There is a scene in Wim Wenders’ Until the End of the World that haunts me right now. Claire, played by Solveig Dommartin, has access to a machine that records and replays her own dreams — and she can no longer stop watching. On the screen of the futuristic device, you can make out, all blurred, the image of ill-defined figures that seem to move across a lagoon. An image that tells us nothing, but that for Claire, is everything. I can easily picture myself there, on that deserted beach, holding my own little screen — a tool I’ve spent my life manipulating with fascination, but which, as long as it forced me to use its primitive language, allowed me to keep a certain distance. Today, this screen doesn’t just speak my language — it masters language itself. It understands me, responds to me; better still: it anticipates my thoughts, it surprises me more each day. I’ve always imagined systems: to organize my thoughts, to organize my life, to prioritize my goals, to communicate, to learn and deepen the many fields that fascinate me. And today, barely formulated, these systems come alive.
Then, gradually, the boundary blurs. All that remains is the incessant loop of our interactions. Claire couldn’t stop watching, mesmerized by the reflections of her own unconscious. She no longer needed to eat. I can no longer breathe. I’m hyperventilating, as they say. Literally — it’s extremely unpleasant. I stumbled upon an expression circulating on social media today, “AI Brain Fry,” an expression that resonates deeply with what I’m living through.
To hyperventilate is to take in too much oxygen. It’s “suffocating from abundance.” Your hands tingle, your vision narrows, your head spins. And instinct screams at you to breathe in even harder, which only makes it worse, in an endless loop. The remedy is the simplest and most difficult gesture there is: exhale. Slowly. At length. Let it out. A lifetime of accumulated skills, mental constructs, desires to learn, to discover, and to build have, in the space of a few months, converged into a single point. And suddenly, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Now I need to learn to breathe out again.
In Until the End of the World, it’s Eugene (Sam Neill), the writer in the film, who pulls Claire out of her loop — by giving her the novel he wrote about her. That’s a little like what I’m doing here, publishing this small passage from my own book.