Posts about Technology

Introducing my book ‘Hot Type’

August 19, 2026 | No Comments
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With the release my new book, Hot Type, this week, I will post some good bits in hopes of enticing you into reading it. Here, from the introduction, is a preview of the many delightful rabbit holes I explored building the story of the invention of the first successful typesetting machine, the Linotype, and with it, the birth of mass media. You can order the book here. Please.

The story of the Linotype is many stories in one.

This is, first in my mind, the story of the advent of mass media and its consequences: speed and scale, attention and reach, capital and control. In the early nineteenth century, before the mechanization and industrialization of print, the average circulation of a daily newspaper in the United States was only 4,000, limited as it was by the speed and power of human muscle to set its type and pull its press. By the end of the Civil War, steam-powered presses began to speed up production of print at a scale never imagined. Cheap paper manufactured from wood pulp made books, magazines, and newspapers cheaper than ever to publish and buy. Railroads carried these publications and their influence ever farther, while also providing a new time and place to read. The telegraph brought news from around the world as fast as lightning. Literacy was rising fast.

One man (and it was almost always a man) stood in the way of media’s explosive progress and potential: the typesetter at his typecase, adding letters to his composing stick a click at a time. To hand-set the type in just one page of this book would have taken the average compositor as long as two hours. That is why the growing media industry eagerly awaited the invention of a machine to automate the job. “It is discreditable to the inventive genius of this country that the one great mechanical want of our time is still unsupplied,” New York’s World cried in 1869. In an Industrial Revolution rendition of “if we can fly to the Moon why can’t we . . .?”, The World pleaded: “We want the means of supplying the demand for reading matter. The inventive talent of the country produced the steamboat, the cotton-gin, and the electric telegraph.” Why not yet a typesetting machine?

This is the story of that invention. Hundreds of failed typesetting
machines littered the nineteenth century, as did scores of abandoned attempts to build its mechanical precursor, the typewriter and the keyboard. Here I will recount the work of inventors who failed and the few who finally succeeded in revolutionizing print and publishing: Christopher Latham Sholes with the typewriter; Ottmar Mergenthaler with the Linotype; and finally, Steve Jobs with his Mac and John Warnock and Charles Geschke with PostScript, the inventions that wiped out all textual technologies that came before. Their histories are seeded with insight and inspiration, frustration and failure, collaboration and the rare eureka!

This is the story of Mark Twain. He is the Zelig and zeitgeist of our tale, for he will return often. Young Sam Clemens was a typesetter on his brother’s newspaper in Hannibal, Missouri. He was a tramp printer wandering from composing room to composing room across the country, witnessing technological progress in the trade. He wrote for newspapers. As Mark Twain, he was perhaps the first beneficiary of media made mass — and his celebrity helped make it. But the Linotype was his bête noire, for Twain invested his fortune in a would-be competitor, the Paige Compositor. Its inventor, James W. Paige, was a pathological perfectionist, equal parts brilliance and flim-flam, and it was because of him — and other failed business judgments — that Twain’s publishing house folded, sentencing him to bankruptcy and bitterness. Some say it robbed the great man of his sense of humor.

This is a story of technology and our adjustments to it. In the midst of his struggles with the Paige Compositor, Twain wrote A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court. It reflects Twain’s — and society’s — enamored affair with the technological and new, as the Yankee introduces electricity, steam, telegraph, telephone, and newspapers to Camelot. At its end, the book exposes Twain’s disillusionment with dark modern arts, culminating in a technological Armageddon that foretold the hell of the First World War. Reexamining the technological disruption of the time could not be more relevant to us today as we grapple with the consequences of a connected world and artificial intelligence.

This is the story of labor and technology’s costs and benefits. One might assume that typesetters — the people — wished to destroy typesetters — the machines — as the Luddites smashed looms and Captain Swing rioted against threshers. But no. The International Typographical Union (ITU) recognized the inevitability of the Linotype’s success and made one consequent demand: that its members should be the ones to learn and operate it. After short-term job losses, that strategic foresight led to tremendous growth in employment and in union power — until the trade faced superseding technologies. Inside this labor history is an examination of gender and race. The typewriter was gendered female, bringing women into the new workplace of the office. Typesetting and the Linotype were gendered male, as women were excluded from composing rooms. So was Frederick Douglass’ son, refused membership in the ITU — even while he and his father published their newspapers — because he was Black.

