Is Art Still Worth Making?

In his essay "The Third Humbling of Humanity," Yascha Mounk argues that rapid advancements in artificial intelligence constitute a profound blow to human self-conception—what he considers humanity's third "great humbling." The first two blows came with Copernicus revealing Earth's peripheral place in the cosmos and Darwin unveiling our evolutionary origins among animals. Now, the unsettling prospect that AI might surpass humans in fields traditionally considered uniquely human—such as literature—challenges our fundamental belief that art is inherently a product of human creativity. Mounk presents compelling evidence: Studies demonstrating that AI-generated poetry and art are not only indistinguishable from human creations but frequently preferred. Ultimately, he suggests, accepting AI's creative prowess may prove even more psychologically challenging than the astronomical and biological dethronings we previously endured, marking a fundamental turning point in human identity.

Two of Mounk's sentences stood out to me in particular: "When we read the words of Shakespeare or of Whitman, part of the thrill is that it allows us to be on extremely intimate terms with a great mind that lived in a time and place so distant from our own. All of these are reasons why our preference for artistic works we believe to have been created by humans—whether or not they really were—may prove to be permanent." Despite acknowledging this lasting preference for human-created art, Mounk argues that AI's superiority could demoralize human creators, undermining their motivation to produce art.

Now, the unsettling prospect that AI might surpass humans in fields traditionally considered uniquely human—such as literature—certainly challenges our fundamental belief that art is inherently a product of human creativity. But perhaps Mounk underestimates the enduring power of belief—and the depth of motivation that drives people to create in the first place. Artistic expression is rarely about the final product alone; it often emerges from a need to make sense of pain, to resist despair, or simply to stay alive. As Virginia Woolf famously put it, "How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn't pull the trigger?" For many artists, the act of creation is not just a craft but a lifeline; no matter how advanced machines become, they will never write out of the will to stay alive.

I've long been captivated by the philosophy of aesthetics, especially as it pertains to literature and why we value certain literary works over others. I was therefore particularly intrigued when I first encountered the idea that artificial intelligence could generate poems indistinguishable—and sometimes even preferable—to those written by humans. Although my love for reading has always been profound, the precise reasons for this affinity have remained elusive; I've consistently sensed that literature involves more than mere aesthetics, yet identifying this additional element has proved challenging.

Recently, I've been reflecting on the role belief plays in shaping our literary experiences. Belief is intriguing precisely because it lies beyond our conscious control—we cannot simply choose what to believe, no matter how earnestly we might wish to. Unlike decisions, beliefs embed themselves quietly and involuntarily within us, shaped by an intricate, unseen interplay of experience, intuition, and memory. Yet belief profoundly influences perception, acting as an invisible filter that determines what we notice, how we interpret what we see, and even how we emotionally respond to the world.

A personal example illustrates this vividly: My boyfriend finds it nearly impossible to concentrate on his work when he knows I'm at home—even if I'm quietly outside on the porch and never step inside. Although the sensory input he receives remains unchanged whether I am present or not, the mere belief that I am nearby significantly disrupts his focus. Although I do not experience disruption from the mere knowledge that someone is on my property, I have experienced in my own ways how deeply belief can alter lived experience and how difficult it can be to alter one's emotional response to a belief, even if she knows her response is irrational.

While it may be possible to gradually dismantle a belief, we cannot immediately discard it at will. William James captured precisely this phenomenon when he observed that "your belief will help create the fact": In certain domains, simply believing something can directly produce the reality one anticipates. Thus, belief not only passively influences perception but actively shapes the experience itself. We never merely perceive; we perceive through layers of belief that subtly and profoundly color our understanding of reality. Consequently, perception without belief can never equal perception informed by belief, as it lacks the emotional and existential depth—the lived resonance—that belief quietly provides.

