Does IP legalese anywhere stipulate that only human-authored works are copyrightable or patentable? Not according to John Koza, an early pioneer of genetic programming, who is banking on software overtaking wetware in the knowledge-production race. Koza cites the following language to claim that under US law "inventions created by automated means are patentable": “Patentability shall not be negatived by the manner in which the invention was made.” (35 United States Code 103a). Armed with this gift horse of legal ambiguity, Koza filed for patent protection in 2002 on two inventions generated from genetic algorithms, i.e. computer algorithms modeled on Darwinian principles of natural selection.
Koza, it turns out, is a Stanford University professor. I wonder if he's ever crossed the campus quadrangle to shoot the breeze with Lawrence Lessig? Now *there's* a conversation I'd like to overhear . . .
Colophon of a 12th-century Beatus manuscript from Silos:
If you do not know what writing is, you may think it is not especially difficult . . . Let me tell you that it is an arduous task: it destroys your eyesight, bends your spine, squeezes your stomach and your sides, pinches your lower back, and makes your whole body ache . . . Like the sailor arriving at the port, so the writer rejoices on arriving at the last line.
Michelangelo, on painting the Sistine chapel ceiling:
I’ve already grown a goiter at this drudgery—
as the water gives the cats in Lombardy,
or else it may be in some other country—
which sticks my stomach by force beneath my chin.
With my beard toward heaven, I feel my memory-box
atop my hump; I’m getting a harpy’s breast;
and the brush that is always above my face,
by dribbling down, makes it an ornate pavement.
My loins have entered my belly, and I make
my arse into a crupper as counterweight;
without my eyes, my feet move aimlessly.
in front of me my hide is stretching out
and, to wrinkle up behind, it forms a knot,
and I am bent like a Syrian bow.
Therefore the reasoning that my mind produces
comes out unsound and strange,
for one shoots badly through a crooked barrel.
Giovanni, from now on
defend my dead painting, and my honour,
since I’m not in a good position, nor a painter.