This is the story of capital and early-stage capitalism in the era Twain named the Gilded Age. Because publishing required investment in complex and expensive machines — presses and Linotypes — writing and public discourse became the domain of corporations. Here enters a villain in this opera named Whitelaw Reid, who stole the New York Tribune out from under its founder, Horace Greeley; who forced Ottmar Mergenthaler out of the company he made; who used Mergenthaler’s machine to keep union printers out of his composing room; and who peeved Mark Twain on multiple occasions.

And this is the story of the culture’s relationship with text in a grand arc from the goose quill (and its eventual industrialization with the steel-nibbed pen); to Gutenberg and his material, movable type; to the typewriter, allowing anyone to produce a printed page; to the Linotype and its profound impact on all publishing. The arc of this saga ends with the technology that replaced all that: the computer program called PostScript, which describes letters as shapes alongside other images, opening the way for desktop publishing and the democratization of print — and ultimately the internet and all things digital.

In the end, this is less a story of machines than of human beings: the triumph and tragedy of Ottmar Mergenthaler; the grand friendship and loyalty of his muse and supporter, a presidential stenographer named James O. Clephane; the sad sack inventor of the first successful typewriter, Sholes, with James Densmore, the dogged booster who made it successful; the young woman named Gussie Lewis Troup, who founded a typographical union for women; the 1960s union boss, Bert Powers, whose strikes killed six of nine newspapers in New York while he saved the livelihoods of his members; and the unsung publishing consultant Jonathan Seybold, who connected the dots needed to make writing and publishing on screens possible. You will be introduced to these and other leading players in the Typothetae Personae that follows, and will hear their voices, often in florid and charming Victorian speech, throughout the book.

“The history of the invention of the typesetting machine is a novel or a drama in all its ups and downs,” wrote Karl d’Ester, a German scholar of newspapers and communication. This is that drama. In the first chapter, you will meet Sam Clemens as a printer’s devil, learning to set type. As a tramp printer, he traveled the nation and witnessed disruptions that threatened print’s old ways. As Mark Twain, he threatened staid Eastern culture as he chronicled and named the age and its upheavals. Everything about printing was changing — everything except typesetting. The industry awaited the machine that would finally automate even that slow, complicated, and expensive job.

In the following three chapters, you will see the experiments and failures that preceded both the typewriter and typesetter — most notably Twain’s folly. Then you will meet the inventors who won, learning their bittersweet life stories and, in Chapter Four, witnessing the eureka! that made the Linotype possible. The following two chapters track the success of the Mergenthaler Linotype Company as it ushered in the age of mass media, and as media moguls — and Twain as a wannabe publishing mogul — searched for business models to sustain their new industry.

Next comes the rich tale of labor’s relationship with the machine, from the founding of America’s oldest trade union to the antics of the Swifts, the speedy typesetters who, odd but true, turned their craft into a spectator sport; to the union leaders who led their members to safety in the Linotype age; and finally to their denouement at the hands of media mogul Rupert Murdoch. Next comes the end of all that and the beginning of what replaced it: the computer and desktop publishing. Then I return once more to Twain and his disillusionment with technology, celebrity, and humankind.

After it all, I offer my typographical autobiography, for I had the good fortune to live and work in the transition from hot type to cold, material to digital. There I will reflect on how these changes affected my relationship with writing and publishing as a journalist.

Words matter. Damnit.

August 15, 2026 | 2 Comments
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On this week’s Intelligent Machines, we cohosts had a spirited disagreement about Anthropic’s watermarking of text, as required by EU regulation. The company just released more detail about how it will work, and now I’m upset for a different reason than I first thought.

I’m angry as a writer.

Anthropic’s method will alter its models’ word choices in a pattern based on a key only it knows, allowing it to detect writing (or editing or translation) by its machine — to an uncertain degree of certainty. The company contends there is no difference in meaning between the otherwise random choices “grey” or “overcast” in, for example, the context of weather. So what’s the issue?

Thus Anthropic declares words fungible, language random, choice meaningless. Not to me. I try to select my words as carefully as I can for a number of considerations: style, tone, rhythm, avoiding repetition, but most of all meaning. You may quibble with my choices, but they are mine, not yours; that’s what makes my writing mine, to communicate what I wish to communicate. “Gray” and “overcast” are not the same, damnit. That’s the reason we have both of them.

