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SOUND AND FURY

A middle-aged man got up from the table and shook his head. He looked down for a minute, then brought his right hand up to his cheek, rubbed it and scratched his chin. He shook his head and walked out of the room, half of it silent with stupefied observers, the other half jubilant with the celebration of a group of cybergeeks.

The man was Gary Kasparov, the world's reigning chess champion. That is, the world's reigning champ until an IBM computer named "Deep Blue" gave him a stunning shellacking, defeating the veteran of the black and red board in 37 moves. Kasparov was in firm control for three quarters of the contest. Then the computer mounted a calm comeback, leaving Kasparov in disbelief and, I imagine, a bit disgruntled, after losing the first of his six matches with Deep Blue.

Kasparov was no stranger to this kind of "man vs. machine" contest. Seven years ago, he duped a computer named Deep Thought, surprising many computer experts. But seven years is a long time in the world of technology -- long enough for some overworked microminds to develop a program that surpasses the human brain.

Sure, past computers have worked faster than the human mind, but usually solving mathematical problems, performing statistical analyses. But this is chess, the ancient game that pits mind versus mind, a contest requiring brawny concentration and rough-and-tumble decision making. Russian gentry, Parisian philosophers, and old men in dark knee socks in summertime -- these are the types that duke it out on the checkered battlefield.

Kasparov probably didn't sleep well the night after the defeat. Maybe he felt like a shortstop who makes an error in the World Series, but I suspect his thoughts may have been deeper; after all, a machine had just defeated a great human mind. That's something to think about.

What if some nerds in a bar in Seattle decide to build a program that writes better stories than Chekhov? What if an over-caffeinated computer programmer develops a series of blips and robotic arms that can out-paint Picasso? What if someone spends the wee hours creating a program that can churn out a better, more entertaining column than I could ever possibly write?

I suddenly don't feel so special.

Recently, I was discussing Internet censorship with a couple of good friends. One of them quipped, "Congress better not piss off the cybergeeks; they could have this whole world shut down in just 30 seconds." You know what? He's probably right. The human race is building a world of minds more powerful than ourselves. Things are getting so complex and fast-paced, and answers are getting to be easier and easier to access.

Tonight, I finished up a short story I have been working on for months. I like it. I think it's good and it took a lot of mental and emotional sweat to get it that good. But what happens to my art if someone builds something that can create a better product in thirty seconds. Right now, I don't think that will happen. But it's a possibility and that means the role of the artists -- painters, poets, photographers, composers, dancers, dramatists -- might grow less and less respectable in a high-tech society. The voices and visions of artists might fade underneath the whirring whistles and laughing lights of microchips.

That's why, in this information age, the artists' roles are so important. We need someone, somewhere, to record the emotions that make humanity unique, that make our souls impossible to duplicate no matter how many gigabytes a system might have. No computer can experience the love and rage and pain and happiness and urgency that accompanies the human condition.

A rain-soaked morning in Paris. A mug of coffee, a newspaper and Van Morrison music on Sunday mornings. The strange sublimity of the Wisconsin interstate in fresh autumn. The deep breath you sometimes need to take after finishing a Raymond Carver story. A fourth pint of Guiness in a London pub. These are things I know, things that conjure up memories and emotions and thoughts. You have these things too, tucked away in the hidden corners of your mind. They are magic. And a computer can never know them.