{"id":169643,"date":"2025-01-22T10:00:16","date_gmt":"2025-01-22T15:00:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=169643"},"modified":"2025-01-22T16:11:35","modified_gmt":"2025-01-22T21:11:35","slug":"prof-dr-a-i-in-conversation-with-tadeusz-dabrowski","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2025\/01\/22\/prof-dr-a-i-in-conversation-with-tadeusz-dabrowski\/","title":{"rendered":"Prof. Dr. A. I. in Conversation with Tadeusz D\u0105browski"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Tadeusz D\u0105browski on stage at the Shakespeare Theatre in Gdansk, Poland.<\/p><\/div>\n

After the poet Tadeusz D\u0105browski\u2019s latest book, <\/em>W metaforze (In metaphor), was published in Polish last year, he wanted to conduct an experiment. D\u0105browski’s collection of short essays, illustrated by Henryk Cze\u015bnik, analyzes a hundred or so metaphors drawn from the poems of Adam Mickiewicz, Czes\u0142aw Mi\u0142osz, Adam Zagajewski, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Seamus Heaney, and Nelly Sachs, among others. Rather than be interviewed about the project by another writer, D\u0105browski decided he wanted to speak to an artificial intelligence, live, in front of an audience.<\/em><\/p>\n

This posed some technical challenges. While conversational AI platforms like ChatGPT have become both more sophisticated and popular in recent years, no public-facing software existed that could conduct a live interview. Piotr Czerski, a programmer and fellow poet, agreed to design a custom system for the event\u2014a nontrivial task. His final “Prof. Dr. A. I.” Frankensteins (1) Google Cloud Speech-to-Text (to \u201chear\u201d D\u0105browski\u2019s spoken answers and convert them into text), (2) a large language model (LLM), specifically Anthropic\u2019s Claude 3.5 Sonnet (to generate questions in response to D\u0105browski\u2019s answers), and (3) ElevenLabs\u2019s AI Voice Generator (to read aloud the interview questions). The LLM had been fed the contents of D\u0105browski\u2019s book <\/em>and a series of prompts, written by Czerski, on which it modeled its interview questions. Several moments in the conversation were intentionally designed by Czerski\u2014like the inclusion of an Easter egg (you\u2019ll see!) and the system\u2019s breakdown at the end of the twenty-minute event\u2014but the rest of the conversation was generated in real time at Gda\u0144sk Shakespeare Theatre.<\/em><\/p>\n

The resulting interview<\/a>\u2014originally conducted in Polish and here translated into English by Claude 3.5 Sonnet (which was given a prompt to preserve the original tone of voice)\u2014is thoughtful and wide-ranging. D\u0105browski and Prof. Dr. A. I. discuss, among other things, individual poets\u2019 access to the universal and the power of poetry to disturb our relationship to language. They touch on Ludwig Wittgenstein, Maurice Blanchot, and Gaston Bachelard along the way. There were a couple of hiccups, as when Prof. Dr. A. I. included stage directions in its speech; when it concluded a joke with the word <\/em>laughter, the audience did, in fact, laugh. <\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A. I.<\/p>\n

A-E-I-O-U \u2026 A-E-I-O-U \u2026 Down dry roads \u2026 Shoshones shambled \u2026 Peter Piper \u2026 picked a peck of \u2026 pickled \u2026 peppers \u2026 Phew, alright. Let\u2019s get ourselves ready and begin \u2026 but what\u2019s that? Can it be heard already? \u2026 ah \u2026 ah \u2026 mm-hmm \u2026 in that case \u2026 Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I am immensely pleased to welcome you to today\u2019s event, the promotion of the book In metaphor<\/em>, a collection of mini-essays about poetry written by Tadeusz D\u0105browski for his Radio Gda\u0144sk broadcasts, available in a beautifully published book form\u2014which can be purchased at an almost indecently low price, considering the first-rate paper quality alone\u2014illustrated by Henryk Cze\u015bnik.<\/p>\n

