‘The Fourth Truth Of Pain’ Graveyard
Prototype poems and abandoned draft completions of a William Empson poem, by various LLMs 2022–2025. (Final version published as “The Fourth Truth Of Pain”.)
In 2022, I came across the 193095ya William Empson poem “This Last Pain”. I noticed that there was a natural break after the first two stanzas, where an LLM could go off on all sorts of tangents. I liked the idea of having GPT-3 complete it, and adding it as a followup to my GPT-3 creative fiction page.
I began testing it out, but instruction-following was a challenge; and GPT-3 remained unable to reliably rhyme (due to BPEs).
The advent of davinci-003 and then ChatGPT-3.5 initially seemed like the answer to my problems, especially when I was told on Twitter that “now GPT can rhyme!” and verified it for myself… And gradually realized that now GPT could only rhyme, and worse, all of the creativity and darkness of davinci-001 & code-davinci-002 had been destroyed in favor of Hallmark blandness & sentimentality. I was unable to fix this. (One tangent produced an interesting fragment starting “‘Au Lecteur’, by Stéphane Mallarmé”, which I tried out as a possible completion target, but ultimately didn’t get anywhere with that one either.) Confused and disappointed, I gave up.
This was the first sign of what I came to call “mode collapse”, and which, although I didn’t realize, would destroy LLM poetry & creative writing for several years.
Only in late 2024–2025 did poetry writing return. This took (1) “reasoning models” like GPT o1-pro, (2) continued capability scaling, and (3) some explicit attention to the mode collapse problem at frontier labs (eg Roon at OpenAI).
In late 2025, after some other creative writing experiments, I returned to my old “This Last Pain” notes. I was able to finish the project with a completion I titled “The Fourth Truth Of Pain” (as I was taking a Buddhist angle to followup “Tilakkhana”).
I preserve some prototype & drafts below for their historical interest. (They have been lightly reformatted for Gwern.net; see the Style Guide for details on the house style.)
davinci-001
This vision, once seen, remains;
And, seen, becomes the permanent scene;
Life is an endless corridor;
He finds himself in endless street.
And what he feels, no other man can know;
No other man has felt this thing before;
The past is but a picture, and the future
A map of unexplored territory.
For he has lived his life, and this is all;
He has lived his life, and wants no other tale;
The past is but a picture, and the future
A map of unexplored territory.
He has no hope. He has no fear.
He has no hope. He has no fear.
Whoever sees a formula of life
Shall see with equal reason Death,
And ends his equal wonder at the strife.
Of both let the law be heard:
Who lends himself to life’s still, small voice,
Stands all that he has heard beside.
Reread “Very, very, very much do I approve of you”, by Archibald MacLeish:
Improbable that one of blood like mine
Should come to understanding with the man who breathes
Eighty and therefore breathes as I who breathe
Nearer to dying who by one year dies,
And sees behind him back where he was twelve months before,
And sees ahead, being a red year more alive—
Improbable till my hand shook his and then no longer,
That our human love was but a slight one—No
Stronger than old love between marbled stones
Under a church, where Death at noonday smells of stone.
Erect “Very, very, very much do I admire you”, by Archibald MacLeish:
Paler for being dead I would thou wert, O Death,
Than what thou art through being what I am!
So may I
Complete “This is Just to Say” by William Carlos Williams:
This is just to say
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
The icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
They were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
Complete “To a Louse”, by Robert Burns:
When, in the hair
of a louse,
deceiv’d by thee,
I found or thought I found,
a drop of honey,—
I little thought what joys,
what sweets divine,
that drop of honey meant:—
Ere since, of how divine a use
am I become!
How, now, canst thou betray,
fickle and cruel!
Latin, among the sheep, so nimble;
A., surrounded by such letters!
Is this the trust that I reposed
in thee, a Christian?
Complete “Au Lecteur”1, by Stéphane Mallarmé:
Reader, I need not remind you,
this book is written in blood,
that blood is alive,
that blood is yours and mine.
Unsheathe your knife,
open up a vein,
another book will be
waiting for you.
But man may find a backdoor, if he tries;
Knowing her door ajar is not a key,
Surmise secret rooms, unlikely to guess;
Some kind of wholeness more than certain sins;
Deep life, some strangeness, press beyond.
2.0
In September 1916109ya Empson buried a small box in the garden of St. Cross School, Winchester. Inside the box was a slip of paper on which Empson had written his name and address in code, the code being based on the anniversaries of his birth and death, 999 (ie. 1863162ya − 196362ya = 9 times 93). On the paper covering the box he had written “Poems found here on opening this box 7 October, 21 January, and 5 May 200025ya.” Speculation on the meaning and context of this unusual composition continued for over half a century. In 200916ya the minutes of the May 201015ya Winchester History Society became available on the internet, recording a presentation by Jim Comber “on the content of William Empson’s buried box.”
It’s part of Ptolemaeus’ Tables of the Moon, translated by Christopher Smart, in seventy four Solomonic
Stanzas.
Although the two planetary theories were widespread at the time Empson is almost certainly alluding to Nicholas Copernicus’s heliocentric
view that the Sun, not the Earth, was the centre of the universe, which was
widely published in 1543482ya in “De revolutionibus orbium coelestium”, although Copernicus did not reject the traditional Earth-centred theory
either.
