language

When AI Writes What We Want to Read

Gianni Sarcone

Sometimes I wonder how we got here. As someone who has spent a lifetime reading and writing, I can usually spot AI-generated prose. The clichés, recycled formulas, suspiciously polished sentences, and repetitive rhythms often give it away. But apparently, most readers can’t. That’s a little unsettling.

A peer-reviewed study from Villanova University asked 1,682 people to read six short stories. Sometimes they were correctly told whether the author was human or AI; sometimes they were deliberately misled.

The result is uncomfortable.

The AI-written stories were rated 6% higher in quality and 8% more engaging than the human-written ones. Even more telling: when readers believed an AI story had been written by a person, they rated it even higher.

The real story isn’t AI. It’s us.

We don’t necessarily value authenticity—we value the belief that something is authentic. We romanticize the author’s life, struggle, and voice. Remove the label, and our judgment shifts.

AI may not have become a writer. It may simply have become remarkably good at producing the kind of prose that feels familiar, readable, and broadly appealing.

The disturbing question isn’t whether AI can write. It’s whether we can still recognize a genuine voice—or whether we’ve grown so comfortable with the average that we mistake it for excellence.

And yet, there is another layer to this uneasiness. It brings to mind Roland Barthes, who famously wrote: “The birth of the reader must be at the cost of the death of the Author.”

Barthes argued that meaning ultimately belongs to the reader, rather than to the author’s intentions or biography. AI adds a rather disturbing twist to that idea: what happens when the Author is no longer even a person—and when the reader cannot reliably tell the difference?

Beyond the conformity and mediocrity that AI may encourage, this makes me wonder how little we actually know about why we like what we read. Perhaps the real illusion is not that AI has learned to imitate us, but that we are far more predictable than we ever imagined.

AI

Authors Write Books. Publishers Rename Them

Gianni Sarcone

Many people believe that a book’s title is born directly from the author’s brilliant mind. Cute idea… but often completely wrong.

In reality, titles are frequently chosen by publishers — and, above all, by their marketing teams, who sometimes treat a book title like a product label rather than a piece of literature.

Take one of the most famous titles of the 20th century: 1984 by George Orwell, the great English political writer. When Orwell wrote the novel in 1948, its working title was The Last Man in Europe. His publisher found it a little too gloomy and uninspiring, suggested reversing the last two digits of the current year, and voilà: 1984 was born.

Not a bad decision. That “commercial” title went on to become a cultural landmark, and many ideas and expressions from the book are still part of today’s political vocabulary.

1984

As an author, I’ve often had to fight battles to prevent publishers from giving my books painfully dull — or downright silly — titles. One of my books, for example, was given the wonderfully imaginative title Optical Illusions by the publisher. A title so original it could probably hide in a crowd of a thousand other books.

And yet… this “masterpiece of originality” went on to win the Royal Society Young People’s Book Prize for the best science book for children.

Yes, yes. Sometimes even a boring title can carry a surprising little trick inside.

Why W Is Called “Double-U”

Gianni Sarcone

The letter W ultimately derives from the letter V, but its history is more layered than a simple invention after the Norman Conquest.

In classical Latin, inherited from the Greek and Phoenician alphabet traditions (Fig 1), the letter V served a dual function: it represented both the vowel /u/ and the consonantal sound /v/. There was no distinct symbol for /w/. In contrast, Old English (Anglo-Saxon) already had a need for this sound and used a separate rune, “wynn” (ƿ, Fig. 2), to represent it.

After the Norman Conquest of England in 1066, scribal practices shifted toward continental Latin conventions. The rune wynn gradually fell out of use, and scribes began representing the /w/ sound by writing a doubled form of U (or V, since the two were not yet fully distinguished, Figs. 3-4). This “double u” convention eventually evolved graphically: two V-shaped characters were written side by side, then gradually joined.

From this duplication comes the modern name “double U,” which preserves the historical origin even though the visual form is closer to two V’s than two U’s. The lowercase w developed directly from this doubled form, simplifying over time into a continuous script shape.

