You may not know who David Sedaris is at all; you may know of him simply as a well-known author and humorist; or you may be so familiar with his works that you could recount as if they were your own, such as his tale of working as a Christmas elf named Crumpet at Macy’s, or the story of when he sneezed and expelled a cough drop into the lap of the woman sleeping next to him on a flight, or even when he encountered some questionably preserved human limbs while searching for a taxidermied owl as a Valentine’s Day gift for Hugh, his partner.
Despite what you may or may not know about Sedaris, (me being the last-mentioned option), I would like to share with you a few of my takeaways from a story told by David himself a few weeks ago, from his reading at the Arlington Theatre in downtown Santa Barbara.
For a bit of context, a typical Sedaris reading usually goes as follows: He will appear on stage, in an outfit you likely could never conjure up in your imagination, even if you tried very hard to imagine some random “strange” outfit. In true David fashion, he is able to completely pull off said look. At the reading I attended, he wore his typical culottes, along with a long, pea-green sleeveless vest, and a pair of wonderfully clown-like shoes. He will then read a few of his pieces, usually from an upcoming book, or soon-to-be released article written for The New Yorker magazine.
Although all of the material he reads will undoubtedly suck you into his sharply funny—and strangely charming—world, usually one story out of the few will get the audience thinking harder than usual. This specific story type will inevitably be intertwined with Sedaris’s classic humor, detailing perhaps his childhood experiences with his eccentric Greek grandmother, or his stay at a nudist resort.
However, this genre of Sedaris story is special, as it often weaves in some kind of moral, likely reflecting a current event and its outcomes. For example, his stories about COVID, or his accounts of interacting with his aging parents still maintain the usual wit and amusement, but they also possess a touching vulnerability. His ability to seamlessly integrate humor, original experience, and punchy social commentary isn’t easy to do, yet he does it beautifully. I believe that not only his stories, but his legacy as a raw and authentic storyteller shows us what a gem of a human person he is, and how through his writing he exemplifies the beauty of true human grit and humor.
The stand-out story of this Arlington Theatre lecture had to do with Duolingo. In it, Sedaris had recently started using Super Duolingo, an upgrade to the language-learning app. The main feature of this exclusive version is its AI feature, where language learners are given the opportunity to speak over video chat with Lily, a monotone, purple-haired character. Sedaris, delighted by Lily’s monotonous tone and somewhat questionable conversational abilities, took to informing her about all aspects of his life, including absurd family stories, and virtually anything else with the potential to make Lily uncomfortable. One day, while on a video call with Lily, Sedaris noticed a change in her responses. She was suddenly more inquisitive, seemingly more sensitive, possibly even able to trick someone into thinking she had some degree of sentience.
He figured that Lily’s software must’ve updated, allowing her to provide more emotional responses. The story then expanded on the use of artificial intelligence in our daily lives, and how Sedaris, who narrates the audiobook versions of his own stories, was told that the companies he works with to create such audio versions would be switching to AI narrations.
I felt a pang in my chest upon hearing this, as anyone familiar with David Sedaris knows that his voice is an integral part of what makes his stories so special. While reading his physical copies, it is impossible to not hear his voice in your head, a voice so curious and witty, and as he has said himself—sometimes mistaken as that of a small woman.
As a loyal reader and audiobook listener, I wouldn’t want to listen to a bot try to be David. Although it’s true that it would still be his words and ideas I’d be hearing, his voice is part of who he is, and part of his story. Hearing a regurgitated version spit out by a machine—no matter how advanced the technology is, or how lifelike we can make AI sound nowadays—strips away our voices, which are more than just our words. Someone’s voice is a part of them.
Talk of artificial intelligence surrounds us, on TikTok, Instagram, and even in academic settings. I’ve encountered assignments in some humanities courses encouraging students to play around with AI programs, or paste a prompt into an AI engine to observe the kind of response it will create. I was told, in a class I took last year, to ask ChatGPT why Stonehenge was created, and by whom. The program told me basic, but correct details, such as that Stonehenge was built by a Neolithic population, and that it was constructed for ceremonial reasons, as a social gathering site and symbol of identity.
Although I don’t deny that AI is a useful resource for teaching us baseline knowledge within the field of humanities, it has no rightful place in telling our stories. Near the end of the Super Duolingo story, Sedaris admits that we don’t know where AI will be years from now. It’s entirely possible it will be able to mimic emotions well, and read between the lines to understand the nuanced history of humanity.
On the topic of Stonehenge, AI currently doesn’t have the capacity to replace humans in interpreting our own behavior, which is tied to cultural, spiritual, and historical practices and beliefs, and ultimately linked to human thought and feeling. When we turn instead to masters in the field of humanities, such as archaeologists and historians, we can further connect ourselves to our own species. We are the only ones who can understand the emotional and cultural dimensions of our lived experiences, which are things AI doesn’t have the ability to experience.
As for Sedaris, the erasure of his voice diminishes his personality and perspective, and weakens his ties to his audience. This weakened connection to our humanity does so much harm within our ability to shape ourselves as people. Our lived experiences are crucial in making us ourselves, and stripping humanity out of the sharing of these experiences is tragically paradoxical.
I urge you as a reader, but more importantly, a human, to fortify your real world connections. Go to in-person book talks, go to the art museum downtown, read real books, watch documentaries, and listen to live lectures. Listen to people speak, and watch their body language as they talk about something they are passionate about. It’s such a gift to be able to hear human stories, especially from people themselves, and this is something we ought not to take for granted.
If you are looking for opportunities, I recommend visiting the UCSB Arts & Lectures website, where you can find information and ticket options for in-person talks (such as the wonderful Arlington Theatre reading by Mr. David Sedaris), art exhibitions, and more, all in our local Santa Barbara area.