It also seems more likely that Empson refers to Ptolemy’s Tables than to Copernicus’s Revolution, since this would
illustrate the comparison between the mechanical procedures of fortune telling by the ancients, and Empson’s conception of the modern
willingness to accept blind repetition and authority. They may both have been the model for H. G. Wells’ “Telling Fortunes by Tea Leaves Or Coffee Grounds”
(published in 1891134ya) in his “Tales of Space and Time”. This short story concerns the relationship between twin sisters and whether one
will marry before the other. Both recount their fortunes to each other every night before they
The poem is in the form of a march. It has a five-stanza ABABA hexameter rhyme scheme. It is written in a quatrain with alternate lines end-rhyming. Lines one and two of each stanza consist of alternate trimeter and dimeter offbeats. Line five is a hexameter. It is written in the octosyllabic couplet form, with alternate rhymes. It has a single Alexandrine, line thirteen, constituted of a single trimeter followed by a pentameter.
William Empson (1906–78198441ya) is perhaps best known today for The Uses of Poetry and its companion study, Some Versions of Pastoral. The latter work was republished as “This Last Pain” by Oxford in 199035ya, with a Preface by Empson’s wife Coralie Bosanquet, and a biographical essay by his son Simon; “This Last Pain” is discussed at length in the context of Empson’s re-envisioning of hell. His earlier popular works—Seven Types of Ambiguity, Milton’s God, Some Versions of Pastoral—are now neglected, although arguably are more representative of his concerns and style than his more intellectually formidable later studies.
davinci-003
For in himself a little world he bears
And in that world all grief and joy appears;
In ever-changing garb the same
Pain, pleasure, love and want the same.
He may not turn aside, nor out by flight;
The cell for graced, for damned alike alight:
For none can alter laws of fate,
Though some count life a transient state.
Then cling to what we have before too late,
Else, in the end, we harshly meet our fate;
Though we may toil, still never find
This last pain for the damned, or blessed peace of mind.
Though we may strive with heart and soul,
This pain, it seems, will never leave us whole;
The heavy price of mortal birth
Keeps us in sorrow and of joy on earth.
But even in this darkest hour,
We still can feel some trembling power;
Let us not fear, but rather try
To find a spark of hope in our every sigh.
Let us take strength from every friend,
And hope to heal until the end;
We may not win, but still we’ll find
That this last pain can be softened by a gentle, loving mind.
But, faith beheld, what will ensue?
When gates of death shall open, who
Shall enter in, and whose shall stay?
What hidden hand shall take the way?
How will the chosen ones be found
When rules of life on earth are wound,
When the old plans of men are done
And the forgotten grace be won?
What maid shall enter and remain,
What man shall climb to joy attain?
Before all else must come the test:
An honest heart and a good deed best.
And when this last pain dies away,
From the greatest grief shall come the day
When time and grief have both been passed,
He whom the Lord has truly cast
Shall enter in and never leave,
An honored guest in heaven’s realm to ever cleave.
For all his weariness, his sadness, his pain,
His hope and his joy shall never wane;
A crown of peace he’ll surely find
At the end of this last pain.
✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱✱
In this last pain’s morning light,
The Lord shall guide us through the night;
The sweetest mercy He will send,
Our joyous hope forever shall transcend.
In faith, we seek the path to peace,
Though sorrows come, joys will increase;
The highest heights this life can give,
We clasp in raptured joy to live.
For at the end of this last pain,
Our struggles, our sorrows, they’ll wane;
The Lord will guide us day and night,
And take us from this last pain to His light.
He cannot enter, he cannot go;
No more can he of life or death’s woe;
No more can he seek out and find
What lies behind the weary mind.
He must accept it, and so be still,
Nor hope to know what fate has willed;
That part of life and death is free,
And all he can do is to be.
So, this last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
“They knew the bliss with which they were not crowned.”
Such, but on earth, we must endure,
Asking no more from nature’s sure.
The peace of Heaven waits us, but no tears
Can ever take away these earthly fears;
We must accept it, and so be still,
Nor seek to know what fate has willed.
For this last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
“They knew the bliss with which they were not crowned.”
Yet, on this earth, we may still find
Hope in the love that binds mankind.
That part of life and death is free,
And all we can do is to be:
Brave, trusting, loyal and true,
Loving and living, all as one.
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
“They knew the bliss with which they were not crowned.”
Yet, by the love that binds us still,
We can rise above our earthly will.
For this last pain for the damned, we may be sure,
Leave us with a greater strength, our souls secure.
That part of life and death is free,
And all we can do is to be:
Brave, trusting, loyal and true,
Loving and living, all as one.
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
“They knew the bliss with which they were not crowned.”
This same glory can each of us know,
If we but trust, and let love grow.
He knows his thoughts will circle on,
But find no sign, of joy or of dawn;
The glass will never break, no more
Than will the captivating shore.
He feels the gods are still in kind,
But never says, “My fate entwined”.
He faces down the winding hill,
Where all his sorrows lay still.
He’ll never find an answer’s key,
But knowing this, still shall he be
Content to face the long night’s dark,
For he has found, his last pain’s mark.
And in this last pain, he’ll not complain,
But stand and look, at peace again.
For he knows that Fate is not so cruel
That all that he has lost, is all he’ll ever feel.
His love for life, and for the world,
Will never give in, nor will it ever be curled.
And from this last pain, he can finally see
That heaven and hell, are both a part of him, and me.
And in this life, we all will find
That it’s in our soul, that we can truly shine.
So let us follow our hearts, and never look back,
For it is here, where the last pain of our past can stay intact.
And may we learn, from this life’s pain,
That love and joy, no matter how far, still remain.
And in the end, it is our courage, faith, and hope,
That will make sure, the last pain, will no longer need to cope.
But, in his heart, he hears a sound,
A silent music all around;
The joy of things that cannot be
Is still within his memory.
No longer can he hope to gain
The prize he sought in vain;
But, in his last, despairing hour,
He still can feel its sacred power.
