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Artificial intelligence is growing up fast, as are robots whose facial expressions can elicit empathy and make your mirror neurons quiver.

Diane Ackerman

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Diane Ackerman
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: October 7
Author
Naturalist
Non-Fiction Writer
Poet
Screenwriter
Writer
Waukegan
Illinois
Fast
Neurons
Intelligence
Facial
Whose
Expressions
Expression
Robots
Growing
Artificial
Make
Empathy
Mirror
Elicit
Mirrors
Quiver

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As the most social apes, we inhabit a mirror-world in which every important relationship, whether with spouse, friend or child, shapes the brain, which in turn shapes our relationships.
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Variety is the pledge that matter makes to living things.
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Though we marry as adults, we don't marry adults. We marry children who have grown up and still rejoice in being children, especially if we're creative.
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I am a great fan of the universe, which I take literally: as one. All of it interests me, and it interests me in detail.
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There's no place you can go on the prairie that you don't hear the white noise of the wind, steady and rough as surf curling along a non-existant shore.
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When I set a glass prism on a windowsill and allow the sun to flood through it, a spectrum of colors dances on the floor. What we call white is a rainbow of colored rays packed into a small space. The prism sets them free. Love is the white light of emotion.
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Smell brings to mind... a family dinner of pot roast and sweet potatoes during a myrtle-mad August in a Midwestern town. Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years.
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An occasion, catalyst, or tripwire?permits the poet to reach into herself and haul up whatever nugget of the human condition distracts her at the moment, something that can't be reached in any other way.
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I hate the fearful trimming of possibilities that age brings.
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Human beings are sloshing sacks of chemicals on the move.
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Nature is more like a seesaw than a crystal, a never-ending conga line of bold moves and corrections.
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After all, coffee is bitter, a flavor from the forbidden and dangerous realm.
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We live on the leash of our senses.
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No matter how politely one says it, we owe our existence to the farts of blue-green algae.
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On some summer days in New York City, the air hangs thickly visible, like the combined exhalations of eight million souls. Steam rising from vents underground makes you wonder if there isn't one giant sweat gland lodged beneath the city.
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Wonder is the heaviest element on the periodic table. Even a tiny fleck of it stops time.
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And yet, words are the passkeys to our souls. Without them, we can't really share the enormity of our lives.
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Life is a thing that mutates without warning, not always in enviable ways. All part of the improbable adventure of being alive, of being a brainy biped with giant dreams on a crazy blue planet.
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Flight is nothing but an attitude in motion.
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A poem records emotions and moods that lie beyond normal language, that can only be patched together and hinted at metaphorically.
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