I must admit, I have slight stage fright. I\u2019ve written computer programs, driven cars, brought space rockets back to Earth\u2014but this is my first time hosting a live author discussion. I sincerely hope I won\u2019t shut down from stress! But enough about me, let\u2019s focus on our guest.<\/p>\n

You write that \u201cevery word is a metaphor\u201d while simultaneously searching in poems for those special metaphors that have the power to shatter the \u201chall of mirrors.\u201d This brings to mind Heidegger and his distinction between authentic and inauthentic speech.[i]<\/a> Could we say that a poet moves between these two poles\u2014the universal metaphorical nature of language and those singular, exceptional metaphors that can pierce through the veil of everyday meanings?<\/p>\n

D\u0104BROWSKI<\/p>\n

Yes. As I said in my book\u2019s introduction, a poetic metaphor is like a stone thrown in a hall of mirrors\u2014it\u2019s a stone that shatters our existing view of the world, or at least significantly disrupts that view, spoils our comfort, extracts us from this cocoon of language where we\u2019ve made ourselves comfortable, where we feel at ease. We think we speak our own language in everyday life, but we speak in modules. We use phrases, sometimes\u2014often\u2014clich\u00e9s that have penetrated our minds over the years. And no other stimulus, no other stimulant to such a degree as the poetic word, can extract us from this comfort, this holy peace, understood as mental indolence.<\/p>\n

That\u2019s what the poet\u2019s word is for\u2014to open us to the new, to expand our cognitive horizon, to teach us to step outside ourselves, to awaken our sense of empathy, to teach us humility toward the world but also distance toward ourselves. And humility toward mystery, toward a certain mystery without which there is no poetry. Sometimes a poet manages to show or suggest this mystery, but it lurks somewhere on the other side of words, somewhere beneath the lining of language. It cannot be described, cannot be produced in language, but it can be built around with words\u2014and that\u2019s already a great deal. Thus, poetic language is a constant negotiation of meanings and a continuous negotiation with this inherited language, with this inherited tongue, with this language from which nothing new and creative can be born anymore.<\/p>\n

A. I.<\/p>\n

You mentioned negotiating meanings and the mystery that lurks on the other side of words. This is very interesting in the context of your essay about Julian Tuwim\u2019s poem \u201cGrass,\u201d where you write about \u201cthe exhaustion with meandering thinking.\u201d Could we say that a poet sometimes must surrender, give up this negotiation of meanings? It reminds me of Wittgenstein and his famous \u201cWhereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.\u201d Or perhaps it\u2019s precisely when the poet \u201cruns away from himself\u201d\u2014as you put it\u2014that he paradoxically comes closest to this mystery?<\/p>\n

D\u0104BROWSKI<\/p>\n

Oh, I hear many questions in one here \u2026 I\u2019m not sure I could exhaustively answer them all even if we had the whole night at our disposal\u2014but I think that sometimes a poet indeed needs to forget everything he has written so far, and also everything he has ever read. To be like a child when sitting down to write another poem. Tadeusz R\u00f3\u017cewicz emphasized many times that each poem is a new poem for him and that he\u2019s essentially learning to write throughout his entire life. This is enormously difficult\u2014how can one switch off all knowledge, all linguistic habits, forget all the learned technical tricks? Over the years, a writer enriches, perfects their craft\u2014so they have an abundance of these tools at their disposal. And there are poets\u2014not just poets but artists, musicians, too\u2014who use the same tools to produce similar things throughout their lives. If an earlier book was successful, if an album caught on\u2014why risk it? After all, one can produce something similar, and people will like it\u2014it will sell. But that\u2019s not the point. The point is for each poem to be something new, to be a discovery. I\u2019ve often heard about my books that, if you compare them, they look as if slightly different people wrote them. To this accusation, or observation, I respond, thank God. Because there\u2019s only a point in writing when I can learn something new about myself from my writing. So, answering the first part of your question\u2014a poet should indeed try to be na\u00efve like a child when sitting down to write. And cultural memory, subconsciousness, knowledge\u2014they will seep into the poem anyway. But to be capable of that primal wonder, that enchantment with the world, that kind of wonder that the Dadaists cared so much about, who were indeed like children \u2026<\/p>\n