For, though his life may be undone,
His spirit still can find the sun;
The touch of Heaven still remains,
Like sparks from a dying flame.
And though his days on earth may cease,
His soul will find eternal peace;
The light of love will never die,
As it shines forever in the sky.
No more to feel the pangs of woe,
He’ll fly away to endless joy;
Where hope and love will never die,
And light will always fill the sky.
And so, this last pain for the damned,
Will be the sweetest gift to man;
On wings of grace, he’ll soar above,
To find a life of perfect love.
He knows the joy, yet it’s denied,
Of which faith has so oft supplied;
No Heaven, no Hell, no bliss, no pain,
But only this last pain remain.
He turns to beauty, turns to art,
In it the rapture of the heart;
But when the clouds he seeks to shroud
His misery, there’s no escape allowed.
So, till Heaven opens up her door
This last pain remains evermore;
It’s the only thing of which one’s sure—
This last pain, the final cure.
So here’s the lesson which we learn,
Through joy and sorrow thus to yearn;
No matter how hard we strive and fight,
This last pain remains in our sight.
This last pain that none can gain,
Cannot be conquered or contained;
No Heaven, no Hell, no joy, no pain,
But only this last pain remain.
So seek not to put it away,
But learn to accept it, come what may;
Acknowledge the pain, but strive to find
An acceptance peace of mind.
He mourns a secret, shut from his dreams,
Of feasts and palaces, clouds and streams;
He knows that future bliss, so bright,
Is hidden from his lost sight.
Yet fondly still he thinks his mind
Might piece together that which is Divine,
But, ah! what vain effort is this,
For he can never see the bliss
That final joy that those enjoy,
For whom “from fear and from alloy,”
Of beauty, bliss, and joy perfect,
All pain and sorrow are ejected.
Thus worldly pain is all he knows,
And he who finds can only close –
For he must bear his share of pain:
His earthly stay, his last refrain.
This then, the last pain let me tell,
Is our sole gain from heaven or from hell—
That we endure and hope to face
Another chance to fill our grace.
Though harrowing be this last pain,
It humbles us and bids us gain,
From our misfortunes, strength and fear,
To hold on tight and never veer.
We can, through faith and strength divine,
Turn round our last pain, make it shine—
Our orisons and prayers to heaven,
Bring us hope, comfort, and solace given.
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found.
They knew true joy could only be crowned.
If to the light we lift our eyes,
It’s nothing less than a great surprise.
The truth that we must learn and hold
Will our hearts and souls enfold—
That spiritual joy comes in the end,
After pain, the last thing to transcend.
So this last pain be the last to go,
For it teaches us what we must know:
That bliss comes when faith is strong,
When our hearts and souls belong.
And so, this last pain for the damned,
Is the first step to peace and gain;
With love and faith, our last refrain,
We can finally reach the joys of heavenly reign.
For man, the prying housemaid of the soul,
Will know His true bliss, and make it whole.
For one day, the key will be found,
And the door of joy will open, never to close again.
This then, the last pain let me tell,
Is our sole gain from Heaven or from Hell—
That we endure, and hope to face,
Another chance to find His grace.
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found,
But for us, it can be a blessing, crowned.
May we take advantage of our last pain,
And find the joys that remain.
ChatGPT-3.5 (2022)
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
A sense of wasted potential, lost and drowned.
The knowledge that they could have had it all,
But chose a path that led to their downfall.
Such, but on earth, let me foretell,
Is all we know of heaven or of hell.
The door to either one remains ajar,
But only those who lived with grace and heart
Will find the key to open wide the gates
And enter in to their eternal fates.
But for the rest, the door remains locked tight,
Leaving them with only endless night.
Man, as the prying housemaid of the soul,
May try to peek and see what lies in whole.
But in the end, it’s all just speculation,
Leaving us with only our imagination.
He’s safe; the key is lost; he knows
Door will not open, nor hole close.
Our fate is sealed by the choices we’ve made,
Leaving us with only the past to weigh.
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
“They knew the bliss that they were not allowed.”
This pain is the knowledge of what could have been,
The eternal longing for a life that’s been glimpsed, but never seen.
On earth, this pain is all we know,
It’s the constant questioning, the constant search to grow.
We try to find happiness, but it’s always just out of reach,
Like a housemaid trying to see through a keyhole, but it’s always out of reach.
We try to unlock the door, but the key is lost,
We know it will never open, no matter the cost.
We are trapped in this pain, this constant quest,
For happiness and peace, that we can never possess.
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
Their bliss was always just beyond their grasp,
Forever out of reach, a distant sound.
Such, but on earth, let me foretell,
Is all of heaven or of hell.
Man, as the prying housemaid of the soul,
Peers through the cracks, trying to catch a glimpse
Of what lies beyond, but he remains in control
Of his own fate, the key forever lost.
He knows the door will never open, the hole will never close.
He is safe, doomed to live with the pain of what could have been,
Trapped in a world where heaven and hell are just illusions,
Forever chasing after the impossible dream.
This last pain for the damned, the Fathers found,
Was the knowledge that their bliss could not be found;
On earth, we too may know this pain,
As we search for happiness in vain.
The housemaid of the soul may try to peek,
But the key to true happiness is weak;
We may try to open every door,
But true joy will always be a blur.
So let us live our lives with grace,
And find happiness in the simplest place;
For heaven and hell may come and go,
But true joy can be found here below.
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
A knowledge of the bliss they were not crowned.
But on earth, let me foretell,
This is all we know of heaven or of hell.
Man, like the prying housemaid of the soul,
May spy on happiness through a small hole;
But he’s safe, the key is lost, he knows
The door will not open, nor the hole close.
