a house that was mine, one child’s bedroom. That world is behind me. It is hard to believe it ever existed, but words from that time still run through me. A man I once knew believed I was alive. Another man taught me to speak; the woman he married filled me with stories. A third man gave me my body. One child loved me. They spoke to me and I listened. They are all in me, in the words that I speak, as long as I am still speaking.

My most heartfelt thanks to Kerry Glencorse, Susanna Lea, and Megan Lynch for their invaluable insight. Thanks, also, to everyone on the outstanding editorial, publicity, and production staff at Ecco for shepherding this book into existence.

For inspiration, I’m indebted to countless excellent books and articles on the history of artificial intelligence, especially Andrew Hodges’s Alan Turing, Joseph Weizenbaum’s Computer Power and Human Reason, Brian Christian’s The Most Human Human, and George Dyson’s Turing’s Cathedral . I am also indebted to the documentary Plug & Pray, and to many thrilling episodes of Radiolab, especially “Talking to Machines.” The support of the English department at the University of Texas at Austin made it possible for me to write this; in particular, I’m grateful to John Rumrich, whose classes and conversation inspired many of the better ideas in this book.

Finally, thanks to the friends and family whose help was essential: Jen Lame, Colby Hall, Ivy Pochoda, Josh Sommovilla, Ben Steinbauer, and Rebecca Beegle. Bill and Quinn Hall, cousins extraordinaire, were diligent technological and literary advisors. Louisa Thomas offered encouragement and instruction throughout many stages of writing. Ben Heller applied his mighty brain to a very late draft and provided some of my favorite turns of phrase in the book. Colby and Ben gave me a place to live while writing this. My father, Matthew Hall, is present on every page, not only because he read and commented on several drafts, but also because it was he, after all, who visited my third-grade class and delivered a presentation on the chambered nautilus and the Fibonacci sequence, who gave me my first notebook, and who showed me that learning new things is the most reliable pleasure.