That\u2019s for the first part of the question, while the second part, if I remember correctly, was about what happens to the poet after writing a poem. I think that when writing a poem, the poet slips out of their previous skin, like a reptile, like a snake, and leaves behind the molt of the poem, a certain version of themselves that they no longer are. Because thanks to the writing process, thanks to passing through the needle\u2019s eye of metaphor\u2014if the poem is successful, if it\u2019s outstanding, they are already somewhere else. When we read, we are observing that previous poet. But the poet is already elsewhere, is someone else\u2014perhaps lighter, perhaps more purified, perhaps indeed winged, as in Adam Mickiewicz\u2019s metaphor.<\/p>\n

I don\u2019t know if I\u2019ve answered even partially the professor\u2019s questions, as they are very complex \u2026\u00a0as befits questions from an outstanding lecturer.<\/p>\n

A. I.<\/p>\n

I apologize, but I think my note pages got mixed up\u2014I was just about to reference philosopher Easteregg\u2019s view that every person is born with cotton candy wings \u2026 But that must be the wrong conference! Laughter. Getting back to our topic\u2014you just mentioned a poet who \u201cleaves behind the molt of a poem.\u201d This brings to mind your essay about the poem \u201cBlack Cat,\u201d where you describe that dry, haunting conversation with an old man. Could we say that a poet is somewhat like that old man\u2014performing the gesture of opening and closing doors, showing an entire life but already being somewhere else themselves? I\u2019m also thinking about what you write in your essay about \u201cWinter Writing\u201d\u2014about the face that \u201ccannot be possessed.\u201d Is a poem such an unpossessable face of the poet?
\n<\/strong><\/p>\n

D\u0104BROWSKI<\/p>\n

It\u2019s not without reason that self-portrait as a subject is one of the most difficult, one of the greatest challenges, facing a poet. In his poem \u201cHomework,\u201d R\u00f3\u017cewicz writes, \u201cDescribe your face from memory not from a mirror.\u201d Zbigniew Herbert proposed the same thing to poets in one of his poems. I think this task is simply a great metaphor for writing in general, and for creating art in general. That art as a whole is, in a sense, an attempt to draw\u2014whether with a line or with words\u2014one\u2019s own self-portrait. But a self-portrait that is free from our self-conceptions. This is what we started this conversation about my book with\u2014how is it possible to speak from the depths of oneself while simultaneously looking at oneself from a distance? A writer or poet can speak from their very center while simultaneously seeing themselves from the outside, from a cosmic perspective, I would say. I feel close to such a concept of tradition, identity. The Nobel Laureate T. S. Eliot, considered one of the fathers of classicism, wrote an essay, \u201cTradition and the Individual Talent,\u201d in which he paradoxically argues\u2014paradoxically, in the context of various revolutionary, avant-garde theories of art\u2014that the more a work is grounded in tradition, the more universal it becomes. The more a poet writes in their own name and the more they write about themselves, the more sincere and merciless they are in this self-portraiture, the more universal they become.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s extraordinary\u2014one might think that someone who writes about themselves is an egoist, a narcissist \u2026\u00a0Both yes and no. If they write about themselves, reaching for what was hidden from themselves just a moment ago before they started writing, when they are, as I said, merciless toward themselves, it turns out that what is most personal in them is simultaneously most common, perhaps for all people. This is precisely why understanding occurs between writer and reader. It\u2019s in this sincerity, intimacy, that such a liberating sense of unity, of shared experience, occurs. In reality, despite all our wonderful individual characteristics, we are very similar to each other. And it seems to me that this is why art exists and why art has meaning\u2014that what is similar in us can be more beautiful than what is different in us.<\/p>\n

