On the morning when
the old scholar Sigmund Kuperschmitz passed away, the chimneys of the sky opened and heavy rain washed the streets of Jerusalem.
Strange, rain in July.
Eyewitnesses said that Kuperschmitz wandered back and forth on the sidewalk on Palmach Street, mumbling to himself various and strange sayings, when he suddenly stopped and with the determined step of a man who knew where he was headed - went down the road, to the horror of the bus driver who ran over him. From the clouds.
Kuperschmitz defiantly turned his head to the sky, and like a man rose from his seat and shook himself, tried to lift his broken body - then died.
What did I suddenly remember about the tragic death of the scholar Kuperschmitz somewhere in July 1989?
Well, I have two words for you: artificial intelligence.
And to be precise, the uncomplicated consequences that await the human race along the way.
Cyborgs that look like Greek gods with an artificial intelligence of one hundred Albert Einstein and a memory of server farms in the South Pole.
In a few hundred, maybe even decades, will Homo Technologies replace Homo sapiens, also known as Adam?
The world of art and design is already there, sophisticated algorithm systems have already learned to identify drawing patterns of giants like Rembrandt and Picasso and imitate them perfectly.
The advent of artificial intelligence in our lives raises fundamental human issues: How will we think in the future about basic human concepts like love, ambition, envy, heroism and dreams?
Undoubtedly, however, the most fascinating question is the question of human control over those supercomputers.
If man is omnipotent, is he able to create a computer that he cannot control?
What will happen to humanity in a world where an unscrupulous computer, based on binary morality and infinite power, will decide that it is tired of us?
What will happen on the day the golem rises on its maker?
And here we return
to the mysterious figure of Sigmund Kuperschmitz, whom my late father used to tell in his praise. Loaded with bags of garbage he collected. Compulsive hoarder. My father once told me that before the war Kuperschmitz was a professor in Berlin, and when he immigrated he joined Gershom Shalom's educated circle. To her, Kuperschmitz was no exception, but my father claimed that the old man was a genius and well versed in the secret wisdom, and specialized especially in the "Book of Creation," an expert on puppets.
Here is the place to tell that already in the Sanhedrin Tractate in the Gemara is told about the great Amora who created a servant from the earth and R. Zira destroyed.
According to legend, Rabbi Shlomo Ibn Gvirol created a slave from the land through a book of creation.
In the introduction to the book by the Vilna Gaon, "Safra Datzniauta", Rabbi Chaim of Volozhin, his definite disciple, writes that the Ga'a told him that he wanted to create a golem, but refrained from it as a result of a picture he saw.
Of course the most famous story is about the golem from Prague.
The Maharal of Prague breathed life and soul into a block of earth, which he called the "golem."
The letters "truth" were engraved on the forehead of the golem, and its neutralization was performed by erasing the letter A so that the inscription became "dead."
The golem from Prague has inspired many works, the best known of which is of course "Frankenstein", written by Mary Shelley.
Unfortunately, Kuperschmitz did not publish anything in his life and so we were probably prevented from doing a huge amount of research on how the secret doctrine dealt with puppets.
All his writings, tens of thousands of pages in dense German handwriting, remained dusty and yellowing in huge piles in his house until the accident.
Since he was as helpless in death as he was in his life, the landlord hurried to vacate the key fee apartment on Burglars Street.
And on a steamy Friday morning, the neighbors stared at the porters emptying sacks of dirt and earth and a formidable pile of papers into a garbage truck.
Opposite, in the grocery store of Sammy, the neighbor of Kupermashitz, an old Hungarian named Bella, a bitter-smelling worm and pleasant as gingivitis, accidentally stumbled upon my father who came in to buy a Dunhill box.
"Lopez Sagdabi, look where the tea is going," Bella shot in a Budapest accent.
"They are clearing his house. Everything is in the trash. Sad," Sammy intervened.
"Not sad, very well they throw the garbage. He was mentally ill."
"Ah, not pretty. Poor thing," Sammy wondered.
"Poor in my wonder.
"Nonsense," protested my father, "are you crazy? He's eighty."
"I saw with my own eyes," she snapped angrily at the mistrust.
"The night before you died," a secret poisoned.
"She left the victim. He cried old as a child. Let him go to hell where he fits. Navy black bread please."
"So you were jealous, did you want it for yourself?"
Sammy concluded.
"Fahhhhh, he was so ugly, it makes my eyes hurt."
Years will pass. Sammy is dead.
Bella is dead, and my beloved father is no longer with us.
I meet an acquaintance at a restaurant in Tel Aviv, who for some reason, is very embarrassed to meet me.
Very quickly I understand why.
Joining the table is an amazingly beautiful woman who is not his legal wife.
"Get to know me,"
Very pleasant, she reaches out.
I shake her cold hand, "There was some old man in our neighborhood, a little crazy, named Sigmund Kuperschmitz, probably not related to you"?
"Exactly yes, my father" she smiled and her eyes were burning black.
"I'm sorry," I blushed, "I did not mean to offend. I thought he had a son killed in the war."
"It's okay," she reassured, "we haven't seen each other in years. I lived in Basel. Shortly before his death, I lived with him for a while."
She said in a sad voice.
I made my leap and continued on my way.
A week later I received a call from the "acquaintance".
I imagined he would call.
After a few polite words, he asked, "Are you alone?"
"Yes," I replied.
"In the matter we were in a restaurant then? Like, are we okay?"
"Do not worry," I reassured him, "I saw nothing."
"No, listen, she was something," he did not hold back.
"I'm sure," I chuckled, "dude, I need a phone call, I need to get an important call from work."
"Hear a second something strange," did not let go of the "acquaintance."
"I do not understand what the point is, since I was with her, for a week now, I have not stopped getting sand out of my underwear."
Were we wrong?
Fixed!
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