So I resent Anthropic et al dismissing the value of a writer’s selection of one word over another for the impact that decision has on expression, on impression — occasionally on art.

We humans might not be able to detect whether the machine or the key is being used. That’s not the point. The selections/changes/alterations made in accordance with the key will affect sense and style on an ever-larger proportion of text entering discourse, and the fact that Anthropic (and the EU) consider this acceptable, unimportant, even trivial has cultural impact on the worth of words. They devalue writing. At the very moment when LLMs commodify writing and writers, this is just another kick to the kidneys for a challenged craft.

And why is this forensic breadcrumb trail being required? Because of prejudice against the technology: fear unto moral panic. But technological solutions to perceived technological problems have just as many unintended consequences as the problems themselves, often more. The irony is that in a zealous effort to protect the distinctiveness — the sanctity — of human text, the authorities and the technologists deprecate what makes text human.

In my new book Hot Type, I quote critics such as Friedrich Kittler insisting that typewriters changed how Nietzsche, Hemingway, or Hesse wrote and thought. At the end my book, in what I call a typographical autobiography, I recount how technologies, from typewriter to computer to PostScript, affected my composition and cognition. These technologies affected my methods, but that makes my prose no less human. We should debate what the impact of this next technology, AI, might be on creativity and perception, but we should give that process time. Rushing to regulatory and technological solutions to a problem not yet fully understood is foolish.

So I’m pissed.

Here is a sentence from the first page of Hot Type, one I chipped away at innumerable times. These are the choices I made:

Unlike what we now call machines — computer chips veiled inside sleek and sealed grey boxes with no moving parts, save fans to cool their brains— the Linotype’s innards were left exposed, as if to show off the genius of its works: its troop of idiosyncratically shaped cams, gears, belts, arms, and wheels marching to instructions foreseen more than a century before by their inventor, German-born watchmaker Ottmar Mergenthaler.

Now let us recast it with perfectly acceptable synonyms, as Anthropic’s detection key might, in composition, editing, or translation. In fact, I asked Claude to do just that. Here is what it delivered as “a synonym-substituted version, keeping the structure and meaning intact.”

Contrary to what we presently term machines — microprocessors concealed within polished and enclosed grey containers with no moving components, except fans to cool their circuitry — the Linotype’s mechanisms were left visible, as if to display the ingenuity of its craftsmanship: its brigade of distinctively shaped cams, gears, belts, arms, and wheels progressing to directives anticipated more than a century earlier by their creator, German-born horologist Ottmar Mergenthaler.

You may find Claude’s just fine. I find that it misses the wonder, cadence, and anachronism I tried to convey. Anthropic’s engineers and the EU’s regulators may ask, what’s the prob? Much, I say.

AI Communism

July 27, 2026 | 1 Comment
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In response to the spectre of Chinese open-weight AI models haunting America, Dean Ball, OpenAI’s director of strategic futures [are there directors of strategic pasts?], issued a warning more shrill even than the New York Post’s alerts about Mamdani’s bus-and-grocery socialism. 

One probable outcome of an open-weight-model-dominant world is full AI communism, which is precisely what China proposes: rather than a market product, AI is a “public good” which will ultimately be provided by the state as a kind of “digital public infrastructure.” This future strikes me as a dystopian hellscape, but I’ve never met an open-weight models advocate who doesn’t ultimately concede this is where things end.

As Jason Howell and I discussed this on our podcast, AI Inside, we found ourselves asking, What would be so wrong with AI communism? What if there were AI for all? Eh, comrades?

Imagine all that could be created, often for free, on top of open AI models: how many universities and researchers, startups and entrepreneurs, artists and students could better afford the technology. Imagine the greater control that comes from locally hosted models. Imagine the greater transparency and security that comes with openness. And imagine the power — pricing and political — that could be wrested from the new AI giants as they barrel toward their IPOs…which, of course, is precisely what frightens them. But you need not imagine all this, for open-weight models are affording these opportunities now. 

By championing open AI, we could atone for past sins (including mine) of insufficiently supporting openness in the first phase of the internet, leading to the fencing of the commons. Open AI may be our best and only defense against its oligarchic domination. As the wise John Palfrey, head of the MacArthur Foundation, just said, “This is a design moment — for the technologies, for the way we relate to one another across geographic and political boundaries, and for what the future looks like.”