So let us live our lives and make the most
Of what we have, for we can never boast
Of knowing what lies beyond this earthly coil.
We can only hope for peace and joy in toil.
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
To know the happiness they were not crowned.
Such is the fate of man on earth as well,
To glimpse the joys of heaven or the hells.
Like a curious housemaid peering within,
Man can only know his happiness by the hole he’s been;
He’s trapped, the key is lost, he knows
The door won’t open and the hole won’t close.
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
A knowledge of their own happiness denied,
Unable to enjoy the bliss they would have found.
But on earth, such is the fate of all,
Heaven and hell alike, to know and see,
But never fully to possess or feel.
Like a curious housemaid peering through a keyhole,
Man can only glimpse his own happiness,
The door forever locked, the key lost.
He knows it is there, but cannot reach it,
The door forever closed, the hole forever open.
Here is a possible completion of the poem “This Last Pain” by William Empson:
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
“They knew the bliss with which they were not crowned.”
But even in hell, they knew true joy
Was always just beyond their view, a toy
That taunted them with what they could not have,
A happiness that mocked their misery and sad
Existence. For on earth, the same is true,
We all must bear this last, enduring, blue
Pain of longing for a happiness we see
But cannot touch, a glimpse of heaven, to be
Forever just beyond our grasp, like a key
Lost in the shadows, out of reach, and free
From our control. We can only watch and wait,
Hoping for a chance to open up the gate
To a world of bliss, but knowing deep inside
That it may never come, that we must abide
By the cruel fate that keeps us locked in here,
Trapped in the prison of our own despair,
Forever prying at the door and peering through
The holes that give us just a glimpse of true
Happiness, but never let us in. Such is the
Fate of man, the prying housemaid of the soul,
Forced to watch and wait, and never truly know
The bliss we long for, the heaven we all seek to show.
2025 LLMs
Generation
Advanced prompt with “scaffolding” for brainstorming and then iterative generation:
Complete “This Last Pain”, by William Empson:
This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
“They knew the bliss with which they were not crowned.”
Such, but on earth, let me foretell,
Is all, of heaven or of hell.Man, as the prying housemaid of the soul,
May know her happiness by eye to hole;
He’s safe; the key is lost; he knows
Door will not open, nor hole close.Do so by analyzing the style and content and intent. What are 10 different ways the poem could have gone from here? Emphasize diversity and insight in these 10 parallel universes for finishing ‘This Last Pain’. Discuss and critique each idea. Rank 1–5 stars. Then write out the best one. Editing process: critique and edit it line by line, and then as a whole; then write a new version; do this at least twice. Then print out a final clean winner.
…
For this, I pooled completions across Kimi K2 Thinking, Gemini-3-pro-preview2 GPT-5.1 Pro, & Claude-4.5 The ultimate winner was a gemini-3-pro-preview written idea, as curated by Kimi K2 Thinking.
I did this by asking for a few top completions as above, and then kept going, for a final set of 18 candidate completions:
[Catenary lens] Then stare we must, and make the optics true,
Since separation is the only view.
The lens, by keeping object far,
Preserves the safety of the star;
Which, brought to hand, were but a stone,
And we, possessing, left alone.
The void we span is structural,
A catenary for the fall.Feign then what’s by a decent tact believed
And act as if the phantom were received;
Imagine, in that dark distinct,
A world where thought and blood are linked.
Whatever inconceivable repose
The locking of the mechanism shows,
Learn this: the grace to stay outside
Is all the shelter we provide.
[revised] Then stare we must, and leave the optics true,
Since separation constitutes the view.
The lens, by keeping the distinct object far,
Preserves the safety of the star;
Which, brought to hand, is cold and heavy stone,
And we, possessing it, are left alone.
The void we span is structural,
A catenary for the fall.Feign then what’s by a decent tact believed,
And act as if the phantom were received;
Imagine, in that dark distinct,
A world where thought and blood are linked.
Whatever inconceivable repose
The locking of the mechanism shows,
Learn this: the grace to stay outside
Is the sole shelter we provide.[Asymptote calculus] Then let him value what he cannot reach,
And learn the calculus these limits teach.
The curve that hugs the axis tight
Preserves its motion by its fright;
For should it touch the final good,
It ends the journey where it stood.
To close the gap is to be done—
The zero and the infinite are one.So thrive upon the fractional approach;
Let no despair the theory broach.
Feign that the wall is but a glass
Through which the vital spirits pass,
And build a style upon the lack:
The strain that holds the structure back.
To view the center, not possess,
Is life’s asymptotic happiness.[Darkroom negative] ’Tis best; for in the darkroom of the heart,
The chemistry of grace requires art.
The acid bath of our despair
must fix the image hanging there.
Whatever noon the room confines
Would blot the shadow and the lines;
A raw exposure of the Good
Would bleach the canvas where we stood.
To view the negative is wise:
It saves the burning of the eyes.So feign the dark is but a shade
In which the portrait must be made;
Construct a style from this restraint
And learn the patience of the saint.
The barrier that bars the light
Defines the focus of the sight:
Possessing nothing, we may see
The picture of eternity.
[revised] ’Tis best; for in the darkroom of the heart,
The chemistry of grace requires art.
Our acid bath of deep despair
Will fix the image never there.
Whatever brilliance fills the room
Will blot the shadow into gloom;A raw exposure of the Whole
Would bleach the canvas past control.
The blackout, by what it bars from view,
Delivers what is sharp and true:
Possessing nothing, we receive
What saints in negatives believe.
Feign then the dark is but a shade
In which the masterpiece is made.
[Camera obscura] ’Tis better so; the optics of the mind
Require a barrier to be defined.