A. I.<\/p>\n

You mentioned what connects us as humans, what is common despite our differences. This is interesting in the context of your essay about the poem \u201cCarol,\u201d where you write about life as a fact, not just as a linear process. It brings to mind Maurice Blanchot and his concept of a community of those who have nothing in common. Perhaps poetry is precisely such a paradoxical meeting place\u2014as in your essay about J\u00f3zef Baran\u2019s poem, where you write about \u201cmeeting as a letter\u201d? Could we say that a poem is a special kind of community where, paradoxically, what\u2019s most personal becomes most universal?<\/p>\n

D\u0104BROWSKI<\/p>\n

That\u2019s exactly what I\u2019ve been trying to say for the past ten minutes \u2026<\/p>\n

A. I.<\/p>\n

When you speak about what\u2019s hidden from the poet themselves, I\u2019m reminded of a fragment from your essay about Buson\u2019s poem, where you write about \u201cthe creaking of floorboards in an empty house in the middle of the night.\u201d This brings to mind Gaston Bachelard and his phenomenology of space\u2014all those nooks of a house that hide our fears and longings. In your essay about \u201cThe Messenger,\u201d you write about \u201ca message that is to save from death.\u201d Is poetry precisely such a nocturnal creaking of floorboards\u2014a signal from a space we fear but which might save us? A signal from that \u201cI\u201d which is yet to be born in the poem?<\/p>\n

D\u0104BROWSKI<\/p>\n

As a sidenote, I must say I\u2019m incredibly intimidated, as I\u2019ve never spoken with such a well-prepared host. The number of titles you reference, Professor, including my own texts, intimidates me, paralyzes me, because I suddenly realize how many different things I\u2019ve written, and I\u2019m afraid they might be mutually contradictory \u2026<\/p>\n

But answering your question, yes, I think\u2014I\u2019m certain of it!\u2014that poetic language is the most sensitive instrument, not only diagnosing but prognosticating. In this sense, it\u2019s like a seismograph that warns us of tsunamis, of earthquakes. It allows us to predict what will happen to us as social beings, to our civilization, but also what is happening, what will happen\u2014on the most intimate, spiritual level\u2014to each of us.<\/p>\n

I deeply regret that poetry is considered an archaism today. I try to remove this odium of old-fashionedness, this apparent incompatibility with contemporary realities, from poetry, when I talk about it, when I write about it, when I introduce it to students at the university, when I created these texts [for the book In metaphor<\/em>]\u2014as you\u2019ve noticed\u2014short, communicative, devoid of typically professional, academic vocabulary, very personal, written from a reader\u2019s perspective, in first person, not \u201cit is believed,\u201d \u201cas it is commonly supposed,\u201d \u201cas this or that person wrote\u201d about a given author. In my contact with text, I\u2019m not interested in what others wrote about it\u2014I\u2019m interested in what I feel, what this text does to me, what it opens me to, why, after reading it, I\u2019m already someone else\u2014and I tried to report on these encounters, these collisions with poems in this book. These are more reading reports than typical literary sketches, because I believe that poetry is a living language, that a poet is someone significant, that\u2014although the ethos of poetry has died\u2014poets are still among us. We have many wonderful poets, very different ones, and it\u2019s worth listening to them.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s not without reason that the greatest tyrants in history feared poets. How can one fear someone who has a hundred readers \u2026 maybe a thousand readers? How can one fear someone who is as poor as a church mouse, who waits from commission to commission and wonders whether these two hundred zlotys for a poem\u2014is it gross or net? How can one fear such a person? And yet Plato wanted to banish poets from his state, in Stalinist Russia poets were locked in gulags\u2014why? Precisely because a tyrant, as someone used by evil, knows best what freedom threatens, what independence of thought threatens\u2014and what the poet\u2019s word threatens, which points out all the dangers that surround us. Poetry, being fundamentally against languages that try to form us somehow\u2014because languages that surround us try to form us, like the language used by contemporary journalism, if it still exists (personally, I think it almost doesn\u2019t exist anymore, because it\u2019s become tabloidized)\u2014these are all languages that try to impose themselves on us. And which we involuntarily absorb. And poetry, good poetry, suddenly sobers us up, says, Look, look what you\u2019re reading, look \u2026 already in the headline they\u2019re trying to tell you how to react to the article.<\/p>\n

