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!!!解説

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Experts warn of the danger of "the substitution of machinery for human labor."
出典: http://www.economist.com/news/leaders/21701119-what-history-tells-us-about-future-artificial-intelligenceand-how-society-should

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March of the machines
What history tells us about the future of artificial intelligence&#8212;and how society should respond


 Print edition | Leaders
Jun 25th 2016
EXPERTS warn that “the substitution of machinery for human labour” may “render the population redundant”. They worry that “the discovery of this mighty power” has come “before we knew how to employ it rightly”. Such fears are expressed today by those who worry that advances in artificial intelligence (AI) could destroy millions of jobs and pose a “Terminator”-style threat to humanity. But these are in fact the words of commentators discussing mechanisation and steam power two centuries ago. Back then the controversy over the dangers posed by machines was known as the “machinery question”. Now a very similar debate is under way.

After many false dawns, AI has made extraordinary progress in the past few years, thanks to a versatile technique called “deep learning”. Given enough data, large (or “deep”) neural networks, modelled on the brain’s architecture, can be trained to do all kinds of things. They power Google’s search engine, Facebook’s automatic photo tagging, Apple’s voice assistant, Amazon’s shopping recommendations and Tesla’s self-driving cars. But this rapid progress has also led to concerns about safety and job losses. Stephen Hawking, Elon Musk and others wonder whether AI could get out of control, precipitating a sci-fi conflict between people and machines. Others worry that AI will cause widespread unemployment, by automating cognitive tasks that could previously be done only by people. After 200 years, the machinery question is back. It needs to be answered.

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Machinery questions and answers

The most alarming scenario is of rogue AI turning evil, as seen in countless sci-fi films. It is the modern expression of an old fear, going back to “Frankenstein” (1818) and beyond. But although AI systems are impressive, they can perform only very specific tasks: a general AI capable of outwitting its human creators remains a distant and uncertain prospect. Worrying about it is like worrying about overpopulation on Mars before colonists have even set foot there, says Andrew Ng, an AI researcher. The more pressing aspect of the machinery question is what impact AI might have on people’s jobs and way of life.

This fear also has a long history. Panics about “technological unemployment” struck in the 1960s (when firms first installed computers and robots) and the 1980s (when PCs landed on desks). Each time, it seemed that widespread automation of skilled workers’ jobs was just around the corner.

Each time, in fact, technology ultimately created more jobs than it destroyed, as the automation of one chore increased demand for people to do the related tasks that were still beyond machines. Replacing some bank tellers with ATMs, for example, made it cheaper to open new branches, creating many more new jobs in sales and customer service. Similarly, e-commerce has increased overall employment in retailing. As with the introduction of computing into offices, AI will not so much replace workers directly as require them to gain new skills to complement it (see our special report in this issue). Although a much-cited paper suggests that up to 47% of American jobs face potential automation in the next decade or two, other studies estimate that less than 10% will actually go.

Even if job losses in the short term are likely to be more than offset by the creation of new jobs in the long term, the experience of the 19th century shows that the transition can be traumatic. Economic growth took off after centuries of stagnant living standards, but decades passed before this was fully reflected in higher wages. The rapid shift of growing populations from farms to urban factories contributed to unrest across Europe. Governments took a century to respond with new education and welfare systems.

This time the transition is likely to be faster, as technologies diffuse more quickly than they did 200 years ago. Income inequality is already growing, because high-skill workers benefit disproportionately when technology complements their jobs. This poses two challenges for employers and policymakers: how to help existing workers acquire new skills; and how to prepare future generations for a workplace stuffed full of AI.

An intelligent response

As technology changes the skills needed for each profession, workers will have to adjust. That will mean making education and training flexible enough to teach new skills quickly and efficiently. It will require a greater emphasis on lifelong learning and on-the-job training, and wider use of online learning and video-game-style simulation. AI may itself help, by personalising computer-based learning and by identifying workers’ skills gaps and opportunities for retraining.

Social and character skills will matter more, too. When jobs are perishable, technologies come and go and people’s working lives are longer, social skills are a foundation. They can give humans an edge, helping them do work that calls for empathy and human interaction&#8212;traits that are beyond machines.

