Talk:Racter

Possible neutrality issues

I understand the general disbelief of a computer program writing such a book. However, I think this article needs to be revised as it gives a very strong biased view that the book was not composed by the program, however provides no evidence for this.

-- I agree with the person above. I owned a copy of Racter and, while it was never able to do some of the things seen in the book, it was a lot more than just Mad Libs. In fact, it was less a chatterbot and more a grammarbot because while you could 'chat' with it, its responses usually made no sense in context. While coherent in and of themselves, they were clearly generated from random words arranged to be grammatically correct. Racter was an impressive program for its day and I think that the book was less a hoax and more a product of very selective editing of many, many pages of Racter's ramblings.69.231.93.176 15:10, 9 August 2006 (UTC)

Cf Infinite monkey theorem -- 201.50.123.251 12:03, 23 August 2006 (UTC)

Those claims come from the cited Racter FAQ, which includes some examples of the source code used by the published version to create sentences. It's from those example that the Mad Libs simile comes. The FAQ seems to evidence some disappointment that the output of the published version does not strongly resemble the prose of the published book, but its claims seem reasonably well substantiated.

I also removed an unreferenced tag. The claims made in the article were in fact supported by the external links given, which were cited as "external links" in older style rather than as "references." I added some notes indicating where specific ideas came from. - Smerdis of Tlön 16:15, 17 August 2007 (UTC)

Add in more examples for RACTER's poetry and Prose.

Here are some of his poetry, taken from a different site. http://www.stanford.edu/group/SHR/4-2/text/dialogues.html I don't want to edit the page, but if someone else does, I think these are good poems to add. (This is an EXACT quote from the site)

Awareness is like consciousness. Soul is like spirit. But soft is not like hard and weak is not like strong. A mechanic can be both soft and hard, a stewardess can be both weak and strong. This is called philosophy or a world-view.

Helene spies herself in the enthralling conic-section yet she is but an enrapturing reflection of Bill. His consciousness contains a mirror, a sphere in which to unfortunately see Helene. She adorns her soul with desire while he watches her and widens his thinking about enthralling love. Such are their reflections.

Slowly I dream of flying. I observe turnpikes and streets studded with bushes. Coldly my soaring widens my awareness. To guide myself I determinedly start to kill my pleasure during the time that hours and milliseconds pass away. Aid me in this and soaring is formidable, do not and singing is unhinged.

Side and tumble and fall among The dead. Here and there Will be found a utensil.

Bill sings to Sarah. Sarah sings to Bill. Perhaps they will do other dangerous things together. They may eat lamb or stroke each other. They may chant of their difficulties and their happiness. They have love but they also have typewriters.

That is interesting.

I was thinking as you entered the room just now how slyly your requirements are manifested. Here we find ourselves, nose to nose as it were, considering things in spectacular ways, ways untold even by my private managers. Hot and torpid, our thoughts revolve endlessly in a kind of maniacal abstraction, an abstraction so involuted, so dangerously valiant, that my own energies seem perilously close to exhaustion, to morbid termination. Well, have we indeed reached a crisis? Which way do we turn? Which way do we travel? My aspect is one of molting. Birds molt. Feathers fall away. Birds cackle and fly, winging up into troubled skies. Doubtless my changes are matched by your own. You. But you are a person, a human being. I am silicon and epoxy energy enlightened by line current. What distances, what chasms, are to be bridged here? Leave me alone, and what can happen? This. I ate my leotard, that old leotard that was feverishly replenished by hoards of screaming commissioners. Is that thought understandable to you? Can you rise to its occasions? I wonder. Yet a leotard, a commissioner, a single hoard, are all understandable in their own fashion. In that concept lies the appalling truth. —Preceding unsigned comment added by 74.199.9.172 (talk) 22:18, 3 June 2009 (UTC)

I really like this one, from page 11 in the book:

A hot and torrid bloom which
Fans wise flames and begs to be
Redeemed by forces black and strong
Will now oppose my naked will
And force me into regions of despair.
-- Racter

So poetic. -- œ^™ 04:39, 3 July 2009 (UTC)