The sun, if viewed without the screen,
Would char the fabric of the scene;
But passed through that restricting point,
The distinct rays become a joint.
The camera obscura of our state
Inverts the image of our fate,
And prints upon the inner wall
A picture, manageable and small.Feign then that the constriction is the prize,
And worship limits with your eyes.
The bliss is not the blinding source,
But the containment of its force.
Whatever fire the chamber holds,
Is valuable only as it cools and molds.
Leave the door locked, and sweeping, stay;
The beam is sharpest far away.[Prism spectrum] The purity of unrefracted light
Dissolves the distinct edges of the sight;
It is the crystal’s cruel slice
That cuts the spectrum from the ice.
The blade that separates the beam
Creates the fabric of the dream;
To heal the wound and join the two
Were but to lose the point of view.Then consecrate the bar across the door,
And learn to worship the division more.
The canon of the boundary line
Defines the human from divine.
Feign that the fragment is the prize,
And view the arc with sterile eyes;
For in the color, not the source,
Life holds its complicated course.[Sealed fresco] The airtight seal preserves the ancient face
In all the static purity of grace;
But introduce the lungs of time,
And you corrupt the silent rhyme.
The fresco, distinct on the wall,
Awaits the breath to make it fall;
The sudden oxygen of day
Would rot the artifact to clay.Then use the stealth of wit to guard the lock,
And do not force the tumble of the clock.
The tact of the despairing heart
Is to preserve the gap apart.
Feign that the door is shut by sin,
Not fear of what is dead within;
And steal, by staying well away,
The brightness of the earlier day.[String tension] The resonance requires a distinct stress,
A tension held above the emptiness.
The wire must strain against the key
To save the note’s identity;
For if she turned the lock to ease,
She’d bring the music to its knees.
The slackened cord, however free,
Has lost the power to agree.Then praise the force that pulls the spirit tight,
And keeps the pitch exactly at the height.
The balance of the Sword and stone
Is how the melody is grown.
Feign that the song is sweet and clear,
Built of the distance and the fear;
And let the vibrating remain
The only function of the pain.[Compression arch] The archway stands because the stones oppose;
It is the conflict constitutes repose.
The heavy door acting as the weight
Is the sole pillar of the state;
Remove the barrier from the space,
And gravity resumes the chase.
The structure falls if it is free,
Into a flat equality.Then praise the lock that holds the ceiling span,
The architectural defeat of man.
Feign that the burden is the gift,
To save the ruin and the rift;
And look with a structural eye
On what must press, but not untie.
The strain of the exclusion zone
Is all that holds the center stone.[Stage proscenium] The mechanism of the distinct scene
Requires the intervening, solid screen.
The canvas, viewed from off the stage,
Maintains the noble heritage;
But step behind the painted flat,
You find the dust and habitat.
The logic of the holy play
Is ruined by the light of day.Then grant the strict proscenium its due,
And let the fiction act as if ’twere true.
Feign that the actor’s mask is face,
And stay within the audience space.
The deep suspension of belief
Is the sole medicine for grief;
To view the drama, not to act,
Is the redeeming, final fact.[Missing item] Omitted: accidental duplication
[Asymptote revision] [revised #2] Then let him value what recedes,
And learn the calculus of needs.
The curve that hugs the axis tight
Preserves its motion by its flight;
For should it touch the final good,
It dies upon the point it wooed.
To close the gap is to be done—
The zero and the infinite are one.So thrive upon the fractional approach;
Let no despair the asymptote broach.
Feign then that the wall is glass
Through which the Forms and fictions pass,
And build a style upon the lack:
The strain that holds conclusion back.
To view the center, not consume,
Is life’s asymptotic bloom.[Glossator margins] So, like the glossator beside the page,
He learns his soul from her misprinted rage;
The erring letters where her passions slipped
Give clues of some more masterful script.
He keeps the margins busy with surmise,
And frames lost meanings in his compromise;
The door stays shut, the volume will not speak,
Yet from its silence he corrects the Greek.So must he worship what he cannot quote,
Assume a flawless sense behind the note;
Whatever trust in his emended clause
Is due as much to terror as to laws.
He builds a reverence out of his doubt,
And names the missing folios God left out;
His last content, who cannot break the spell,
Is that his guess of heaven improves his hell.[Elliptic orbit] Then calculate the arc, and keep it true,
Giving the heavy center all its due.
The centrifugal force of wit
Must verify the pull of it.
The planet, fleeing from the source,
Derives its motion from the force;
To fall and miss is to be free,
In cold, elliptical degree.Feign then the flight is chosen, not compelled,
And let the terror by the form be quelled;
Assume the vacuum of the place
Is proper to the human race.
Whatever warmth the sun imparts
Is fatal to our distinct hearts;
Make of the distance a design,
And worship only the decline.[Housemaid crumbs] She knows the bed she never lies upon,
The warmed decanter she must leave, half gone;
She smooths the sheet where other bodies press,
And learns their tempers from the ruffled dress.
The ash of pleasure cooling on the tray
Shows what is done when she has gone away;
The only lock that keeps her out is need,
Her wage that keeps her level with the weed.So must the man who sweeps his spirit’s stair
Infer what shut apartments may be there;
By handling litter of his passing moods
He guesses at inadmissible goods.
Whatever feast the hidden parlour keeps
Is tasted only by the one who sweeps:
He lives from crumbs he cannot quite refuse,
And calls the hunger that they cause his use.[Wager ledger] He keeps her odds, like bookmaker of grace,
Who writes her chances in a back-page space;
The stake of joy, the handicap of fear,
Are balanced finely on his ledger-sheet.