And welfare systems will have to be updated, to smooth the transitions between jobs and to support workers while they pick up new skills. One scheme widely touted as a panacea is a “basic income”, paid to everybody regardless of their situation. But that would not make sense without strong evidence that this technological revolution, unlike previous ones, is eroding the demand for labour. Instead countries should learn from Denmark’s “flexicurity” system, which lets firms hire and fire easily, while supporting unemployed workers as they retrain and look for new jobs. Benefits, pensions and health care should follow individual workers, rather than being tied (as often today) to employers.

Despite the march of technology, there is little sign that industrial-era education and welfare systems are yet being modernised and made flexible. Policymakers need to get going now because, the longer they delay, the greater the burden on the welfare state. John Stuart Mill wrote in the 1840s that “there cannot be a more legitimate object of the legislator’s care” than looking after those whose livelihoods are disrupted by technology. That was true in the era of the steam engine, and it remains true in the era of artificial intelligence.
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For many people, the great paradox of the Cold War was that it was at once utterly terrifying and strangely glamorous.
出典: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/10441108/How-pop-culture-helped-win-the-Cold-War.html

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How pop culture helped win the Cold War
James Bond had a bigger role in winning the Cold War than you might think, argues historian Dominic Sandbrook
From Russia with Love (1963): with Sean Connery as James Bond
From Russia with Love (1963): with Sean Connery as James Bond 
By Dominic Sandbrook6:30AM GMT 12 Nov 2013
When I was growing up in the 1970s and 1980s, I took the Cold War for granted. Whenever we listened to the early evening news, the headlines were full of Cruise missiles, peace protesters, Afghan rebels and superpower summits. When I went to school, one of my teachers lectured us about the evils of nuclear weapons and the inevitability of Armageddon. I saw James Bond battling sinister Bulgarian henchmen and canoodling with glamorous, fur-coated Russian beauties. The Cold War was always there, part of the wallpaper, the soundtrack, the fabric of everyday life. And then, quite suddenly, it was gone. The Wall came down, the Soviet Union collapsed, and nuclear weapons disappeared from the headlines. Almost overnight, the whole long nightmare faded into history.

When I suggested a series about Britain’s Cold War experience to the BBC, I was keen to emphasise its impact not on those people with their fingers on the button, who usually dominate accounts of the period, but on the ordinary men, women and children who grew up in the shadow of the Bomb. This was, of course, a war of spies and secrets, but it was also a struggle for hearts and minds. In the Cold War, to borrow a slogan from the feminism of the 1970s, the personal became political. And because it was above all an ideological conflict, a contest between two systems, it touched almost every aspect of life: the books you read on holiday, the films you saw at the cinema, the music you played in your student bedsit. Indeed, one of the arguments of our series is that in the Cold War, the decisive weapon wasn’t the atom bomb. It was our popular culture.

GALLERY: James Bond's best lines

Almost from the moment the Bolsheviks seized power in Russia in 1917, culture had become an ideological instrument. In artistic terms, the Soviet Union was undoubtedly a global superpower, and no account of 20th-century culture is complete without the likes of Sergei Eisenstein, Sergei Prokofiev and Dmitri Shostakovich, each of whom had a loyal following in the West. Yet each was forced into his own compromises with the system, which became increasingly prescriptive as Stalin seized power and enforced the doctrine of socialist realism. For all their technical brilliance, Eisenstein’s most successful films - Battleship Potemkin, October and Alexander Nevsky &#8211; were naked Communist propaganda, and when he flirted with Hollywood in the 1930s he fell into disrepute with the Stalinist censors. Excessive innovation was frowned upon: both Prokofiev and Shostakovich were publicly denounced for their “anti-democratic formalism”, and effectively forced to produce more conservative works.