In short, W is not a direct Roman invention, but a medieval solution: a hybrid born from Latin writing habits adapting to a sound already present in Old English.

Born into Iki

Gianni Sarcone

I am iki from birth.

But what is iki (粋)?

Edo, under the Tokugawa shogunate. Merchants wealthy enough to unsettle the hierarchy, yet still ranked below the samurai. Power without status—watched closely, dressed carefully.

Sumptuary laws did the rest: no gold, no loud silk, no bright declarations. Only browns, greys, indigo. A forced muting of visibility.

Constraint rarely suppresses imagination. It concentrates it.

From this narrow register emerged a refined spectrum known as Shijuhattcha Hyakunezumi (四十八茶百鼠)—“48 browns, 100 greys.” Not literal numbers, but a cultural way of naming excess within restraint: an almost infinite sensitivity to difference inside what first appears uniform.

Fashion became a coded language. Subtle shifts in tone, legible only to trained eyes. Outside, discipline. Inside, excess held in reserve. A lining of rare fabric. A color hidden against the skin. A private flash revealed only when a sleeve turns in the wind.

This is iki: elegance that refuses emphasis. Presence without display. A form of refinement that collapses the moment it is named.

Its opposite is yabo (野暮): excess, insistence, the compulsion to be seen. Not morality—measure. Or the lack of it.

Today, the direction has inverted. Visibility has become currency. Those who do not perform disappear; those who do not declare are not counted. What was once failure has become strategy.

And yet the counter-move remains simple.

Lower the volume. Leave gaps. Let meaning breathe in what is not shown.

And become something worth looking at twice.

Small Strokes, Big Meanings

Gianni Sarcone

Human writing systems are built from strokes. I’ve always been fascinated by how a simple line or mark can alter the sound or meaning of a letter, pictogram, ideogram, hieroglyph, or sinogram. Exploring scripts across the world—even from countries far apart—revealed surprising connections, almost like hidden equivalences between them. The true marvel is how our eyes can sense meaning, even when tiny, seemingly insignificant changes are made to the original sign.

In some writing systems—especially those built on characters rather than alphabets—a subtle visual change can completely shift meaning, much like how English plays with homonyms and homographs. But here, it is the visual structure itself that carries the transformation.

Take the Chinese character 人, meaning “person.” In Chinese and Japanese, this simple shape often acts as a base or radical. By adding a stroke, adjusting placement, or combining it with another element, you get entirely new words and concepts. A single alteration can lead to a dramatic change in meaning.

Here are a few examples showing how characters evolve from that shared visual root:

  • 大 (dai, oo) — “big, large”
    Looks like a person with arms extended. One stroke changes the meaning from “person” to “large.”
  • 太 (tai, futo) — “fat, thick”
    Add a small dot below 大, and the concept shifts from “big” to “overly big” or “thick.”
  • 犬 (ken, inu) — “dog”
    A short slanted stroke above the horizontal line of 大 turns the human figure into an animal.
  • 天 (ten, ama) — “heaven, sky”
    By placing a stroke above the “big” shape, the idea rises upward—symbolically to the sky.
  • 矢 (shi, ya) — “arrow”
    Adding a vertical stroke that meets the upper horizontal line of 天 turns it into a tool or weapon.
  • 火 (ka, hi) — “fire”
    Here the strokes branch downward, evoking sparks or flames.
  • 炎 (en, honoo) — “flame”
    Double the fire element and you intensify the meaning: from fire to blazing flame.
radical transformations

What’s striking is how these changes don’t require entirely new symbols—just minimal visual tweaks. Where English relies on spelling or pronunciation shifts (like lead the metal vs. lead as in to guide), character-based languages often rely on visual logic. A dot, a stroke, or a slight rearrangement can redirect the meaning toward something bigger, higher, brighter, or more intense.

It’s a compact, elegant way to build vocabulary: meaning evolves visibly, not phonetically.