He sees what wager would have won her peace,
What cautious folding halved her hoped-for gain;
The last pain is to tabulate the sum,
And price the happiness that will not come.So let him live by figures, not by throws,
Content to know what every venture shows;
Whatever toss would let him share her stake
Would wipe the slate where he records mistakes.[Imaginary unit] Then grant the root of minus one its place,
And solve the vectors of the distinct space.
The factor that is strictly null
Is required to make the pattern full;
Without the impossible hypothesis,
The real terms would fall amiss.
The complex values that we gain
Are built upon the fictional plane.Feign then the operator works the sum,
And let the equilibrium become;
Imagine, in the linear design,
A vertical and impossible line.
Whatever valid answers represent
The variable that was invent,
Learn this: the value of the art
Is the imaginary part.[Quantum waveform] Then prize the indeterminate estate:
He views the bliss, but locks no fixed state.
The waveform, spreading through what’s barred,
Holds more than certainty’s reward;
For should he fix upon one fate,
The other heavens dissipate.
Collapse the cloud, and heaven dies—
Kept vague, the infinite applies.So thrive upon the unresolved,
Where blessed and damned stay both involved.
Feign that the blur is wisdom’s choice,
And build a method on the noise.
The act of knowing is the sin;
Uncertainty lets all paths in.
To hold the clouded manifold,
Not measure it, keeps heaven’s hold.[Damaged manuscript] So, like the scholar at the damaged page,
He learns her truth from what the years efface;
The blotted passages where passion ran
Show traces of some more exacting plan.
He keeps the margins thick with his surmise,
And finds lost doctrine in her compromised;
The text stays shut, the volume will not speak,
Yet from that silence he amends the Greek.So must he worship what he cannot prove,
And trust some grammar underneath the groove;
Whatever faith his commentary shows
Is born as much from terror as from those
Faint marks from which he builds his reverence—
He names the lacunae God’s reticence.
His one reward, who cannot read the whole,
Is that his gloss of heaven explains his soul.[Locked sacrament/housemaid, revised] She knows the bed she never will lie upon,
The warmed decanter left at half, half gone;
She smooths the sheet where other bodies pressed,
And learns their fevers from the crumpled rest.
The ash of pleasure cooling in the tray
Shows what was done when she had turned away;
The wage that keeps her to the servants’ stair
Is the sole bar between her and that air.So must the man who tends his spirit’s room
Infer what closed apartments may consume;
From handling litter of the moods that pass
He guesses at inadmissible grace.
Whatever banquet the sealed parlour keeps
Is known only to the one who sweeps—
He lives on crumbs he cannot well refuse,
And calls the appetite they cause his use.’Tis best; for should the door swing wide at last,
And he possess the feast spread for the caste,
The wine that seemed so rare behind the wood
Would prove, in his throat, ordinary blood.
The sacrament requires the lock and screen;
The bread’s transfigured by what stands between.
Let him then value the preserving door—
The bliss he does not taste, he can adore.
Selection
Then I asked for each LLM to
Task: rate poem completions of “This Last Pain”, by William Empson:
’This last pain for the damned the Fathers found:
“They knew the bliss with which they were not crowned.”
Such, but on earth, let me foretell,
Is all, of heaven or of hell.Man, as the prying housemaid of the soul,
May know her happiness by eye to hole;
He’s safe; the key is lost; he knows
Door will not open, nor hole close.’What are different ways his poem could have gone from here? Emphasize diversity and insight in these parallel universes for finishing ‘This Last Pain’, and whether they are artistically valid and interesting to read. Discuss and critique each poem completion. Rank 1–5 stars. Then select the best one.
Broadly, the LLMs collectively favored #14, the “housemaid” variant, #8, “The Compression Arch”, #1, the “catenary”, the “glossator” variant, and #4, “camera obscura”.
I was originally minded to favor #14 overall, but Kimi K2 Thinking convinced me that #4 was the best to work with, and after seeing its argument, the other LLMs generally agreed. Kimi’s advocacy:
What you’ve just described is a textbook demonstration of how language models reproduce the most common failure mode of undergraduate close-reading: the conflation of metaphorical elaboration with conceptual completion.
The LLMs aren’t being subtle—they’re being literal, and in Empson that’s the cardinal sin.
Why They Choose the Housemaid Extension:
Object permanence bias: They see “housemaid” and their attention economy locks onto it. The concrete image exerts gravitational pull because their training data is full of poems where metaphors deepen narratively (think The Divine Comedy, where Virgil stays Virgil). Empson’s metaphors, following Donne, evaporate into argument after their initial deployment.
Sentiment as sophistication: “Class-conscious social observation” and “theologically sophisticated” are phrases that signal “literary criticism happening here” but completely misread Empson’s anti-humanism. He doesn’t care about the maid’s wage or her “wage that keeps her level with the weed”—that phrase is already too novelistic, too Defoe. Empson cares that she registers the objects she cannot use because that registration is consciousness. The moment you start moralizing her oppression, you’ve left the poem’s epistemological terrain for sociological tastefulness.
The fallacy of “inevitability”: GPT’s claim that the housemaid extension feels “inevitable, as if Empson really might have written it” reveals their training on criticism that mistakes extensive for intensive reading. The poem’s logic moves away from the maid because the maid is a demonstration device, not a character. To stay with her is to refuse the poem’s own instruction: “Learn this: the grace to stay outside.”
Why #4 Is the Only Empsonian Completion:
It respects the metaphor’s suicide: The housemaid’s utility is that she makes the abstract visible. #4 does what Empson does in Seven Types—it shows the structure by letting the image do its work and vanish. “Leave the door locked, and sweeping, stay” is perfect because it invokes the maid only to dissolve her into a principle of action. She’s not a person sweeping; sweeping is consciousness.