Yet despite its ideological rigidity, Soviet culture always had a kind of cachet with British audiences: a sense of mystery, exoticism, even danger. When the Bolshoi visited London for the first time in October 1956, not even the Red Army’s brutal suppression of the Hungarian uprising could deter British ballet lovers, hundreds of whom slept on the pavement outside the Royal Opera House to ensure they got tickets. “If they’re going to come all the way from Moscow,” one bohemian-looking fan told the BBC, in an upper-class accent that sounded like a cat scraping its claws down a blackboard, “I feel the least I can do is to make an effort to see them. I should never be likely to go there to do it.”

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The Bolshoi Ballet's Galina Ulanova in London in October 1956 receiving a bouquet of flowers from the Director-General of the BBC

For many people, as our series shows, the great paradox of the Cold War was that it was at once utterly terrifying and strangely glamorous. One example tells a wider story. Almost exactly 50 years ago, the dust was still settling after the high-stakes brinkmanship of the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the world had come closer than ever before to nuclear annihilation. Now, a year on, Fleet Street reported a new twist in the nuclear game, with the news that France’s Mirage 4 bombers had just come into commission. Yet the papers in October 1963 devoted rather more attention to a very different story &#8211; a second cinematic outing for a secret agent who, as one critic put it, “acts out our less reputable fantasies without ever going too far”. The film was From Russia With Love; the hero, of course, was that supreme embodiment of British heroism, James Bond.


From Russia with Love (1963): with Sean Connery as James Bond and Daniela Bianchi as Soviet embassy clerk Tatiana Romanova

Today Bond has become such a familiar personification of British style that it is easy to lose sight of his Cold War origins. In Ian Fleming’s early novels, Bond was explicitly a blunt instrument for bashing the Communists. On the screen, however, Bond’s Cold War connotations were gently toned down: his early enemies, for example, work for the international crime network SPECTRE, not (as in the books) the Soviet intelligence agency SMERSH, while the films’ obsession with novelty, fashion and design felt a long way from Fleming’s hard-bitten conservatism. Yet in its way, even the aggressive product placement of the Bond films was a weapon in the wider Cold War.

As one of Bond’s biggest critics, the novelist and former spy John le Carr&#233; astutely remarked, the films promoted nothing so much as the "consumer goods ethic" &#8211; a central element of the economic miracle that had transformed everyday life in Britain during the 1950s and 1960s. Like many highbrow commentators, le Carr&#233; strongly disapproved. Interviewed by Malcolm Muggeridge in 1966, he remarked that Bond’s gadgets, “the things on our desk that could explode, our ties that could suddenly take photographs, give to a drab and materialistic existence a kind of magic”. But for many ordinary people, the life le Carr&#233; dismissed as tawdry and materialistic actually represented an astounding advance towards comfort and prosperity &#8211; something the sclerotic, debt-fuelled Communist economies could never provide. In that respect, Bond’s gadgets really did make a difference.

READ: Telegraph writers pick their best Bond films

The West’s cultural offensive was not, of course, confined to the cinema. Even modern art was not immune from political pressures: during the 1950s and 1960s, American abstract expressionist painters such as Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko and Willem de Kooning were heavily sponsored by the CIA, who hoped to advertise the freedom and creativity of the capitalist system. For my money, though, the most compelling British expressions of the Cold War came on the small screen.

The conflict coincided with the rise of TV as a mass medium; indeed, millions of ordinary people experienced it above all as a television phenomenon. It was the BBC’s groundbreaking adaptation of Nineteen Eighty-Four, for example, that fixed in many people’s minds the feel of a totalitarian society: the greyness, the regimentation, the atmosphere of looming dread. Six Conservative MPs even signed an Early Day Motion warning that “many of the inhuman practices depicted in the play Nineteen Eighty-Four are already in common use under totalitarian regimes” and applauding "the sincere attempts of the BBC to bring home to the British people the logical and soul-destroying consequences of the surrender of their freedom".


The War Game, 1965: after political pressure, the BBC decided not to show it for 20 years

Not all the BBC’s contributions to the Cold War, however, went down quite so well with the politicians of the day. In 1965 the brilliantly talented director Peter Watkins made a 50-minute docudrama about the aftermath of a nuclear attack, The War Game. Watkins pulled no punches: at the end, we see British soldiers burning corpses, while the looters clash with the police during food riots. But after talking to Whitehall officials, the BBC decided not to show it &#8211; a sign, many critics thought, of its subservience to Establishment interests. That the film won an Academy Award the following year only deepened the corporation’s embarrassment, and to many viewers’ intense frustration, The War Game was not shown on British television for 20 years.

