The threat is to the librarian. The threat is to the small, vanishing population of people who still go into the hexagons. Who still pull a book from the shelf. Who still spend three days reading it. Who still close it and feel changed. That practice is not a hobby. It is a technology. One older than print, older than the codex, possibly older than writing. It is a process of assembly inside one human skull. The kind of patient, sequential, focused and embodied attention that produces what we used to call understanding. AI does not produce that attention. AI produces a feeling that closely resembles attention while being something else, the way saccharin produces a feeling that closely resembles sweetness while being something else.
If this practice disappears, the Library will not notice. The books will not notice. The infinite hexagons will continue to extend in every direction. There will be no one in them. There will only be the queries, falling into the air, decaying into training data, generating fresh continuations for an audience that no longer reads them. Only, occasionally, glances at a summary.
This is the message Borges was telegraphing. This is what he saw, sitting in the National Library of Argentina, going slowly blind, surrounded by more books than any one man could read. He saw that the deepest threat to a literary culture was not the burning of books. It was the rendering of books unnecessary. He saw that a Library of Babel which contained every possible answer was, paradoxically, the most efficient instrument ever conceived for ending the practice of reading. And he saw, finally, that the only response available to a serious person was the response his narrator chose. To stop searching for the catalogue of catalogues. To return to one’s own hexagon. To pick up one particular book. To read it slowly. To die, eventually, a few leagues from where one was born, with one’s body falling through the fathomless air.
