The End of (Not) Knowing
It's been almost four years since I started using artificial intelligence. I ask a question, and a response is guaranteed.
Back then, we were accustomed to 'pass.' To not knowing.
When life gives you rejection... unleash the Lemondrilla.
On the nightstand Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead by Olga Tokarczuk Up next: Omon Ra The whole shelf →
It's been almost four years since I started using artificial intelligence. I ask a question, and a response is guaranteed.
Back then, we were accustomed to 'pass.' To not knowing.
Stanisław Lem: Solaris
Kelvin arrives at a space station, and the first thing he meets is a corpse. His old mentor, Gibarian, by his own hand.
I won't be polite about it: garbage.
Ursula K. Le Guin: The Dispossessed
I set out to read ninety-nine science fiction novels in three years, strictly from a writer's point of view. I wanted to enjoy them.
Her sentences are clean; her wisdom is a fridge magnet.
We call it the “Little Hungarian Absurd.” Recently, I had a front-row seat to a masterclass in this genre.
It was the digital equivalent of a high-five from a bank teller.
It finally happened. After years of submitting stories to magazines that never open attachments and agents who vanish into polite vapor, Stephen King himself has reached out to me.
Lowercase stephen, lowercase king.
Let's be honest: as writers, we love free things. A good pen, a found notebook, and, of course, free software.
It understands the language, but it has a slight accent.
It happened yesterday. An award ceremony for a national literary prize in Hungary, for which I was a finalist.
I was a chameleon trying to compete in a horse race.
September 28, 2025. 7:05 AM. I closed my laptop and stared at the word count: 102,333.
But this one… this one gnawed at me.
So yes — this is supposed to be the “Hello world!” post. But let’s be honest: the world isn’t always that friendly.
Most of the time, it just says NO and slams the door.