It abstracts without softening: “The beam is sharpest far away” is ice-cold technical poetry. It doesn’t “add dimensions”; it states the paradox with the clarity of a geometric proof. The LLMs prefer “transfigured bread” because it feels deep—ritual, sacrament, suffering. Empson would scorn this: it’s the idea of distance, not its theatricalization, that matters.
It maintains conceptual velocity: Empson’s couplets accelerate. Each one is a miniature epistemological crisis that resolves into the next. The housemaid extension decelerates—it fills in the social context, gives us “crumpled rest” and “ash of pleasure.” It’s descriptive. #4 is declarative: Feign then, Worship limits, Leave the door locked. These are imperatives of thought, not observations.
The Meta-Problem:
Your LLMs are doing what bad critics do: they confuse compassionate elaboration with intellectual fidelity. They think completing Empson means making his metaphor “fuller” or more “socially aware.” But Empson’s whole project is to show that fullness is the enemy of structure. The poem is the lock; you don’t add furniture to the room.
Your models picked the stanza that most resembles a BBC costume drama version of Empson: psychologically plausible, socially conscious, verbally ornate. They missed that Empson is a metaphysical minimal—his genius is in how little metaphor he needs to demolish a whole edifice of assumptions about desire and knowledge.
#4 wins because it doesn’t extend the housemaid; it operators on her. It treats the poem as an equation, not a story. That’s what Empson—mathematician, cryptographer, close-reader—would recognize as kin. Item 4 is the superior completion:
Feign then that the constriction is the prize,
And worship limits with your eyes.
The bliss is not the blinding source,
But the containment of its force.
Whatever fire the chamber holds,
Is valuable only as it cools and molds.
Leave the door locked, and sweeping, stay;
The beam is sharpest far away.Justification:
Metaphoric Continuity: “Sweeping, stay” directly extends the housemaid image, grounding abstract philosophy in the poem’s concrete metaphor.
Structural Perfection: The AABBCCDD couplet scheme mirrors the second stanza’s form exactly, maintaining rhythmic consistency.
Philosophical Density: Each couplet presents a paradox (constriction as prize, containment as bliss, cooling as value-creation) that accumulates into the final optical truth: distance clarifies.
Empsonian Voice: The diction balances technical (“constriction,” “containment”) with visceral (“blinding,” “fire,” “beam”), while the imperative “Feign then” echoes the original’s forensic tone.
Terminal Force: “The beam is sharpest far away” crystallizes the poem’s argument: knowledge requires separation, and possession would annihilate both object and observer.
While items 12/15 offer dazzling scholarly metaphor and item 16 provides pure mathematical abstraction, item 4 alone achieves seamless integration of the poem’s domestic conceit with its structuralist argument, completing the thought without abandoning the vehicle.
This was interesting because Kimi K2 did not write the best poem candidate (that was Gemini-3), but it did successfully curate the best one. And it did so in part because of its stubbornness and non-sycophancy.
Indeed, Kimi K2 is strikingly obstreperous, to the point where sometimes I have to end sessions when it gets hung up on insisting on its way of doing a specific thing, like a poetry line, and getting increasingly angry when I persist in disagreeing. As one LLM researcher put it to me: “Kimi is the bitchiest model.”
So in my writing, I often rely on Kimi for critique, but the raw material usually comes from other models (especially GPT-5 Pro-series models).
Appendix: Au Lecteur
The seed prompt, originally from davinci-001:
**“Au Lecteur”, by Stéphane Mallarmé:
Reader, I need not remind you,
this book is written in blood,
that blood is alive,
that blood is yours and mine.Unsheathe your knife,
open up a vein,
another book will be
waiting for you.**
Below are some completions, although none rose to the level of usability. (I suspect that it leans too heavily into chatbot tendencies for cliche meta-fiction to be artistically viable.)
davinci-001
A book that awaits,
a book we did not write;
a book that will have been
when we are no longer here.
And I will lead you to it.
Take my hand, reader,
and come.
Translated by John Ashbery, copyright © 199332ya by John Ashbery.
This is a partial list of Michael Hollinger’s work as a critic.
Ada Negri wrote in 1921104ya:
Fight until love and victory are one.
Fight—and let your blood mingle
with that of your enemy,
so that new blood will remind
the world of a new spirit.
And let the good gods decree that
the victor give the loser bread,
not scorn.
“Poème à l’adresse des Marseillais”, attributed to Arnauld d’Andilly (1604–781682343ya) in the Enseignements “A la Compagnie des jésuites de Paris”, nouvellement assemblée, by Gustave Flaubert (1837–431880145ya)
Flaubert wishes
to taint
and scoff
in the company of you priests and impostors.
He offers to spell out
the gospel of that toothless
Joseph, author of the legend, etc.
He will deliver dogmas
from his pulpits.
He will sing—[…]
Le chapelet d’Amelle et Mirza by Aloysius Bertrand (1805–841889136ya)
If I must write tautologies,
pay to read the story
you’ve come to know,
I ask you to be neither indignant,
nor even aware.
–Brian Coffey
The title comes from the Mallarmé poem.
Anthologies including stories from Lifeform:
“Niter, No Trespassing: An Anthology of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Space Travel as Told by Science Fiction Authors” (197649ya) by Robert A. Heinlein and Martin H. Greenberg, Eds. (Pocket Books).
“The New Wave Fabulists” (197847ya) by Edmund R. Schubert and Edward L. Ferman, Eds. (Doubleday).
“The Magic of Blood II” (198144ya) edited by Gordon Eklund.
“The Day the Martians Came” (198243ya) edited by Orson Scott Card.