A week after Ball’s cri de code, Nvidia founder and CEO Jensen Huang posted an open letter supporting open-weight models, now signed (as I write this) by fifty AI giants — pretty much everybody who matters … except Anthropic. Even Ball’s bosses signed. It is a remarkable endorsement of open computing and a message to governments. I recommend reading it in full:

The Washington Post puzzled over why Nvidia et al would “take a stand that helps their Chinese rivals.” (Note that Post owner Bezos’ Amazon has not signed this letter.)

But of course, open-weight AI is in the business interests of Nvidia and AI chip companies: the more AI is used, the more chips are needed. Locally run, open AI is also in the interests of countless companies. I hate to find myself agreeing with Palantir’s Alex Karp, but he tells his corporate clients they should run open-weight, locally hosted models so they don’t give over the souls of their business to the frontier AI companies; this is his business model.

Openness is also in the interests of an enlightened AI industry, as it creates competition and that yields greater innovation. This is why an AI pioneer I greatly respect, Yann LeCun, doggedly supports open-source AI and why he founded Project Tapestry, “a new open-source platform for globally federated development of frontier AI models — preserving local control and long-term independence.”

Now just as sanity was emerging in the discussion about AI, moral panic reared its sweaty head again when credulous media reported that an OpenAI model had gone rogue and “hacked” into Hugging Face. This turns out to be another instance of the doom-as-marketing strategy engaged in by both OpenAI and Anthropic. It is their way to attract publicity and venture funding and control the conversation about regulation of AI. In truth, OpenAI’s model was engaged in a security test; it only did was it was instructed; it has no sense of right or wrong or “hacking;” it isn’t a rogue threat to society, no matter how much the AI boys would like to believe they hold such power.

The chef’s-kiss irony of the Hugging Face affair was that the platform found American models useless in its defense against the “hack” because they were all hampered by guardrails forbidding them from undertaking tasks regarding security risks. Hugging Face had to rely instead on an open-weight Chinese model.

Such panics, predictably, lead to threats of government control of AI, and that worries the hell out of me, especially and obviously given the IQ of the current administration. In Congress, Reps. Ted Lieu (D-California) and Nathaniel Moran (R-Texas) have proposed the AI Kill Switch Act, which would require major AI companies to install the means for their models to be shut off in the event of a “credible risk.” And who will have the power to decide to pull the plug? The secretary of Homeland Security.

No, no no. 

When I attended a World Economic Forum (Davos) AI event in San Francisco sometime ago, one faction of worrywarts urged the banning of open-weight, open-source AI because users could turn off guardrails, and then who knows what chaos would ensue. But as I often argue, guardrails are fools’ comfort, for there is no way for any model maker to anticipate and thus prevent every possible malign or accidentally harmful use to which their tools could be put. That doesn’t mean that AI companies should not be expected to try to prevent against known malicious or dangerous acts. But AI is a general machine, like the printing press. There was no way to tell Gutenberg to design his movable type such that no future Martin Luther could ever make mischief with it.

Open-weight models are our best defense against hegemonic control of the technology by either governments or huge AI corporations. They are also the best way to put AI into the hands of more people, not just those who can afford to spend fortunes on hosted tokens. That throws a wrench into Sam Altman’s plans to sell back to us our collective intelligence as if it were a commodity. “We see a feature where intelligence is a utility, like electricity or water,” Altman says, “and people buy it from us on a meter.” Thereby, Altman concedes that AI is, if not a public good at least a public utility. 

Now I will object to the idea that what AI offers is “intelligence.” That is a gross anthropomorphism that, by its very conception, competes with and excludes humanity. But for the sake of this discussion, for the moment, let’s use it.

If intelligence is an asset that can be created and shared, flowing as from a spigot, shouldn’t we all have access to it for the greater benefit of society? Isn’t that all the more reason to endorse open-weight, open-source AI that we can run and train and adapt and control and benefit from on our own? 

Yes, free, open-weight models will always be two steps (read: six months) behind the so-called frontier models. But open models will be able to do 99 percent of what 99 percent of people want to do with AI. Still, there will be business opportunities aplenty for AI companies to build specialized models, trained on specialized information, for specialized tasks of high value. In fact, it would be much more productive if the companies would concentrate on that instead of pursuing their bullshit goal of building “artificial general intelligence.” 

