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reading AI

``` [This is a conference paper that I wrote several years ago and have never gotten around to preparing for formal publication.]

Portents of Planning: A critical reading of the first paragraph of Miller, Galanter, and Pribram's "Plans and the Structure of Behavior"

Philip E. Agre Department of Communication University of California, San Diego La Jolla, California 92093-0503 USA

pagre@ucsd.edu http://communication.ucsd.edu/pagre/

Revised version of a paper presented at the Conference on Narrative in the Human Sciences, University of Iowa, July 1990.

Consider how an ordinary day is put together. You awaken, and as you lie in bed, or perhaps as you move slowly about in a protective shell of morning habits, you think about what the day will be like -- it will be hot, it will be cold; there is too much to do, there is nothing to fill the time; you promised to see him, she may be there again today. If you are compulsive, you may worry about fitting it all in, you may make a list of things to do. Or you may launch yourself into the day with no clear notion of what you are going to do or how long it will take. But, whether it is crowded or empty, novel or routine, uniform or varied, your day has a structure of its own -- it fits into the texture of your life. And as you think what your day will hold, you construct a plan to meet it. What you expect to happen foreshadows what you expect to do.

This essay consists of a close critical reading of the foregoing paragraph, which is not my own but rather the opening paragraph of Chapter 1 of Miller, Galanter, and Pribram's 1960 book "Plans and the Structure of Behavior" (henceforth P&SB). In plagiarizing it here, I hope to have afforded you a last chance to read it "innocently", without the analytic lenses I would like to bring to it. You have brought your own lenses to it, of course, and neither my lenses nor yours can recover for us a full sense of the enormous impact that P&SB had on the American intellectual scene of 1960. P&SB was, along with the early work of Chomsky and others, among the central texts in American psychology's reversion from behaviorism to cognitivism in the 50s and 60s. In particular, it was the first -- and arguably the only -- important early synthesis of the view of human action within which virtually all computational research into the origins and organization of action has been conducted, both within the engineering discipline of artificial intelligence and within the psychological school that has lately become known as cognitive science. This view of human action does not name itself with any particular -ism, but it constitutes its subject matter as "planning". It consists, for the most part, of two propositions: first, the premise that the behavior of organisms has an observable structure; and second, the hypothesis that this behavior has the structure it does because it arises through the "execution" of mental entities, namely Plans (capitalized by P&SB but not in the texts of most subsequent authors), that themselves possess that structure.

P&SB makes an appealing critical object for numerous reasons beyond the simple magnitude of its historical role. As a work of psychology that appeals to the metaphors of computation, it straddled these two discursive territories at a time when the syncretic discourse of cognitivism could not be taken for granted and had not yet settled into its relatively inflexible contemporary form as a variety of technologically inflected common sense. A careful reading of P&SB is thus an act of excavation, an attempt at recovering one layer of a discourse that, despite its enormous cultural authority and relative youth, has nonetheless become heavily sedimented.

This essay is restricted in its scope to the text itself, and within this text to its introductory paragraph. In particular, it is not concerned with Miller, Galanter, and Pribram as historical individuals. The distinction will become important as the critique develops. My argument in brief is that the text employs certain rhetorical strategies to evade certain difficulties with its thesis and to insinuate this thesis into its interaction with its reader in ways that are not readily obvious. I attribute these rhetorical strategies to the text itself and not to its authors, whose conscious motives and understandings are a matter of curiosity but nonetheless beside the point. The abbreviation P&SB refers exclusively to the text itself. (Though easy enough as a rhetorical device, this move requires me to ascribe a great deal of intentionality to the text, as opposed to its authors. While I believe that such ascriptions are both necessary and defensible, I will completely duck the question of their actual analytic status, which is of course neither simple nor uniform.)