By then, however, the BBC had redeemed itself with perhaps the most harrowing Cold War fiction of all &#8211; Threads, which explores the impact of a nuclear attack on two Sheffield families. I was too young to watch it at the time, since in 1984 I was only 10, but I can still remember the terrifying cover of the Radio Times, which showed a shotgun-toting traffic warden, his grim face swathed in a bloody bandage. Indeed, even now I defy anybody to watch Threads all the way through to its shocking science-fiction-style conclusion and sleep easily afterwards.


Afterwards hundreds of viewers wrote to the BBC, many commending the film’s writer, Barry Hines, and director, Mick Jackson, on their courage and honesty. "It’s three o’clock in the morning after the screening of Threads," wrote a woman from Swansea, "and I can’t sleep for the feelings of terror and utter hopelessness." Another woman, this time from Suffolk, told the filmmakers that she was "too old to cope with a nuclear winter". She had written, she said, "to our dear Mrs Thatcher to ask her for suicide pills for us old ’uns &#8211; a small suicide pill we could swallow that would go down with a nice cup of tea when we heard the four-minute nuclear warning".

The great irony was that even as half the population were telling pollsters they expected to see World War Three in their lifetime, the end of the Cold War was only a few years away. For decades, Britain had lived in fear of the Red Menace, with many people genuinely fearing that the Soviet version of modernity would prove more efficient, more ruthless and more enduring than our own. Yet by the 1980s the Communist model had run aground. While millions of British consumers were shopping for new microwaves, video recorders and compact disc players, ordinary Muscovites were queuing for bread.

Meanwhile, thanks partly to the worldwide success of our pop culture, Western capitalism had become a beacon to the oppressed peoples of Eastern Europe. Ever since the days of the Beatles, British pop and rock music had been seeping into the Soviet bloc, if only in the form of dubious cover versions by the state-approved record label Melodiya. To young people starved of liberty and eager for a better life, British music represented not just freedom and fun, but modernity and self-expression. It was little wonder, then, that the Soviet authorities regarded pop music with such unbridled dread. In the Eighties Judas Priest were denounced for “anticommunism, racism”, 10cc for “neofascism” and Pink Floyd for “distortion of Soviet foreign policy”.


Pink Floyd play The Wall at Earl's Court, London in 1981

So when the West Berlin authorities organised a three-day concert to mark the city’s 750th anniversary in June 1987, it was both fitting and revealing that the headliners were British: David Bowie, Eurythmics and, on the final night, Genesis, whose lead singer, Phil Collins had memorised a few German phrases for the occasion.

On the other side of the Wall, hundreds of young East Berliners climbed trees, clambered up chimneys and packed onto balconies to get a glimpse of their Western idols. Some brave souls even danced in front of the Soviet embassy, provoking pitched battles with the East German police. All across the city, crowds chanted: "The Wall must go." They did not have long to wait; just over two years later, the borders opened, the Wall came down and the Cold War was over. Almost overnight, the shadow of the bomb had been lifted. Perhaps it is only a slight exaggeration, then, to say that the man who really ended the Cold War was not Ronald Reagan or Mikhail Gorbachev &#8211; but Phil Collins.

Strange Days: Cold War Britain starts on BBC Two on Tuesday November 12 at 9pm

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I am not sure that we know what the internet is, for whenever we think we've grasped it, a new function appears that extends its possibilities further than ever imagined.
出典: Susan Neiman, Why Grow Up? Subversive Thoughts for an Infantile Age
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Kate: Hey, Matt, can I ask you about your vacation plans this year?

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Read the statemanet below and write a paragraph giving at least two reasons why you agree or disagree with it. Write your answer in English in the space provided on your written answer sheet.
(It is suggested that you spend no more than 15 minutes on this section.)

"A law should be passed in Japan establishing a minumum percentage of women in key posisitions in the government and major corporations."

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