Now I’d like to take this discussion one step more: If “intelligence” is a public good, should not the data needed to train models be? For if we all can benefit from open models, who would want them to be less intelligent? And does it not follow them that data, civic information, and by extension journalism should be open? 

Oh, I can hear the howls of protest, for I’ve heard them for years: How will the gathering of that data and information be paid for? One answer is universities, where research is subsidized. Or it was, until America’s right-wing extremists opened war against the institutions of education and science. 

As for journalism, it is not a forever thing. Before the economics of mass media and the attention economy overtook news and civic discourse, society operated differently. Limited by the technologies of the time, before steam-powered presses and Linotypes, publications were small, often both created and shared socially. Now that mass media and its attention economy are the walking dead, we will need to reconsider every model of gathering, sharing, and utilizing public information. My point is that the discussion about open-weight, open-source AI forces us to ask similar questions about what open journalism would look like. Eh, comrades?

To redefine progress

June 13, 2026 | No Comments
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In an urgent and provocative essay in Die Zeit, journalist Georg Diez calls for a redefinition of progress in the time of AI. Taking lessons from the genesis of progressivism — a response to the Industrial Revolution and the (first) Gilded Age — we cannot now surrender the power to decide society’s future to present technologists.

“A notion of progress that inspires society and supplies it with new energy, both intellectually and emotionally, must therefore be comprehensive, systemically conceived, and grand,” Diez writes (with apologies for my translation). “It must be formulated collaboratively by politics, business, science, and civil society, and it must answer the question of what technology we want — and under what terms.”

I write this just as the ultimate profanity of capitalism’s coupling with technology — Elon Musk’s SpaceX — comes to the market at the absurd and obscene valuation of $2.11 trillion. Thus he, the world’s richest man, is funded and empowered to define progress according to his insanities: colonizing Mars and beyond with the seed of his loins and fevered dreams.

We cannot let this stand.

Diez asserts that “the situation is schizophrenic. On the one side, large swathes of Western societies seem to have lost faith that the future will be better. On the other side, a techno-optimist progress cult has established itself in Silicon Valley, promising incredible prosperity and undreamed-of convenience for all, because artificial intelligence will enable a giant leap in productivity.”

These extreme worldviews preempt reasoned public discourse over progress’ direction. “What does it mean,” Diez asks, “especially for a society that is experiencing the end of its old certainties, without having yet found new ones?” He says that in the past, progress equaled “technology plus values” and society was able to negotiate “how the advantages and gains of technological progress could and should be distributed.” I’m not so sure we’ve done such a good job of it of late. Still, he is right to add that today, we must recognize changed circumstances: the decline of the West in the face of advances by China, India, and Indonesia. “This makes it all the more urgent to formulate a concept of progress for the 21st Century.”

For this, Diez turns to the 19th Century, to the Industrial Revolution and the impact of the era’s coal, steel, and railway barons. “Driven by the first Industrial Revolution, a technological and economic transformation produced both mass proletarian misery and stark wealth.” Resistance to both gave birth to the politics of progress.

I write about a slice of this history in my upcoming book Hot Type, tracking the response of America’s oldest national labor organization, the International Typographical Union (ITU), as it was faced with the imminent arrival of the typesetting machine, the Linotype, in 1886. Having learned from the failures of the Luddites and Captain Swift against mechanical feudalism, as against the eventual perseverance of pressmen at the advent of steam, the union did not fight technology but instead insisted on controlling it and benefiting from its efficiencies, while leading the national movement for the eight-hour day and safer working conditions. The ITU flourished in pay and power until faced with a next technology it could not control (for that story, you’ll have to order the book).

Such was a spirit of “militant optimism,” in Diez’ words. “Progress, as was clear then and should be clear now, can only be achieved with technology, not against it.” The task is to balance certainly legitimate criticism of technology with a clear vision for how its fruits might benefit society.