P&SB also provides an opportunity to investigate the ways in which technical discourse functions as a literature with a history. A basic observation in this regard is that a large proportion of the technical people who employ P&SB's vocabulary and rhetoric in their work have never read the book. Many have never heard of it. Many find its central theses unfamiliar and even deny them. I myself was trained in one of the technical disciplines upon which P&SB had a critical influence, namely artificial intelligence (or "AI"), but I came upon it only through an idiosyncratic attempt, motivated by fashions in literary theory, to explore the history of my field. It is not normal for a technical discipline to cultivate a critical awareness of its own intellectual history. Instead, one learns the "state of the art", a body of techniques defined and explicated within an accepted vocabulary. Certain ways of speaking that P&SB introduced in its synthesis of the computational and psychological ideas of its time have become part of the discursive ecology of my field. The project of this paper is to exhibit some of these rhetorical devices in P&SB and to suggest how they function to reproduce a certain view of action -- and the larger view of the self and of agency of which it is a part -- despite the important tensions which operate within that view. (In this regard, see the analysis of the rhetoric and practice of obstetrics in Emily Martin's "The Woman in the Body".)

//* Reading the introduction

It is neither a secret nor a scandal that the introduction is generally the last part of anything to get written. It is, though, a fact of great consequence. It means that introductions can be seen, if one can only read them closely enough, compactly and precisely to (p)recapitulate the rhetorical tensions of the texts they commence. An introduction must get an exposition off on the right foot. It must establish a repertoire of tropes for the rest of the document to use and it must present this material as an acceptable starting place. In a text that is to argue some point, this starting place will generally consist of some combination of premises and definitions. In general, an introduction sets a tone for the rest of the text, synthesizing an intendedly consistent set of attitudes and policies toward terminology, evidence, narrative, facts, speculations, the existing literature, and so on. The inherent ambiguity of an introduction is that, while it must assume ignorance on the reader's part about where the text is headed, it must also embrace the whole of the text and project it as a totality. It is precisely the difficulty of this task that makes the careful reading of introductions so valuable.

The introductions of AI papers, as a general matter, tend to run together seemingly opposite rhetorical forms in hybrid combinations that only seem strange to the uninitiated or to those who work hard enough at de-initiation. This merger of common-sense talk about knowledge, reason, and action with the formal vocabulary of technical practice is, of course, constitutive of the enterprise. AI research requires that language be made thus to span the boundaries of genres, to participate equally in the figurative evocation of common-sense narration and in the formal structures of logic, and to refer ambiguously to the world of everyday activities and to the world of mathematics. These two genres (narrative and technical), these two forms of reason (figurative and formal), and these two worlds of reference (everyday experience and mathematics) are very different, yet in the rhetoric of AI they must seem coterminous. As authors attempt to manage the system of rhetorical tensions that lies at the root of this project, they will inevitably (and presumably without being aware of it) introduce and institutionalize distortions of genre, rhetoric, and logic. Exposing these distortions and exhibiting their systematic nature has heuristic value in putting words to the unarticulated assumptions of the field and in demonstrating the depth of the rethinking and redoing that will be required to put things right.

Let us now properly quote from P&SB the first paragraph of Chapter 1. It is preceded only by two pages of acknowledgements and four pages of preface in which the authors tell a story about the circumstances and motivations of the discussions that led to the notion of a Plan and then to their book.

The first and most important fact about this passage is that it appeals to everyday experience, or at least to its particular construction of everyday experience. It makes a number of generalizations about what happens, as a matter of "ordinary" practice, when one awakes in the morning, in a way that motivates the broader theme of the book. In doing so, it takes evident pains in its lists and disjunctions and general terms to be noncommittal, to apply across a range of possible projected days.

Moreover, it is addressed to "you". Who exactly this "you" is, whether the generic "one" or a specific but anonymous "the reader", is hard to say. We can, however, make certain deductions about this "you". In "your" culture, the culture with reference to which we might reckon an "ordinary day", one sleeps in a bed, and so you do too. Upon arising, you have a habitual morning routine that is sufficiently unproblematic to act as a "protective shell". As well, it seems as though you wake alone and ponder your day in solitude rather than in the company of your family, regiment, work group, or cohort. Finally, in the course of this day, it is typical for you to have contractual relationships with men and predatory relationships with women. Thus the extent to which you, meaning now the "you" of my own text here, will be able to take P&SB's analysis to heart might depend on who you are. So let us, you and me, investigate what your taking P&SB to heart would have to consist of.

//* Topic

The aspect of your morning's activities that most concerns P&SB is planning your day. The opening sentence immediately introduces its central metaphor of human activity as an object having a structure:

Consider how an ordinary day is put together.

This sentence, though, is ambiguous as to what question it is asking about this structure. One might read it two ways, as

Consider how one puts together an ordinary day.

