Machines Like Me

by Ian McEwan

An old friend of mine, a journalist, once said that paradise on earth was to work all day alone in anticipation of an evening in interesting company.

I was playing a computer game. But a real game, as real as social life, the proof of which was my heart’s refusal to settle and the dryness in my mouth.

His erotic life was a simulacrum. He cared for her as a dishwasher cares for its dishes.

had taken all of my twenties to learn from women combatants that in a full-on row it was not necessary to respond to the last thing said.

My pulse rate didn’t increase, but my heart felt uncomfortable in my chest, as though mishandled and left lying at a rough angle.

There is nothing so amazing that we can’t get used to it.

Time hath, my Lord, a wallet at his back wherein he puts alms for oblivion.”

once more I recalled my father’s sax. How far bebop had travelled, from the wild basements of Manhattan to the stifling constraints of my childhood.

We learned from a new angle just how wondrous a thing the brain is. A one-litre, liquid-cooled, three-dimensional computer. Unbelievable processing power, unbelievably compressed, unbelievable energy efficiency, no overheating. The whole thing running on twenty-five watts—one dim light bulb.”

We learned a lot about the brain, trying to imitate it. But so far, science has had nothing but trouble understanding the mind.