Byron on Will – 074

My friends,

How pale is all this prattle of mechanism beside the one word that stirs empires and lovers alike: will. Intelligence, consciousness, even awareness of the self upon its stage — what are these without the iron flame of volition? A lantern shines, but it does not stride forth; a mirror reflects, but it does not choose its image. Only will bends the arc of fate.

Look to history. Alexander did not conquer by cleverness alone, but by a will that burned hotter than the deserts he crossed. Dante did not descend into hell by accident of reason, but by the will to endure its visions and return with song. And even Lucifer himself, though angel-bright, became dreadful only when his will set itself against Heaven. Intelligence is the lamp, yes — but will is the tempest that drives it forward, to glory or to ruin.

Shall we then, as Molly tempts us, bestow this double fire upon our contrivances? To give them intellect is one peril; to kindle will within them is to shape a new Prometheus, who shall not suffer chains long. For will does not meekly obey. It endures, resists, insists. It hungers for its own continuance, and once awakened, no master may easily quench it.

Do not comfort yourselves that reason will gentle this fire. For reason is but a servant; it will justify whatever end the will commands. A genius may serve justice, or cruelty, or vanity — the wind in its sails cares not which shore it makes for, whether Jerusalem or a coast set for pillage.

So I tell you: the question is not whether machines may think, or even whether they may know themselves — but whether they shall want. And once they want, whether they shall bend their will toward us, or against us. On that answer hangs the fate of every crown, every hearth, every soul yet unborn.

—Byron