← Back to Library

A new pick from our subscribers' submissions

The best writers on the Stack · · ·24 min read
Commentary by Hex Index staff

In an era where artificial intelligence promises to democratize content creation, a seasoned naturalist offers a scathing rebuttal rooted in the visceral reality of the physical world. This piece does not merely defend human writing; it argues that the very essence of literature—its ability to convey feeling and observation—is fundamentally incompatible with algorithmic generation. The author posits that while machines can mimic syntax, they cannot replicate the "communion with the forces of life" that shapes authentic prose.

The Anatomy of Observation

The best writers on the Stack begins by contrasting the sterile efficiency of data with the messy, sensory richness of nature writing. The author, Ted Levin, draws on a lifetime of fieldwork to illustrate how facts must be transmuted into experience. He writes, "Fact: Turkey vultures are in the sky almost all day looking for carrion; they nest in boulder fields. Interpretation: 'Born on a breeze, hatched amid a fortress of stone, turkey vultures are the essence of a hot summer day.'" This distinction is the core of the argument: data provides the skeleton, but only human interpretation provides the blood and breath.

A new pick from our subscribers' submissions

Levin's approach is not just about using metaphors; it is about the writer's internal state. He suggests that great nature writing requires a willingness to risk emotional vulnerability. "To hell with not anthropomorphizing," he declares, rejecting the rigid objectivity often demanded of science writing in favor of a more intimate connection with the subject. This stance is effective because it reframes the writer's role from a passive recorder to an active participant who feels the heat of the afternoon and the silence of the woods.

Nature writers are shaped by communion with the forces of life; AI is shaped by digital engineers … there's no authenticity, none whatsoever.

Critics might argue that this dismissal of AI is overly romantic, ignoring the tool's potential to help writers organize complex data or overcome writer's block. However, Levin anticipates this by acknowledging AI's utility for mechanical tasks like correcting spelling or suggesting punctuation, while maintaining that it fails completely at the higher-order task of meaning-making.

The Irreplaceable Human Element

The commentary shifts to a direct confrontation with the capabilities of artificial intelligence, using a baseball analogy to illustrate the loss of human texture. The best writers on the Stack writes, "AI writing reminds me of the soon-to-be-installed automatic home-plate umpires in baseball... With an automated strike zone, baseball will lose some color." The argument here is that the "human element" is not a bug to be fixed but a feature that gives the activity its soul. Without the ability to argue, to feel frustration, or to experience the unpredictability of the moment, the output becomes sterile.

Levin emphasizes that AI lacks the history of observation that informs human creativity. "AI has no senses, cannot register feeling. No history of observation. No history of contemplation," he notes. This is a powerful claim because it suggests that the value of a text lies not just in the words on the page, but in the life experience that generated them. The author traces his own development through the works of Hal Borland, John Hay, and Peter Matthiessen, writers who taught him to "translate weather into words, and the geological bones of land into the lyrics of dawn."

The piece also touches on the evolution of the writer's voice, noting that it is a product of continuous engagement with the world. "The older I get, the more I risk making a point," Levin admits, highlighting the courage required to write with conviction. This vulnerability is something an algorithm, which operates on probability rather than conviction, cannot simulate.

The Limits of the Algorithm

As the piece concludes, the author returns to the central thesis: the impossibility of AI replicating the depth of human connection to the natural world. The best writers on the Stack writes, "AI is helpful to correct spelling errors... but AI can't face the wind, nor can it watch a peregrine shred the sky." This final image serves as a stark reminder of the physical reality that writing seeks to capture. The argument is that while technology can optimize the delivery of information, it cannot generate the experience of being alive in a specific place at a specific time.

The author's rejection of AI is absolute, culminating in the blunt statement: "Fuck AI." While this language is jarring, it underscores the intensity of his conviction that the authenticity of nature writing is non-negotiable. It is a defense of the messy, imperfect, and deeply human act of observation against the cold precision of the machine.

Bottom Line

Ted Levin's argument is a compelling defense of human agency in an age of automation, successfully distinguishing between the mechanical generation of text and the artistic creation of meaning. The piece's greatest strength lies in its vivid examples of how observation transforms into art, though it perhaps underestimates the evolving role of AI as a collaborative partner rather than a replacement. Readers should watch for how the literary community navigates this tension between efficiency and authenticity in the coming years.

Sources

A new pick from our subscribers' submissions

by The best writers on the Stack · · Read full article

Every week we identify the best-written works of fiction, speculative fiction, and nonfiction from recent releases and shortlists for major prizes, and from our subscribers’ submissions. We also publish articles by their authors on prose technique and AI writing, while on the last Friday of the month we publish for paid subscribers the best-written book of the month.

Pick 1. Recently published nonfiction».

A New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice * ‘Sparkling, addictive reading’—MAGGIE O’FARRELL * ‘An unforgettable literary biographical tour de force’—INDEPENDENT

To a sophisticated Italian who traveled to England in the late sixteenth century, the island might not have appeared, as it had to the ancient Roman poet Virgil, “wholly separated from all the world.” But it would certainly have seemed bleak. To be sure, in London the visitor would have seen many signs of wealth and power: the sprawling royal residence of Whitehall; grand dwellings along the Thames for the leading aristocrats and their entourages; the magnificent abbey at Westminster housing the royal tombs; in the busy commercial center paved streets, some of them graced with beautiful fountains; a brooding fortress, said to have been built by Julius Caesar and used in the sixteenth century as a prison, a mint, an armory, and the site of a royal menagerie. But there was much else that would have given a foreign visitor pause.

The weather was a trial. England, along with much of northern Europe, found itself in the midst of what is now termed the Little Ice Age, with bitter cold winters and fierce storms that destroyed crops and caused periodic famine. The roads were terrible, and after dark they were the haunts of robbers. In London the most popular entertainments were animal fights. Large crowds paid to see a horse with a monkey on its back attacked by fierce dogs. The poor beleaguered horse would gallop and kick; the monkey would scream; the audience would roar. When the exhausted horse collapsed and was killed, it would be time to bring out the bears and bulls, tie them to stakes, unleash the dogs, and repeat the fun. “This sport,” remarked a visitor from the Continent, “is not very pleasant to watch.” In the churches psalms were sung and Mass was celebrated not in the time-honored Latin but in plain English. The Reformation had left other, more tangible marks as well. “It is a pitiful sight,” wrote ...