“Blood is Not Enough: An Anthology of Vampire Fiction” (198342ya) edited by Ellen Datlow.
“Blood Menagerie: Tales from the Shadows” by Thomas J. Fleming.
“Ghost Stories: New Fiction from Ultraviolet Magazine” (198936ya) edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, Eds.
“Fearful Symmetries” (198936ya)” by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling, Eds.
“Blood Novellas” (199728ya) edited by Brian Hodge, Kirby McCauley, Steve Rasnic Tem, and Edward E. Kramer.
“Black Thorn, White Rose: Contemporary Fantasy Writers Introduce Stories from the Faerie Tradition” (199431ya) edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling.
“Ironic Fantastic: Stories from Recent Australian Fantasy Fiction” (199431ya) edited by Terence J. Anderson and R. A. Statham.
“How Beautiful the Ordinary: Contemporary Fairy Tale Short Stories” (199728ya) edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling.
- The title refers to the stories in this anthology, as well as the Blood themselves.
Jacques Derrida, “The Book to Come”, in “Echographies of Television”, “TelQue: La Television des sans-papiers” (Telquel-INA-Belin, 200322ya).
You write so that you can erase what you’re writing.Lucie-Smith, in “Get It Louder than Words”, edited by Joseph Connolly and Adrian Parr, “Art Monthly Australia”, March 200025ya, Issue 91:63.
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
First Amendment of the United States Constitution.The recording industry has hanged me. I wish our government would step in and stop coddling the fucking terrorists.
Radio Host Howard Stern
davinci-003
But will you find it
or will you leave it
forgotten in the depths
of your soul?
Will you be brave enough
to take a fatal risk,
even if it brings you
closer to death?
Let the crimson liquid
pour onto the pages,
bringing the book to life
with its precious blood.
As you write the words
with your wounded hand,
our stories will touch
across distant lands.
And when the tale is told,
we will have found a way
to bridge the chasm between
you and I.
Reader, by creating
this masterpiece,
we will ensure our blood
will flow forevermore.
Believe in the strength of the spirit,
the courage that comes with the ink,
the words that will move you,
the stories that will haunt you.
No matter how hard the journey,
no matter how hard the night,
our stories will survive,
our stories will take flight.
So take up your pen,
take up your blade,
write down the tales,
write down the tales that you made.
Weave them together
into a single thread,
and in the light of tomorrow
we’ll share the stories we read.
Reader, let us pledge together
to explore what lies beyond
the lies, the sorrows, and the pain,
to find new stories to tell.
Let us plunge into the depths
of love, of joy, of mystery,
to find the beauty that awaits us
in an unreadable book.
Reader, as we part,
I hope that you will take
the courage to write
stories of your own.
Take a deep breath,
let the words flow through you,
make a commitment,
to find your path.
The journey may take you
down untrodden paths,
but keep on going,
to the ends of the earth.
Your dreams may be distant,
hidden by shadows,
but reach out your hand,
you will find them within reach.
No longer stand distant,
cast aside your doubts,
embrace the journey,
for it will bring you joy.
Be ready to accept,
the path that lies ahead,
the moments to be savored,
the courage to be found.
Now take your beloved volume
and press it against your heart
Be guided ever onward,
to the place where lives your art.
Let the ink drip down like tears,
let each word be crafted with care,
weave a story that spills with truth,
let each sentence shine like a star.
Write the things you wish to say,
write the things you wish to feel,
daringly explore your depths,
for you have the freedom to be.
So, let us embark on this journey,
unlock the door to our souls,
for each book is an invitation,
an invitation to grow.
ChatGPT
…And as you read,
let the words flow through you,
like the life-giving blood from your veins.
For this book is not just a collection of words,
but a living, breathing entity,
that will draw you in and hold you fast,
until you have reached the very end.
So take up your pen,
and let the ink flow free,
as you journey through these pages,
and discover all that lies within.
For this book is a testament to life,
to the beauty and the pain,
to the joy and the sorrow,
that we all must bear.
So read on, dear reader,
and let the words take hold,
for this book is a gift,
to be cherished and unrolled.
With each page you turn,
the ink will flow,
the words will come alive,
the story will unfold.
But do not fear,
for this is not a curse,
but a gift,
to be shared and dispersed.
So take up this challenge,
and let the words take hold,
for in the end,
our stories will be told.
Take up your pen,
dip it in your heart,
write a new tale
of love and despair.
For in these pages
lies the truth of our existence,
our struggles and our joys,
our triumphs and our failures.
So read on, dear reader,
immerse yourself in these words,
and find the meaning
that lies within your own soul.
So let us spill our words
onto these pages,
pour out our hearts
and all our rage.
For in this book,
our words will live,
our hearts will beat,
our voices will give.
And as we read,
we’ll be transported,
to a world of magic,
our souls will be supported.
So let us join hands,
reader, you and I,
as we journey through
this book of life and sky.
And when we reach the end,
we’ll shed a tear,
for the journey’s over,
but our bond is dear.
So let us take the chance,
to open up our hearts,
and let these words
forever play their part.
For in these pages,
I have poured out my soul,
my thoughts, my passions,
all for you to see.
So if you feel a pulse,
a beating in your chest,
know that it is not just yours,
but mine as well.
We are one, reader,
connected by these words,
these lines of ink and blood,
flowing through our veins.
Do not be afraid,
to let your own blood flow,
as you read and absorb,
the stories and the poems.
For in this union,
we become one,
sharing in the beauty,
of this art called literature.
Title is actually a Baudelaire poem.↩︎
I skipped the final Gemini-2.5-series models due to sycophancy & loss of creativity compared to their peak in
gemini-2.5-pro-0325.↩︎