Margaret Atwood writes in The Atlantic about the news an AI is being trained on her work without permission, and about the prospect that "the thing will glurp forth 50,000 words, like soft ice cream spiraling out of its dispenser, that will be indistinguishable from something I might grind out."
Judging from the results I've seen so far, AI can produce "art" of a kind. It sort of looks like art; it sort of sounds like art. But it's made by a Stepford Author. And it's dead.
I'm amazed by Midjourney and ChatGPT, then amazed again by how quickly the nightingale bores me. We were here with cars a decade ago but the hidden thresholds are harder to cross than the pushers think.