The first person he befriended was Max, a man who was also an exile (from Quimper, in Brittany) and who was also weighed down by multiple identities: not only was he a Frenchman but he was also a Breton, a poet, a homosexual, a Jew, and soon to be a Catholic; a man who, like Picasso, was anxiously, intensely seeking out new worlds. He was sensitive, empathic, devoted, available, fervent in his beliefs…
Max Jacob idolized Picasso from the outset — “I met Picasso; he told me I was a poet: this was the most important revelation of my life after the existence of God,” he would confide to one of his correspondents in 1931 — and for Picasso he would become a tutor, landlord, broker, representative, a man who would teach him French through the poems of Vigny and Verlaine, offer him his mattress, his tiny room, and what little money he had, who would even approach Parisian galleries and magazines on his friend Pablo’s behalf, to sell his drawings and illustrations.
(Sam Taylor’s translation)
Le premier d’entre eux, c’est Max, lui aussi exilé (de Quimper), lui aussi encombré d’identités multiples — français, breton, poète, homosexuel, juif et bientôt catholique —, lui aussi cumulateur de mondes, lui aussi lancé dans une recherche inquiète et intense. Il est sensible, empathique, convaincu, dévoué, disponible…
Pour Picasso — un génie que Max Jacob adule dès la première minute —, le Breton devient précepteur, logeur, courtier, représentant. Il lui enseigne le français à partir des poèmes de Vigny et de Verlaine, lui offre son matelas, sa pitance, sa chambre minuscule et prospecte même galeries et magazines parisiens pour vendre les dessins ou les illustrations de l’ami Pablo.
(Annie Cohen-Solal’s text)
(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved
EthicalDative 
Is Brain Rack Journey or Destination?
Have you ever suspected people who “play devil’s advocate” are often expressing their actual opinions, but without having to take responsibility for them?
I worked in the tech industry a while. I should be more interested in ChatGPT. Why am I crouched against it? Stodginess? Instinct? Paranoia?
I’ve read Farhat Manjoo since he covered tech at Slate. He’s now at the New York Times, and is exploring how ChatGPT can be useful to the journalist.
It proves invaluable, he writes, “in digging up that perfect word or phrase you’re having trouble summoning… I’ve spent many painful minutes of my life scouring my mind for the right word. ChatGPT is making that problem a thing of the past.”
Here’s my devil’s advocate response, except it’s my real opinion: Isn’t the painful scouring of one’s mind for right words a fortifying activity in itself, like how a muscle needs exertion in order not to atrophy? Is our farming out of such mental activity to a machine not a further step down the slippery slope to early-onset senescence occasioned by cerebral decadence resulting from septic brain stasis?
On reliability: It’s known that ChatGPT can spout convincing bull along with good stuff. A colleague of Manjoo’s suggests giving it the same credence as to a “blabbermouth blowhard at a bar” who is three sheets to the wind. Sometimes he knows what he’s talking about. Figure out when.
Fine and dandy, but how often do you want to hang out with blabbermouth blowhards in bars?
(Farhat Manjoo, “ChatGPT Is Already Changing How I Do My Job,” New York Times, 4-21-23)
(c) 2023 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved