The ghost of Virginia Woolf and AI

Seasons come and go. The fruit fills itself and drops from the tree. Across the jewelled streams snaking down the windowpane, a leaf trembles, wavers, swirls through the cool air. Heavy wheels of a push cart crunch upon the graveled road, and a dog barks.

'The Waves' by Virginia Woolf washes over me. The changing inner vistas of its many protagonists veiled behind blocks of monologues advance through the pages like the sea itself. Even though repetitive like the murmur of its waves, rising and crashing, each character carries with it its own hidden world, where no one is fully permitted, not even the reader.

Can one, by feeding Virginia Woolf to AI, churn out similar literature, inimitable in its style and content? This is what the mind pauses to ponder. Would AI be able to produce a sequel to The Waves? Or mimic other masterpieces or emulate the singular urges of other great writers and artists which spurred them to create what they did? Lost and confused, like a pendulum I swing now wondering as to what is quintessentially human and what is not, and how much of one's life surpasses the parabolic predictability of existence, and how much of it falls within the habitual...how much of me is 'me' and how much is created by those who surround me, whom I surround. How much of an entity is this 'I', spinning in isolation through space and how much has been generated by its social and cultural environment, by constant bombardment of social media, by 'how to' self-help quotes, books and exponents of life? 

The wind trips over the trees, a moth crashes against the lamp, a lost calf lows...the weight of the sleeping house rises with the crackling sound of a passing shadow. Night opens. The cool tide of darkness breaks its waters. Like an old shell murmuring on the beach, I hum through it all, trying to find my own song, my own melody, my secret name... something infinite, yet so minute in details that it can be nobody else's but mine.