or as

Consider the organization of an ordinary day.

Now, it is hard to specify the latter topic, that of something's organization as viewed objectively and externally, without a figurative appeal to the activity of organizing, structuring, or assembling something -- that is, of putting something together. But some formulations of the idea are more equivocal than others. In choosing a passive construction -- one located as close to halfway between the two interpretations as possible -- the text has immediately established a pattern, which will recur throughout its entirety, of drifting indistinctly between the two separable topics of deciding what to do and describing what is done.

For the moment, though, as we read the book's first few lines, we are not yet in a position to accuse P&SB of anything except obscurity. Its next, long sentence shifts the rhetorical stance from the imperative of "Consider ..." to simple-present description, but without permitting a determination of which reading of the first sentence is intended.

You awaken, and as you lie in bed, or perhaps as you move slowly about in a protective shell of morning habits, you think about what the day will be like -- it will be hot, it will be cold; there is too much to do, there is nothing to fill the time; you promised to see him, she may be there again today.

As a matter of storytelling, this new sentence approaches the general topic of everyday activities through two different routes: through direct narration of a character's ("your") present actions and through an omniscient narrator's paraphrase of a character's (again, "your") thoughts about the circumstances conditioning his or her future actions. The two routes are quite unrelated, inasmuch as the text has conjured for you the dissociative pre-coffee mental state so notoriously characteristic of the first thing in the morning. You are thinking about the weather, the agenda, relations with others, and -- presumably, through the implicit ellipsis -- other things as well (all of them in binary form, with a sort of wistful distanciation reminiscent of the opening passage of Dickens' "Tale of Two Cities", but your cogitation about the day is occasioned and organized by nothing more in your contemporaneously ongoing activities than the simple fact of the day's being new.

It is not until halfway through the paragraph, in the conditional assertion that

If you are compulsive, you may worry about fitting it all in, you may make a list of things to do.

that it becomes even somewhat clear the text intends to speak of a deliberate putting-together and that it is "you" who is doing it. The text is describing someone whose acting and thinking are progressing on different tracks, and it encourages the reader to focus on the thinking track. Yet, on its own logic, it cannot do so openly. Since the actions being performed by the character in this story are part of an "ordinary day", the question of how these actions are themselves "put together" is part of the text's avowed burden of explanation. The text is, at it were, caught in an odd spot. Do lying in bed and carrying out one's customary morning activities constitute part of the day one plans out or not?

P&SB makes it hard to get too worked up about the question. It makes clear that there is nothing much to explain about these activities. They are "habits", simple in content and performed in a stupor. The syntax itself, in its habitual simple present tense, also enacts this attitude toward "your" morning routine. Whereas the rest of the day is open to long lists of options and variations, the activities that accompany your thoughts about them are pitched as the faintly risible productions of an automaton. What the text achieves in this manner, though, is much more than the hiding of a trivial embarrassing case. It has also established that its subject matter is not activity in the narrative present tense but rather thought about activity in the future tense.

So far, though, "your" thoughts about the day have only concerned its autonomous properties and not your own actions as such. The organizing trope of this paragraph presents "your day" as having a "structure of its own", independently of you, to which your own planned actions are a response. The text does not intend to pin "you" down to a particular method of preparing this response. Instead, it projects two opposite styles of approaching one's day, the compulsive and the carefree:

If you are compulsive, you may worry about fitting it all in, you may make a list of things to do. Or you may launch yourself into the day with no clear notion of what you are going to do or how long it will take.

Though presented as dichotomies, these opposed descriptions are not, of course, intended as two discrete options but rather as extreme cases. Without explicitly committing themselves to any particular model, they nonetheless define a scale along which individual styles might lie. Later on in the book, this scale will become elaborated in terms of the question of how much of one's Plan one works out at what stages in advance of some projected activity. For now, though, these options remain relatively isolated observations about differences among normal individuals' modes of morning behavior, with no explicit indications of the roles they will play in the argument.

The next sentence uses another list of opposed pairs to further develop this theme of variations among individuals and their days.

But, whether it is crowded or empty, novel or routine, uniform or varied, your day has a structure of its own -- it fits into the texture of your life.

