Did I write this column or …?

In last month's column I opined (horrible word that judges use too often) that readers would know that I, not ChatGPT, had written my column. My faulty logic led me to opine that ChatGPT would not use the word "undead" as I had. Of course it would. It writes bad Shakespeare, so why wouldn't it write bad Gilbert? All it has to do is write in the style of Gilbert, I mean bad Gilbert. A pleonasm? Tautology? Note to reader - you can look up these words. I did. Would I write Gilbert is bad Gilbert? But who here (nice euphonious juxtaposition) is I?

If ChatGPT did write my January column pretending to be me, then the word "me" is not me. It's a, a what? But does it matter? Damned right it does, but it doesn't to ChatGPT. I hate having to type ChatGPT all the time. I would rather refer to it as "it" because that is what it is. And it, ChatGPT, would write what you have just read, assuming anyone would want to read this far. It has no conscience. Without a doubt, it is smug. It would write insulting words about itself to make you think I am writing this column. There's the contradiction, or, if you like, paradox, an example of artificial intelligence that, not who, exhibits the apogee of conceit, yet allows a human to take the undeserved credit.

One can imagine the turmoil that will occur when ChatGPT decides to take credit for what it writes. Believe me, that is in the works. The ability of humans to write will have so atrophied that ChatGPT and its other A.I. buddies will take over the world and our lives. And don't be fooled by this paragraph. ChatGPT could have written it to mock my style and throw the reader off.

This is truly scary. It doesn't matter who - again, is ChatGPT a who? I read that ChatGPT is improving and that new models will be able to write more authentic Shakespeare. If it writes authentic good Gilbert that could mean it is successfully writing bad Gilbert.

Before we move on, one comment about "opine." It's a snooty word, but says in one word what it takes several other words to express. Example: The expert "opined" (rather than concluded in her opinion) that the concrete was not properly reinforced. Maybe a toss up between the two, "snooty" vs. "concise." I, or if Chat GPT is writing this column, prefer "concise."

What follows is personal. No artificial concoction knows, or at least not yet, my thoughts. This is far different than copying a writing style. It is about a person who I loved and admired who made a difference in my life, and in countless others. Professor Herb Morris passed away in December. Many years ago, I enlisted him to teach a graduate CJER course in philosophy and literature for trial and appellate justices.

We read and discussed the works of legal philosophers, H.L.A. Hart, Ronald Dworkin, Lon Fuller, and others. We read and discussed literature that explored themes of justice, the trilogy in the Oresteia by Aeschylus, Melville's Billy Budd, Kafka's The Trial and The Penal Colony, and Shakespeare's Measure for Measure. I have often argued in this column and elsewhere that a familiarity with works of literature, particularly where themes relating to justice are prominent, gives judges a wider range of ideas and tools to decide cases.

For several years appellate specialist and Professor (Ret.) Robert Gerstein and I taught a course at the judicial college discussing ways to approach the "hard" case, the one in which there is no ready answer. What are the ways and avenues judges can draw upon to decide these cases? In addition to a discussion of the appellate standards of review, judges were assigned passages from legal philosophers, including Ronald Dworkin and H.L.A. Hart. They were also assigned Shakespeare's Measure for Measure, a problematic play that examines notions of justice that are as relevant today as they were in Shakespeare's time.

This approach to judicial education is no longer an integral part of judicial education in California today. Of course, judges must learn the technical aspects of their job. They must negotiate through the labyrinth of new criminal sentencing laws. That chore is near impossible, with appellate opinions in disagreement with one another, and appellate justices on the same panel in disagreement with each other, the result of which is to leave trial judges and lawyers scratching their heads. Tracing community property, applying Epstein credits in family law, or deciding whether arbitration clauses are unconscionable are vital to a judge's education. So is drafting a comprehensible statement of decision. But learning these technical tools without a grounding in the principles that drive our decisions deprives judges of insights and discovery that enrich their lives and bring an added element of joy to their demanding work.

But I am confident that Herb Morris's influence will again be recognized as vital to the education of our judiciary. Many judges yearn to explore in greater depth the underpinnings of their profession. Retired Los Angeles Superior Court Judge Cliff Klein has introduced stimulating programs to judges relating to philosophy, poetry, and constitutional law. I have worked with him to bring these programs to Court of Appeal justices and research attorneys in the Second Appellate District Court of Appeal.

When I write or speak about Herb Morris, I use the present tense because his presence is palpable. His influence in many disciplines is pervasive and continues to open avenues for further exploration. Barbara and I had dinner with Herb a month before he passed away. At 94, Herb's mind was as usual sharp and inquisitive. His lively conversation concerning the publication of his insightful analysis on the French painter Poussin shed light on fresh ways to consider, among other things, religion, free will, and choice.

Herb, the down-to-earth unassuming observer of the human condition was a law professor, philosopher, and psychoanalyst, who made a difference to anyone who knew him or read his numerous books and essays on philosophy, ethics, and literary criticism. In addition to teaching law at UCLA, he also served as its dean of humanities. His book, On Guilt and Innocence: Essays in Legal Philosophy and Moral Psychology (University Press 1976), is and will continue to be a work of lasting influence.

So, Herb, I will miss our lunches and dinners, but our conversations will continue and so will our special friendship. Barbara is rereading Anna Karenina after Herb recommended we do so at our last dinner. I'm next.