A brief meditation on Ecclesiastes
In broken tetrameter
Of the making of books there is no end
But of the reading, a downward trend
All because there are far too many
To touch before we reach our ending
And that’s not counting this new wave
Of books by artificial brains
It’s information overload
Splashing into the commode
Great books, they yet abound, say I
Just skip the ones made by AI
But still some books not made of digits
Or spat out by a bot in minutes
Are worth no more than they, I fear
Having not one thing that’s dear
To the one who made it—the author—
The one who had something to offer
Some perspective, or experience,
Some little reason not to quit.
Those others are made to make a buck
Off you or me or some other schmuck
They may be crafted with precision
But only to match some algorithm
Those books are made to meet demand
For an audience that would soon remand
Whatever made us doubt within
Or revealed to us our life of sin
And that’s ok. There’s no obligation
To write something that heals a nation
Or changes you, or explores a whim,
Or even goes out on a limb
All books turn to dust regardless
Of their worth to man or progress
So why even make a distinction
If there is no need to read them?
There’s one contrasting characteristic
Between what is art and kitsch
Good books don’t need an audience
They had to write it; it's part of them
Art can be so far from phoney
Without appearing in the Smithsonian
And in that truth there is some comfort
A book’s value is secure, if only for the author
If a book’s inside you, it can be let out
It doesn’t matter whether it’s talked about
Cast your book upon the waters—
You’ll find it
God seeks what is driven away.
“They may be crafted with precision
But only to match some algorithm”
Nice line here!