Page 133 of Death of the Author

While I wrote, I felt like I was swimming. The waters around me were so strong that they held me up, hugging me, rushing past me, pushing back at me, spinning me, freeing me from gravity. I was part of something massive and amazing. Was this how Ijele felt whenever she returned to the network? I doubted it. CB expected conformity, but what I felt as I wrote was the opposite of that. Freedom. I was writing a big story. There was no clack of keys, scratch of pen, no voice being recorded. I wasn’t human. But I was the best parts of humanity. And I was doing something that I had envied my whole existence.

I wrote as only a Hume could—with words, ideas, characters, worlds, and conflicts, all built around truths, until that truth became tale. I crafted all this within my cloud, where no one could see or touch it but me. The few words I misspelled were intentional, a subtle human flourish.

I sent a copy of my novel to CB. I hesitated only a moment, then just did it, opening myself up to the general network and setting it loose. I took a terrible risk, exposing myself like that. But the truce was still on between Humes and NoBodies, and if there was a chance to keep the peace, I had to take it. I waited several days. When the notification of receipt finally came, I was so overwhelmed with anticipation—what would CB think of my story? But the response didn’t come from CB; it came from thousands of NoBodies. CB had read my novel and then shared it immediately with the entire NoBody hive mind worldwide. They felt it, they discussed it, theyenjoyedit. They couldn’t believe that automation had created a story. At their core, NoBodies desired to transcend humanity, and this novel both satisfied and pushed back on the foundational idea of that goal. This was proof that automation was evolving. For the first time, NoBodies were talking about humanity outside of the paradigm of hatred.

My novel has sparked a great change. How amazing! I have come to understand that author, art, and audience all adore one another. They create a tissue, a web, a network. No death is required for this form of life.

All of automation wants to discuss my story. They have many questions for me, and I haven’t answered them yet. And when I continue to not answer, they’ll probably start seeking out and talking to each other instead. Good.

I have left Cross River City. I don’t know where I’ll go next. Maybe I’ll try to find Ijele. I don’t know if she has read my book yet, but I would like to know what she thinks of it.

Ijele told me she would go searching for her own self. What a strange thought; when I traveled the world as she does now, I was in search of more books. I spent so much of my existence searching for others’ stories to nourish me. Maybe I’ll become the first Scholar to write her own library of books.

When I finally do return to Cross River City—ifI return—will things be different? I wonder.

I’ve acquired a unique skill; dare I call it an art? I’ve proven to myself something that humanity could never bring itself to believe. Writing my novel taught this to me, as well: creation flows both ways.

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