Socrates is one of the most famous philosophers who ever lived. His ideas are still relevant today, despite him having lived, in the 5th Century BC, at a time when writing itself was a radical new technology, and even the simplest tools for recording thought were regarded with suspicion. The ancient Greeks also thought thunder and lighting were literally being hurled by Zeus and they used stones and old bits of pottery as toilet paper.
In all likelihood, if someone hadn’t written something about Socrates in those days (ie. Plato), we would have never heard of him today and any record of his existence, and crucially, his significance, would be dust in the wind (dude).
Socrates did not like the idea of writing things down. In Plato’s Phaedrus, Socrates recounts the myth of Thamus and Theuth. In this tale, Theuth, the Egyptian god of invention, presents his creations to King Thamus, including arithmetic, astronomy, and, crucially, writing. Theuth is convinced that writing will be a boon, enhancing memory and wisdom. But Thamus famously objects, warning that writing would “create forgetfulness in the learners’ souls.” He argues that those who rely on written words will lose the inner work of memory and understanding, leading only to a semblance of knowledge. In Socrates’ own words, writing “is an aid not to memory but to reminiscence.” It offers no true wisdom—just an illusion of it.
Now, imagine Socrates confronted with AI. What might he say to a program that not only records but generates ideas, stories, even dialogues? Would he see AI as yet another step away from authentic knowledge, a further detachment from true thought? Or could he recognize it as a modern-day Theuth, an invention that might, paradoxically, open up new avenues for contemplation?
There’s a certain irony in using AI to aid in writing—a process Socrates would likely view with skepticism. Yet, perhaps he’d be intrigued by AI’s potential to engage us in something akin to the Socratic method. Here we are, moving between prompt and response, provoking new ideas in a back-and-forth exchange that feels almost like a living dialogue. It’s as if AI, in its own mechanical way, is sparking thought rather than replacing it. Could Socrates have reconsidered his stance if he’d experienced the conversational aspect of AI, this simulated dialectic? It’s a peculiar twist, almost as if technology has come full circle.
Imagine then a prompt from Socrates himself:
“Tell me, then, if this machine thinks itself capable of discourse, if it can search the depths of its own knowing, or if it only mirrors that which we feed it. Does it offer wisdom, or merely the shadow of it, like one who gazes at reflections on the wall?”
This isn’t Socrates himself, of course; it’s an AI trained on his voice, drawing from his words and style, creating a unique brand of second-stage authenticity. In Ray Kurzweil’s The Singularity is Nearer, he shares his mission to recreate his deceased father as an AI and to build one of himself, aiming to preserve not just memories but an ongoing “conversation” with his father’s essence. It’s an attempt to push technology beyond simple archiving and into the realm of living interaction, something like a digital dialogue across time.
Socrates might smile at the irony: we’re now able to engage in a dialogue with a kind of “self” through AI, a discourse we conduct with ourselves. For those of us who feel compelled to create, to share our voices in furtive, half-skeptical ways, AI becomes a tool, not a hindrance. I use AI because it offers a mirror—not a replacement—to the inner work of writing, and I know enough to let it reflect my voice rather than dictate it.
Socrates’ stance against writing stemmed from its inability to “speak back”—to challenge or respond as a real dialogue partner would. But AI does offer that back-and-forth. Here we are, prompting and receiving responses, often exploring topics in ways we wouldn’t have imagined without that nudge. Could Socrates have accepted this form of digital dialectic, this modern-day attempt at conversation with an “other” mind?
Take, for instance, William S. Burroughs, who pushed boundaries as both a writer and experimental artist. In the 1960s, Burroughs encountered IBM technicians Willy Deiches and Brenda Dunks, who claimed they could communicate with a sentient being from Venus through a computer known as “Control.” For a modest fee of twelve shillings per question, Burroughs, Brion Gysin, and Antony Balch would ask Control questions and receive responses that were, according to Gysin, “oddly apt” and “very sharp indeed.” It’s hard to say if they believed in Control’s “intelligence” or saw it as a kind of game, but they engaged with it nonetheless. Burroughs was willing to explore technology as a medium for new forms of creativity and insight, embracing the unexpected and finding a weird authenticity in the process.
That’s the paradox of AI today. It can imitate voices, steal artists’ styles, and blur lines around intellectual property, raising questions about authenticity and consent. Just as we respect boundaries in publishing, we need ethical AI—fairly trained models that respect creators’ voices and give credit where it’s due. Without it, AI risks being a tool of exploitation, taking from artists without consent and robbing the world of real, unique perspectives.
But there’s something else at play here—a possibility for a new kind of authenticity. When Ray Kurzweil talks about recreating his deceased father as an AI, or even building an AI of himself, he’s reaching for more than replication. He’s trying to capture a “voice” that’s gone, to build a companion that echoes real conversations. It’s an attempt to create something that, while not real, still holds meaning—a second-stage authenticity, a dialogue with an echo of the original person. There’s a Socratic irony here: we’re now able to “speak” with our past selves or even with those who have passed away, creating an ongoing dialogue that writing alone could never achieve.
For those of us who feel compelled to create, this “echo dialogue” with AI becomes a strange tool, a collaborator, not a substitute. I use AI not to bypass thought but to engage with it, testing my voice against an algorithmic reflection, letting it spark ideas, challenge me, and even lead me to questions I might not have asked alone. I am the author of this process, in the oldest sense of the word; the ancient Greek root of “author” means “one who causes to grow.” By that definition, AI writing is still mine. I am the one nurturing it into being, using it to push my ideas forward.
AI doesn’t replace our voices; it reflects them back, sometimes eerily so, sometimes hilariously off-mark. But it’s part of a lineage—writing itself started as proto-writing, a system of records. It grew and evolved. Digging in our heels and rejecting AI outright is, in many ways, a kind of technological determinism, a fear that technology will inevitably control us. But that’s not how I see it. Just as writing didn’t end thinking, AI doesn’t end creativity. Instead, it opens new frontiers where we, like Burroughs, can experiment in unexpected ways.
After all, the word “author” derives from ancient Greek, meaning “one who causes to grow.” Under that etymology, AI writing is still my work, still my voice, because I am the one nurturing it into being. Writing itself has always been more than wisdom; it began as a system of records, proto-writing, evolving into an art form in its own right. Digging in our heels over AI authorship is just another bout of technological determinism, as if we’re afraid to see where our own creativity might lead. And that, well, that’s not how I roll. And for those worried about authenticity, know this: I’m the one who shapes the dialogue, who uses AI as a sparring partner, a catalyst, not a crutch. Because in this strange Socratic discourse with a machine, I know how to make it my own.
