put together a foundation from the building blocks. To link the most sensitive elements to each other, adjust components, find a true balance between speed and power, restraint and freedom, concision and fullness. From a series of harmonics I had to pick the frequencies of optimal cycles: pause – torrent of thought; contemplation – understanding, enlightenment…
Again, I slept little and ate even less; my hands shook, I lost weight. A fever, akin to insanity – much more insane than my present doctor knows – dominated me without reprieve. The savage pressure would not let up for a moment. The interior of my apartment seemed somehow unreal, the furniture and walls spinning before my eyes. Only the text of the rapidly expanding program remained steady – unshakable, cold, as if made of ice. Every symbol, each constant laying the framework for future constructions had to be combined flawlessly, with surgical precision. Nonessential, ambiguous clauses could not be tolerated. The smoothness of the circumscribing lines, the purity of the crystal edges, the diamond hardness of an invisible nucleus – this was essential, and, ultimately, I got what I wanted. In a month, the most difficult, hidden, internal modules were finished. Semmant was born.
After I entered the last keystrokes, I caught up on sleep for several days. I didn’t even want to look at the computer; I relaxed and amused myself as I could. Later, when I had recovered a little, I rechecked what I had done once more, confirming my new robot was no illusion, no phony. And then, without any hurry, I began to form the “cells” of his brain – the large-scale structures, still nearly empty, that would later be filled with myriads of digits and make him ultra-smart, ultrafast, impeccable.
This was an extraordinarily monotonous process: hour after hour and day after day I did the same thing, copying and copying, just changing the indices a little – page after page, kilobytes, megabytes, tens of megabytes… Homogeneity, identical forms, full similarity to each other were absolutely crucial – otherwise the would-be mind had no chance of developing. Later on, he would rebuild everything to his liking – when his ability to teach himself kicked in, nobody could interfere anymore or tell him how it needed to be. He would create new lines of code, reconfigure connections, change, if you will, his flow of thought. But for that he would need material – quite a lot of material – and I alone, nobody else, could give it to him in abundance.
For whole days, week after week, I multiplied long strings and crept over them with the cursor, changing ones to twos, swapping symbols out, a lambda here for a gamma or omega there – all at the same rate, indefatigable, for an hour, two, three. From top to bottom, later, to mix things up, from bottom to top – over and over, until my hand would give out. Of course, it would have been easier to task a simple program with this work, but I somehow understood: everything had to be done by hand. I am the Creator, not some soulless “macro.” Nothing can replace your own life-force that originates from spheres unseen. And I was amazed at how routine, how mechanically this most powerful intellect was created. It was no burst of inspiration, but almost physical labor instead. I asked myself: was it the same way for God?
Gradually my arm grew stronger – practice always makes you better. I made fewer mistakes and worked faster; I developed persistent habits to bring orderliness to the process. Often I would set a goal for the day and not allow myself to stop until I had met it. Then, in the evening, I would look at the result – counting page after page, admiring it, elated. This got me really excited; sometimes I would even masturbate right there in front of the screen. Afterward, spent, I would lie back in my armchair, gazing lazily at the signs only I understood, united by design, of which there were none more
Again, I slept little and ate even less; my hands shook, I lost weight. A fever, akin to insanity – much more insane than my present doctor knows – dominated me without reprieve. The savage pressure would not let up for a moment. The interior of my apartment seemed somehow unreal, the furniture and walls spinning before my eyes. Only the text of the rapidly expanding program remained steady – unshakable, cold, as if made of ice. Every symbol, each constant laying the framework for future constructions had to be combined flawlessly, with surgical precision. Nonessential, ambiguous clauses could not be tolerated. The smoothness of the circumscribing lines, the purity of the crystal edges, the diamond hardness of an invisible nucleus – this was essential, and, ultimately, I got what I wanted. In a month, the most difficult, hidden, internal modules were finished. Semmant was born.
After I entered the last keystrokes, I caught up on sleep for several days. I didn’t even want to look at the computer; I relaxed and amused myself as I could. Later, when I had recovered a little, I rechecked what I had done once more, confirming my new robot was no illusion, no phony. And then, without any hurry, I began to form the “cells” of his brain – the large-scale structures, still nearly empty, that would later be filled with myriads of digits and make him ultra-smart, ultrafast, impeccable.
This was an extraordinarily monotonous process: hour after hour and day after day I did the same thing, copying and copying, just changing the indices a little – page after page, kilobytes, megabytes, tens of megabytes… Homogeneity, identical forms, full similarity to each other were absolutely crucial – otherwise the would-be mind had no chance of developing. Later on, he would rebuild everything to his liking – when his ability to teach himself kicked in, nobody could interfere anymore or tell him how it needed to be. He would create new lines of code, reconfigure connections, change, if you will, his flow of thought. But for that he would need material – quite a lot of material – and I alone, nobody else, could give it to him in abundance.
For whole days, week after week, I multiplied long strings and crept over them with the cursor, changing ones to twos, swapping symbols out, a lambda here for a gamma or omega there – all at the same rate, indefatigable, for an hour, two, three. From top to bottom, later, to mix things up, from bottom to top – over and over, until my hand would give out. Of course, it would have been easier to task a simple program with this work, but I somehow understood: everything had to be done by hand. I am the Creator, not some soulless “macro.” Nothing can replace your own life-force that originates from spheres unseen. And I was amazed at how routine, how mechanically this most powerful intellect was created. It was no burst of inspiration, but almost physical labor instead. I asked myself: was it the same way for God?
Gradually my arm grew stronger – practice always makes you better. I made fewer mistakes and worked faster; I developed persistent habits to bring orderliness to the process. Often I would set a goal for the day and not allow myself to stop until I had met it. Then, in the evening, I would look at the result – counting page after page, admiring it, elated. This got me really excited; sometimes I would even masturbate right there in front of the screen. Afterward, spent, I would lie back in my armchair, gazing lazily at the signs only I understood, united by design, of which there were none more
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