While reading is typically considered a solitary activity, my relationship with literature has always been deeply social—an intimate dialogue spanning centuries, with authors as my interlocutors, companions, and guides. Choosing to major in English was more than an academic decision; it was personal, driven by an almost physical longing to remain connected to these literary friendships. Shelley, Lowell, Wordsworth, and Bishop were not merely names on a syllabus; they had become as real to me as people I encountered daily. They offered lived experience—mature and visceral—that illuminated my youthful uncertainties. Reading became a process of profound listening, a perpetual act of empathy.

I believed fiercely in the reality of the voices I encountered on the page, which is perhaps why discovering the tortured correspondence between Robert Lowell and his second wife, Elizabeth Hardwick, took over my life for a few weeks in the middle of a semester; their letters grabbed me—and I had no choice but to read all of them (even though doing so meant I fell miserably behind on work for other classes). It was not, however, the aesthetic value of these letters that drew me in, but the range of emotional responses they revealed to a fundamentally human question: How far should loyalty extend? Lizzie's patience toward her husband's "gushes of pure wildness" was admirable, and yet her endurance raised unsettling questions: What is the cost of such patience, and who bears it? At what point does compassion become complicity, or love become a quiet erasure of the self? Reading Lizzie's letters, I found myself moved by her steadiness, but also disturbed by it. There was grace in her restraint, but also pain in her capitulation—an ache that made me wonder whether we sometimes mistake endurance for love, when perhaps it is simply the most dignified form of surrender.

This intense human connection is precisely what would vanish if literature were reduced to algorithmically generated texts. During late nights immersed in Lowell's correspondence, my fascination was tethered not merely to his poetic genius, but to the unmistakable pulse of his chaotic, self-destructive humanity. His desperate need for control, his acute self-awareness that rarely translated into practical wisdom—these were not stylistic flourishes but fundamental truths that defined his lived experience.

Belief in the humanity behind literature has always been foundational to my appreciation of it. If someone revealed to me that Emily Dickinson's poetry was the product of a chatbot, identical in content yet devoid of human experience, her verses would instantly lose their power. My relationship with Dickinson, built from long hours spent poring over her cryptic letters and quietly revolutionary poems, depended on my conviction that these words emerged from a profoundly human mind, grappling authentically with loss, isolation, and existential wonder. I suspect that no matter how elegant or emotive an AI-generated poem might be, it would never engender the same feelings of intimacy.

Literature is powerful precisely because it originates from an imperfect consciousness wrestling with life's imperfections. AI might produce art which is aesthetically indistinguishable from human creations, but the core of our appreciation—empathy, recognition, and shared vulnerability—hinges entirely on our belief in the human origin of the creative act. If we discovered that Macbeth was authored by ChatGPT rather than Shakespeare, the tragedy of ambition and guilt would cease to hold its devastating power; it would become merely an elegantly structured narrative exercise. The capacity to be deeply moved by art requires believing that the artist genuinely felt—that there was real risk, genuine heartbreak, and true redemption in the act of creation.

Moreover, when I think about personal struggles—such as heartbreak or grief—I find it inconceivable that anyone, myself included, would prefer the cold precision of a chatbot to the messy wisdom of someone who has genuinely lived through similar pain. Even if AI perfectly replicated comforting words, the lived authenticity behind those words would always be lacking; it is not merely about the words, but about the embodied human experience from which they arise. The same logic applies to literature, which at its best serves as an intimate conversation with someone who has endured the complexities of human existence.

Ultimately, the role of literature is not merely to delight or aesthetically impress, but to forge meaningful connections across the vast gulf of individual experience. Mounk is correct in suggesting that AI's creative prowess presents a kind of humbling, but perhaps it also offers an opportunity to reaffirm what we genuinely value in art. What we cherish in poetry, novels, and letters is not mere artistic virtuosity, but the courage and vulnerability inherent in human experience—qualities that no artificial intelligence, however sophisticated, can authentically replicate. Literature remains valuable precisely because it is both imagined and lived—a testament to human imagination and human suffering alike, a bridge spanning the solitude of our existence.