On the strangeness of writing as a phenomenon

From a certain ‘objective’ perspective, writing is just black and white squiggles on a page or screen — and that’s equally true whether it was produced by a machine or a person.

Even if it was written by a person, the person (and their own sense of meaning) is no more “in” the writing than consciousness is “in” an LLM like ChatGPT.

Indeed, we can read Shakespeare’s sonnets, but Shakespeare is dead and in the ground.

And yet…

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired:
For then my thoughts–from far where I abide–
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself, no quiet find.

— William Shakespeare, Sonnet 27