The difference today, Diez says, citing VC Vinod Khosla, is that AI will shift the distribution of power and wealth to capital, away from labor. In response, Khosla proposes exempting the lowest-paid workers from income tax, making up the difference taxing capital gains; various AI boys have touted a universal guaranteed income. But note well that in his encyclical, Pope Leo XIV rejected the latter, for “work is not simply an instrument; it expresses and enhances the dignity of our lives.” Redistribution of wealth is imperative — see: the trillionaire — and should occur through taxation to support social programs.

A new concept of progress, Diez argues, must be conceived from the perspective of humanity. Amen. This is why I work on new educational programs that emphasize the humanities in the time of AI. And this is what inspired me to edit a new book series called Intelligence: AI & Humanity, to open the discussion to writers from the humanities and social sciences.

“Artificial intelligence challenges us to redefine who we want to be, both as individuals and as a community,” Diez observes. “It provokes questions such as: What constitutes quality of life for us?… A new concept of progress should be shaped neither by technophobia and austerity nor by the promise of exponential growth.”

Today, it has been left to the technologists — to the wrong sorts of technologists, often sophomoric dropouts: the Musks, Altmans, Thiels, Karps, Zuckerbergs, Bezoses— to impose their ideas of progress on the rest of us. There is no better example lately than Anthropic positioning itself as savior of humankind, touting its AI “constitution,” while building what it deemed to be AI so dangerous it could not be revealed to mere citizens — prompting Trump to ban it to foreigners, resulting in turning it off for all. This is not progress. 

No, progress must be the result of open public discourse and political discernment and negotiation. In the 19th Century, trade unions fought for their share of newly created wealth while social movements fought for justice: abolition and suffrage. Today, the debate over the limits and fruits of technology must be driven by new leaders representing the rest of the world outside Silicon Valley.

This is not to say that technologists should not be parties to the discussion. They should take part in the conversation based on the merit of their work and ideas, not their market caps. But as I have learned in researching and writing my histories of technology and media — of print, magazines, the mechanization and industrialization of mass media, and even the internet — one clear lesson I have taken away is that once a technology becomes commonplace and is put to use by others, the technologists inevitably fade into the background. They hold their power of as priests only temporarily, so long as their mysteries may prevail. This fall from the heights, I predict, will be their fate much faster in the case of AI, because it is the tool made so simple anyone can use it, and because so many of its masters are so deservedly disliked.

And that is why I share Diez’ arguments with you, for I agree that it is vital that we — workers, students, academics, creators, citizens — take charge of this new technology and of the discussion about its effects. We must define progress not in terms of the AI boys’ bullshit — AGI (artificial general intelligence), ASI (artificial superintelligence), the end of labor, the colonization of unlivable Mars, a world post-humans — but in human terms: dignified work; shared wealth; the benefits of science, art, and creativity; education for all; equity and justice; and community. It is our future we need to map, a task far too vital to leave to programmers and capitalists.

Technology Does Not Belong to the Technologists

April 27, 2026 | 1 Comment
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Sam Altman just published a set of principles for OpenAI, in which he asserts, “AI will dwarf what people could do with steam engines or electricity.”

Uh, history would like a word, Sam.

Sam believes that his talkative tool will dwarf powered transportation, powered industry, lighting, electronic communication, amplification, even computation. This is the hubris of the present tense.

What follows in his principles is the kind of sophomoric banality only an LLM could produce.

He speaks of democratization. That occurs through the institutions of government and the vote, not companies. He leaps to the conclusions that he will build the mythical AGI and that it will yield “universal prosperity” the demands “huge infrastructure” to get there.

And what does this even mean? “While we are quite confident that universal prosperity will remain really important, we can imagine periods in the future where we have to trade off some empowerment for more resilience.” In other words, he’ll hold onto power because he knows best.

I think AI’s amazing. Hell, I cohost two podcasts and I’m editing a book series about it. But for God’s sake, history teaches us that technologies — especially the two Sam so glibly dismisses — brings unforeseen consequences. Gutenberg didn’t foresee the Reformation and couldn’t have controlled it.

At least Altman’s bête noire and courtroom opponent, Musk, says even more ridiculous things, namely that saving for retirement is irrelevant because AI is going to create a world of abundance: ‘It won’t matter.’ Yeesh.

A key lesson of technological history that the technologists forget — one I write about in my books — is that once the technology becomes familiar as a tool in many hands, both the technologist and the technology fade into the background and what matters is what is made with it by others, the rest of us.

Technology does not belong to the technologists.