A hideous experiment

Image: Giant ©Bruce Herman, 1990. monotype.

The 6th century Chinese military strategist, Sun Tzu said “Keep your friends close. Keep your enemies closer.”

I’ve been a particpant in personal computers and smart phones since they were first released, but I have been following Sun Tzu’s advice. Digital media are the enemies of my paint brush and pencil. Since released, I’ve stayed abreast of every single iteration of Photoshop (and all the other Adobe products that have come along for “enhancing” our graphic abilities). After thirty+ years, I’m adept at employing computer graphics.

But it is still the enemy of my kind of art making—which is slow, hand-made, steeped in imagination, dreams, nightmares, hopes and fears and faith. The kind of art I make takes all that a person carries in them—all their skill and willingness to risk. It is not an instant coffee kind of art. It’s very slow-brewed. But I use Photoshop all the time. It’s been a mainstay of communication technology for me. But it is still the enemy because it undermines the the truth of “shop-class as soul-craft”.

Things made by hand are always slower and carry presence. Digital art, however clever and stunning its visual effects might be, is cold. It communicates absence because the tool is not connected to our body—with all that this connotes: bodies are warm, slow, and relational. Machines are fast, cold, and efficient—transactional.

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In the spirit of Sun Tzu and his excellent military strategy, I recently I subscribed to ChatGPT 5.2 Pro account for a month-long experiment. I cancelled the subscription immediately lest I be tempted past the month allowed—and then I plunged in. At this point I have spent close to forty hours on ChatGPT over two and a half weeks, and have produced around a hundred images, six major essays, and done extensive archival research with this tool.

It is impressive in so many ways — but it continues to “hallucinate” regularly, making up “facts” and then excusing itself with “I am a large language model machine learning device that is driven by statistical and algorithmic prediction and I make errors.” But if it is making major factual errors that little ole me can catch—what is it doing with our military? The economy? Medicine?

It also produces predictably sentimental or kitschy images even given precise prompts by a seasoned professional artist (moi)–and even does weird things like telling me that I’ve worn it out! (That little gem was its response to my typing, “You’ve been working on this document for over an hour and it is still loaded with mistakes and omissions.” It said what many teenagers say when they’re told to do their homework. “I’m too TIRED.”

Well, tonite as a final experiment, I told the chatbot to “generate a 1000 word essay discussing the relevance of C. S. Lewis’s book That Hideous Strength to our current communications, Internet, AI, and the close control of all that tech by a small number of very powerful, rich innovators and their government allies.” In less that the time it took me to type this very last sentence it spun out the following:

C. S. Lewis’s That Hideous Strength (1945), the final volume of his Space Trilogy, is often read as a fantasy about a sinister scientific institute attempting to reshape humanity. Yet its deeper themes—technocratic control, the manipulation of language, the pursuit of power through technology, and the moral vulnerability of modern societies—feel strikingly relevant to the twenty-first century. In an age defined by global communications networks, the Internet, artificial intelligence, and increasingly concentrated economic power, Lewis’s fictional dystopia offers a surprisingly perceptive lens for examining contemporary anxieties.

At the center of Lewis’s novel is the National Institute of Coordinated Experiments (N.I.C.E.), an organization that presents itself as a progressive scientific authority dedicated to improving society. Publicly, the N.I.C.E. claims to be solving social problems through rational planning and technological innovation. Privately, however, it is controlled by a small inner circle whose ambition is nothing less than the transformation—and ultimately the domination—of humanity. Their goal is not merely governance but the redesign of human nature through scientific and technological means.

Lewis’s portrayal of the N.I.C.E. anticipates a central concern of modern technological culture: the concentration of power in institutions that control advanced technologies and information systems. In today’s world, global communications infrastructure and digital platforms are owned or influenced by a relatively small number of powerful corporations and individuals. Technology companies possess unprecedented influence over how information circulates, how people communicate, and even how political opinions form. While these organizations are not the overt villains Lewis imagines, the structural resemblance is difficult to ignore: complex technological systems managed by elite groups whose decisions shape the lives of billions.

