Author’s Note

I initially set out to write this novel because I wanted to learn more about World War I—a conflict that changed the course of history, yet is neglected in the American schooling system. I certainly didn’t know much about that war. This was partly due to my high school US History teacher, who skipped all of the wars in her curriculum because they were—in her own words—“icky.” World War I certainly fit that description. Around forty million people died over four grueling years. Young men were systematically fed to machine-gun fire. Their bodies became entangled in barbed wire. Or swamped in the endless mud. Or eaten by rats.

During the span of my research, I wasn’t shocked by the war’s hellishness. What did end up surprising me was the art that flourished in Europe’s trenches. Soldiers penned poetry and fashioned jewelry out of bullet casings. They carved sculptures out of the butts of enemy rifles. The resilience of these artists moved me deeply. I wondered at how such a terrible war could trigger one of the largest outpourings of art in modern history. At how humanity could have such a simultaneous capacity for creation and destruction.

It was this question that led me to discover the story you just read: a book about the inherent magic of imagination and the power of art. In 2017, when I first began drafting The Enchanted Lies of Céleste Artois, I had no idea these things would be threatened by the rise of artificial intelligence. I didn’t know that AI models would start robbing artists of their work and livelihoods—yet that is the world we now find ourselves in. Fears abound in the artistic community. I can’t help but wonder what my own future as an author looks like. How will I manage to compete with an AI that spits out novel-length works instantaneously?

Through all these misgivings, I keep thinking back to the poets who wrote in the mud of World War I’s trenches. How they composed the rhythm of their poetry against the dadera-dadera tempo of machine guns. Many of these men must have thought that their world was ending. They must have believed that grass would never grow back where they sat hunched over their blood-spattered notebooks.

And yet, they kept creating.

I have never fought in a war, but I have seen death. I have kissed my mother’s cold cheek. I have sobbed into my dog’s stiff body. I have bled out a child who never took their first breath. I have seen birth too. I have hugged two healthy young baby girls to my chest. I have held their hands as they learned to walk. I have delighted at their first words. I have marvelled at the miracle of life.

An AI system could never do those things. And therein lies its limits. I firmly believe that artificial intelligence will never be able to create true art. Why? Because art has never been paint streaks or pen strokes. Art is an inherently human act. Our novels and paintings and poetry matter because we matter. Our joy and our pain and our rage and our hope. All of it matters.

So let’s keep creating.

In this spirit, I’ve created an Instagram handle for the League of Imaginers, where I intend to share any art that readers may share with me. If you feel at all inspired by The Enchanted Lies of Céleste Artois, I would love to see the results! Please visit @leagueofimaginers for more details and to revel in the creative imaginations of your fellow readers.

In Somnis Veritas