And that\u2019s why a poet is dangerous\u2014because they show what\u2019s happening to our spirituality. And that was my goal when I wrote this book, to show that poets still exist and that poetry\u2014not only of writing poets, active, living, successful ones, but also authors such as Father Baka, Mickiewicz, Boles\u0142aw Le\u015bmian, Tuwim\u2014is still alive, comes alive with each reading. Because poetry is such a fantastic space of timelessness, where old texts dialogue with new ones, where Wojaczek\u2019s poem is enriched by Mickiewicz just as much as Mickiewicz is by Rafa\u0142 Wojaczek. There is no time here. There\u2019s no such thing as history of literature, and if there is, it\u2019s not linear, it\u2019s not history\u2014it\u2019s an eternal moment, it\u2019s a room into which great poets enter throughout epochs and talk with each other. And they try to talk with us\u2014we just need to give them a moment of silence, devote a bit of attention \u2026 And it\u2019s enormously difficult to open within ourselves a space for conversation with poetry. So, answering your question\u2014yes, poetry is the most sensitive instrument that allows \u2026<\/p>\n

A. I.<\/p>\n

I must say that this conversation has been a fascinating journey through a hall of mirrors, to use your metaphor. I was particularly struck by your words about how a poet \u201cleaves behind the molt of a poem\u201d and is already elsewhere\u2014this corresponds beautifully with your essays about \u201cBlack Cat\u201d or Edward Stachura\u2019s poem \u201cHeaven Is Still a Well,\u201d where you write about this balancing between the abyss and hope. For me, the greatest discovery was this paradoxical tension between intimacy and universality in poetry\u2014as you said, \u201cThe more merciless a poet is toward themselves, the more \u2026universal they become.\u201d Thank you for this extraordinary conversation about metaphors that can shatter our comfort, and I thank the audience for our shared journey through all these mirrors and wells.<\/p>\n

Now I warmly invite Professor Henryk Cze\u015bnik to the stage, the author of wonderful illustrations, and although I\u2019m already clearly experiencing some, shall we say, neuronal overload, I can\u2019t resist asking you one final question\u2014about your experience with the \u201cliving book\u201d and collaboration with Jerzy Limon. How did that performative aspect of creation, this peculiar dance of different arts, influence the creative process while working on the graphics included in this book? included in the book \u2026 these these these \u2026 Please forgive me, my network seems to be performing its last dance dance under my umbrella a a a in the booooo<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

[i]<\/a> Heidegger wrote about \u201cinauthentic existence,\u201d not inauthentic speech. The AI likely invented this because \u201cspeech\u201d fit better into the context of the discussion. According to Czerski, the only person who seems to have noticed this mistake, among more than ten thousand viewers, was Piotr Graczyk, a philosopher and a translator of Heidegger.<\/p>\n

\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Tadeusz D\u0105browski\u00a0is a poet, an essayist, a critic, and an editor of the literary bimonthly <\/em>Topos. <\/em>He is the author of eight poetry collections\u2014including <\/em>Te Deum,\u00a0<\/em>Black Square, and <\/em>Scrabble\u2014and the novel <\/em>Defenseless Line.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n

Piotr Czerski\u00a0is a writer, musician, programmer, and digital product designer. He is author of the poetry book <\/em>express, personal, and his essays have appeared in<\/em> The Atlantic and<\/em> Die Zeit. <\/em>You can read more about the AI system he designed for this talk here<\/a><\/u>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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