One of Lewis’s most striking insights involves the manipulation of language and public perception. In That Hideous Strength, the N.I.C.E. uses propaganda, bureaucratic jargon, and media influence to obscure its true intentions. Words such as “coordination,” “efficiency,” and “progress” mask policies that undermine freedom and dignity. Lewis shows how language can be weaponized to prevent ordinary people from understanding what is actually happening.

This concern resonates strongly in the modern information environment. The Internet has democratized communication, but it has also created systems in which narratives can be engineered and amplified at enormous scale. Social media algorithms shape what information people see, often prioritizing engagement rather than truth. Artificial intelligence can now generate convincing text, images, and video, blurring the line between authentic communication and manufactured reality. In such a world, Lewis’s warning about the distortion of language feels prescient: technological systems can shape not only how information spreads but how reality itself is perceived.

Another parallel lies in Lewis’s critique of a purely technocratic worldview. The leaders of the N.I.C.E. believe that traditional human values—moral limits, spiritual concerns, and respect for natural life—are obstacles to progress. They envision a future in which human beings themselves become objects of engineering. In their ideal world, organic life would eventually be replaced or controlled by mechanical intelligence, freeing humanity’s elite from biological limitations.

This theme has become particularly relevant with the rise of artificial intelligence and transhumanist thought. Some modern technologists openly discuss the possibility of enhancing human cognition through technology, merging biological and digital intelligence, or even replacing human labor and decision-making with automated systems. While many of these developments promise significant benefits, Lewis’s novel reminds us that technological ambition can easily become detached from ethical reflection. If efficiency and power become the highest goals, human dignity may be treated as a secondary concern.

Lewis also explores the psychology of individuals who become complicit in such systems. The character Mark Studdock, a sociologist eager to join the N.I.C.E., represents the intellectual who gradually compromises his principles for the sake of prestige and belonging. Mark’s moral collapse does not occur through dramatic acts of evil but through small acts of conformity. He learns to repeat the language of the institution, suppress doubts, and accept increasingly disturbing policies as normal.

This dynamic has modern parallels in large bureaucratic and technological institutions. Complex systems often diffuse responsibility, allowing individuals to contribute to harmful outcomes without fully confronting their ethical implications. Engineers designing algorithms, executives optimizing engagement metrics, or policymakers approving surveillance technologies may each see their role as technically neutral. Yet collectively, these decisions can reshape society in profound ways.

At the same time, Lewis’s novel is not merely a critique of technology or institutions. It is fundamentally a moral story about the tension between control and humility. The antagonists of That Hideous Strength believe that intelligence and power give them the right to reshape the world according to their vision. By contrast, the protagonists represent a worldview grounded in moral restraint, respect for creation, and an awareness of human limitations.

This contrast highlights a central question facing modern societies: who should guide the development of powerful technologies? Artificial intelligence, genetic engineering, and global communications systems possess enormous potential to improve human life. Yet they also concentrate power in unprecedented ways. Without ethical frameworks, democratic oversight, and cultural humility, technological capability alone cannot guarantee humane outcomes.

Lewis’s concerns about oligarchic control also echo contemporary debates about economic inequality and political influence. In many countries, wealth and technological resources are increasingly concentrated in the hands of a small number of individuals and corporations. These actors often operate across national boundaries, wielding influence that rivals or exceeds that of governments. While this concentration is partly a consequence of technological innovation, it raises questions about accountability and the balance between private power and public responsibility.

In That Hideous Strength, Lewis ultimately argues that the pursuit of total control—whether through technology, bureaucracy, or ideology—leads to a dehumanized world. The novel suggests that genuine human flourishing requires humility, moral imagination, and a recognition that not everything valuable can be engineered or optimized.

Today’s technological landscape makes these insights particularly relevant. The Internet and artificial intelligence have created extraordinary opportunities for creativity, collaboration, and knowledge sharing. Yet they also amplify the dangers Lewis warned about: centralized power, manipulated language, and the temptation to treat human beings as data points within vast systems.

Lewis wrote his novel in the aftermath of World War II, when the destructive potential of modern science had become terrifyingly clear. His response was not to reject science but to insist that technological progress must remain grounded in moral wisdom. In an era of AI and global networks, that warning remains as urgent as ever.

No comment from me just yet.

I invite your comments.