Israel Centeno

I remember the scandal when it was revealed that Gabriel García Márquez had written *Love in the Time of Cholera* using a word processor. The use of this tool on a personal computer was seen as diminishing the merit of his work. New tools and the mass adoption of any artistic discipline have always aroused suspicion among its consumers, often discrediting the author and the trendy work due to the strategies for mass production and the tools used to create, paint, or write it.

As the world of literature evolves, readers and writers are faced with a significant dilemma: to passively consume the unabashed use of algorithms, or to become active users by providing prompts and triggers for these programs to build entire paragraphs and stories. The debate surrounding this issue has even caught the attention of prominent American writer, Stephen King, who presents a pessimistic view that we cannot escape this technology’s hold on our present and future. He acknowledges that any attempts at stopping it through manifestos or grievances are futile, especially when those who criticize its use often turn around and utilize it themselves, masking any resulting plagiarism.

In one hand, there would be the sight of robotic precision, words carefully generated and arranged by an algorithm without emotion or creativity. In the other hand, there would be the sight of human imperfection, words flowing from the heart and mind to create a unique and powerful story.

In one hand, the atgogism writing appears sterile and robotic, programmed by algorithms with no sense of originality or creativity. In the other hand, the atgorism reading holds the promise of endless content, its endless scrolling feeding the desire for consumption.

In one hand, a tangled mess of wires and metal composing the artificial intelligence that generates stories with cold precision. In the other, a book with worn pages and faded words, crafted by a human mind using imagination and emotion. Both held up in comparison, each displaying a different form of creating literature.

I used to devour the latest novels with a voracious appetite, eager to escape into worlds unknown. But as time went on, the stories began to feel repetitive, the characters blending together in a sea of familiarity. I longed for something different, something that would ignite my imagination once more. And so, I turned to the classics, finding solace in their timeless tales and enduring charm. The dog-eared pages and musty smell of aged paper became my refuge, each word a stepping stone into a bygone era where stories were crafted with care and precision. In those worn volumes, I found a new kind of magic, one that whispered of nostalgia and whispered promises of forgotten adventures waiting to be rediscovered. And as I traced my fingers over the faded ink, I knew that I had found my sanctuary in the past.

I don’t want to close this brief note with a definitive and forceful opinion; it’s just a warning, a call to attention, and an explanation of why I haven’t read new releases for a long time.