Then I remembered something. It was a Tuesday afternoon, two years ago. I had been a sophomore, drowning in imposter syndrome. After a lecture on functionalism, I had stayed behind, my voice trembling.
It said: See me.
“No,” he said. “A barometer understands that. She understood that the world was not cooperating with her want . She didn’t diagnose the atmospheric pressure. She felt the absence of a friend in the wind. That is the chasm. A machine processes the fact that ‘wind speed = 0.’ A child understands loneliness in the still air.” dr. stevens' final examination
“Define ‘understanding’ in such a way that a machine could never truly possess it, yet a child does instinctively.” Then I remembered something
He had stopped packing his briefcase. He looked at me—really looked—for the first time. He didn’t give me a lecture. He pointed out the window to the campus courtyard, where a child of a visiting professor was trying to fly a kite in still air. After a lecture on functionalism, I had stayed