I was bored so I decided to fine-tune a small language model on the works of several philosophers to see what viewpoints it would spew. A lot of the code will be extremely similar to other repositories of mind (ie. the Feminine Classics model), but it never hurts to document something separately.
Interesting Note: The model, on my first attempt to train it, latched on to the word "intricate" in the prompt, so I'll see how it fares with the word's removal.
Note: As this is a continuation model, I've denoted where my prompts end with square brackets.
I find that this specific model is very well suited to higher temperatures because of the nature of verbose philosophical texts.
Now on Hugging Face (privated) : https://huggingface.co/wildfellhall/philosopher-brainchild
[We come to, through this circuitous path of cogitation, the conclusion that] the conscientious faculties of the human mind are the only ones which deserve to be considered as moral causes, and that the only moral effects which can be ascribed to them are those which are produced by their influence on the will. It is evident that the moral worth of an action does not consist in the effect expected from it, nor even in the maxim from which the action is done, but purely and simply in the deed itself considered as such, and independently of all the consequences which may follow from it. For otherwise there would always remain the possibility that we might have done the same thing from a very different maxim, and that we might have been even forced to it by an external necessity, so that in that case the moral worth of the deed would be lost. The pre-eminent good which we call moral can therefore consist in nothing else than the conception of a worth which even we ourselves respect. (oldest result, before slight changes were made)
[The human mind, in its incessant pursuit of all that is enigmatic pertaining to its own existence, often fails to arrive at the conclusion that], in order to explain what it is and whence it comes, it has merely to appeal to the only thing that it knows—namely, itself. But this is just what it shuns, because in so doing it would be obliged to admit that it is the creator of all the categories of thought with which it seeks to comprehend itself. As a matter of fact, it is quite impossible to explain this cognition, with all its peculiarities, by any means other than those furnished by the cognition itself. We may, it is true, attempt to explain it by the analogy of phenomena, or of other forms of nature, or even by a reference to an intelligent cause, which is the substratum of our own ego; but we must never forget that all these are mere analogies, and that we cannot, by their aid, discover a single one of the properties which constitute the essence of the soul. Thus we can never hope to reach the soul in its transcendental purity, or to attain to any clear insight into the mode in which it is affected by things, or how it is connected with the world of phenomena.
[On the subject of romance, I have this laconic point to make, for it is not within my purview to critique the feelings with which ministrations are bestowed or received:] that the sentiment in which we listen to the lover’s tales is one of curiosity, not of sympathy. It is rather as if a man should come to you and say, ‘I have a pain in my arm which I can describe to you, which you have felt some day or other, and which you cannot help feeling as you listen to me.’ Such is the common experience of lovers, which the poets have made their own. They tell us that love is the acme of human felicity . It may be so; but we know it to be a transient state, and therefore not the highest which man can enjoy. For, if we take a survey of human life as a whole, it cannot be doubted that the highest happiness is derived from the exercise of the higher faculties, and from the contemplation of the divine nature. The state of love, if we may judge from common experience, is not a state of contemplation, but of feeling. The lover is not occupied in the contemplation of the perfections of his mistress; he is absorbed in the feeling of his love for her. The object of his thoughts is her person or her actions, not the divine nature; and the impression of these is rather upon his senses than upon his understanding. If we except the passion of religious fervour, it is the only state of mind which is wholly absorbed in the sense of being alive. It is the only state in which we feel our own existence.
[I conjecture that there is, for every man, something to be said pertaining to the evanescent childhood and the way in which emotions were felt with the vigor of] a giant and the rapidity of a dragonfly; for the youth in which one sees himself as if from a distance, through a veil of happy forgetfulness; for the awakening of the intellect, in which the world of dreams, of art, and of religion is so rich and so powerfully alive that every perception that reaches the senses seems pale by comparison and weak; for the man, again, who sees everything as if through a veil, and feels himself the victim of an inexorable fate, in the midst of which he wanders about with a feeling of insufferable weariness, like one who is half blind; for the old man, who looks at all things as if they were in a dream, and feels himself to be a phantom and a dream; and, finally, for the last moment of life, in which one sees one's self lying on the ground, and in which one experiences the sensation of having to return to a state of non-existence, of dying in a manner, without any belief in a resurrection, or in any sort of hope. For who can express in words the feeling with which one gazes for the last time at that which has been the cause of all one's greatest joys and sorrows,--at the sea, at the sky, at the forest, at the mountain, at the plains, at the river, at the town and the country, at all the things that one has loved and at all the things that one has hated, and which one has now to leave for ever--and to whom can one tell what it is to feel that one is living one's life away, that one is always only a step or a half-step nearer to death, that one is continually being robbed of the greatest of all possessions--life itself? For, as the years go by, the number of our joys and sorrows decreases, and the number of the opportunities of having new experiences decreases, and at last the time comes when we are merely repeating the same things over and over again. That which we have already experienced, we can never experience a second time; it is a thing that is irrevocably gone and lost to us; and the more we are conscious of this fact, the more we feel the bitterness of it, and the more we become pessimists. As a rule, however, men die without any feeling of this kind; and it is only the exceptional men, the men who live in the midst of an intellectual world of their own, who are conscious of the fact that death is a liberation from the bitterest and most painful of all states, the state of eternal boredom. I have not, however, been able to learn from any of my correspondents that any one of them, when he approached his last moment, was able to think of the death of his physical person as a liberation from the misery of a long life, and as a transition to another and more agreeable existence.
[When one gazes upon the people with whom one has cavorted, mourned, and fought for the last time, knowing not that the aforesaid individuals are never to] be seen again, one experiences a feeling which is only comparable to the feeling of a man who has been shipwrecked: the feeling of having been cast into a world of which one knows not whether it will ever be able to communicate with the former world. When one feels this feeling, one must look for new shores, new lands, new men, and new hopes. The man who has been shipwrecked has his own ideas about what is good and what is bad.
Song: Peter - Taylor Swift
Temperature: 1.5 (For fun)
[And sometimes it gets me, when crossing your jet stream, we both did the best we could do underneath the same moon, in different galaxies.] I love your voice. You know that, don’t you? I hear it in my sleep sometimes. It is the last thing I think of before I fall asleep and the first thing I remember when I awake. Your voice is like the wind, always changing, but never changing. It is the wind of eternity, blowing through me, caressing my skin, whispering sweet nothings into my ears. I am a man of flesh and blood, but your voice is the breath of god that gives me life. You have no idea how much you mean to me. How can I tell you? Words cannot convey my feelings. My heart is full, and yet empty, because it has not been given the only thing in the world for which I would give everything: your love. I am lonely, but you are always with me, so what do I have to be lonely about?