With this sentence, it starts becoming an urgent matter what is meant by "your day". Does the text really mean to imply that your day has a structure independently of your actions? Considerable evidence supports a positive answer to this question. The text has provided us with a list of aspects of "the day" (and then "your day") that are normally beyond your control: the weather, the plans of others, what needs to be done, and how much needs to be done. In light of all these factors, "your day", it says, "has a structure of its own".

Moreover, this structure is held to stand in a specific if rather vague relationship of structural complement to "your life": "it fits into the texture of your life". The mixed metaphor here, between structures and textures, betrays the text's lack of a clear notion of the actual relationship between the autonomous structure of your day and your own actions. And it introduces yet another metaphor for this relationship in its next sentence:

And as you think what your day will hold, you construct a plan to meet it.

This is quite a categorical statement. It recapitulates the autonomous structure of your day as "what your day will hold" and then presents your "plan" as something to "meet it". Actually, one can interpret "meeting" here in two ways: either the act of constructing the plan constitutes "meeting" your day or the plan that you construct describes actions that will themselves constitute this meeting. Deciding between these interpretations is made more difficult by the temporality of the cognitive activity being described: this activity of plan construction takes place "as you think what your day will hold", wherein "as" might mean either "while" or "once".

//* Thesis

In any event, it is clear that P&SB's notion of the structure of your day lies in an uneasy relationship to its notion of the plans you make in the morning. And that uneasiness goes both ways, since its statement that

... as you think what your day will hold, you construct a plan to meet it.

appears to stand in direct contradiction to the earlier statement that

... you may launch yourself into the day with no clear notion of what you are going to do or how long it will take.

Given this latter possibility, how can P&SB justify the assertion that you construct a plan for the day? It cannot. I claim that this contradiction is a manifestation of the larger contradiction in the whole project, namely the irreconcilability of the formal and figurative modes of language. I have suggested that P&SB's sketch of the continuum from compulsive to carefree attitudes is, as it were, read backward from the formal question of how much of a Plan you construct. The technical notion of Plan, it is important to understand, admits of a null case. Just as an empty set is a perfectly unproblematic instance of a set, an empty Plan is an instance of a Plan. P&SB's statement about the possibility of simply launching yourself into the day is, on this construal, simply an idiomatic gloss of the formal possibility of constructing a null Plan. Thus, two propositions that are contradictory when stated in the ordinary language of narrative become consistent when converted to the categories of the formal theories the text will later elaborate.

While this observation is, I think, true, it does not in any way constitute a defense of the difficulties in P&SB's opening paragraph. There are at least four reasons why not:

First, the text has given no indication that the prevailing genre of discourse is formal; the overall ironic tone and the openly colloquial vocabulary, together with the simple customs of default, suggest instead some idiom of vernacular narrative.

Second, the text has not yet defined the notion of Plan upon which the consistent interpretation rests; nor in this paragraph does it capitalize the word "plan" when it does appear. (The relationship between P&SB's words "plan" and "Plan" is a subtle matter.)

Third, even if constructing a null Plan makes sense, it still does not seem to explain anything. Whether this constitutes a *reductio ad absurdum* of P&SB's theory is another hard question, much more so than it might appear. Its investigation will require more material than this single paragraph provides.

Fourth, such recourse to formal redefinitions would not resolve any of the other difficulties in the paragraph, particularly the status of the "structure of your day" or the lame uses of such words as "texture" or, for that matter, the word "foreshadows" in the closing sentence:

What you expect to happen foreshadows what you expect to do.

Here the autonomous structure of the day reappears in yet another guise as "what you expect to happen", now syntactically contrasted with the newly constructed plan, now glossed as "what you expect to do". With the realization that the text is playing on the ambiguity of "expect" between "predict" and "intend", a dozen questions intrude themselves as to the relation between P&SB's conceptions of happening and doing. But these questions get no hearing amidst the sentence's winding-up tone, its false parallelism, and the vague metaphor of "foreshadowing".

A covert formality lies at the heart of P&SB's enterprise here, but so does the equally covert project of suppressing the tensions inherent in its attempt to progress in the course of its argument from the narration of a morning's activity to the specification of cognitive structures. While we have no grounds here for psychologizing about either the text's authors or their readers, we can make some principled inferences about the kind of work that a reader must perform to make sense of P&SB's argument here. In what systematic and reasonable way can a reader go about excusing P&SB's open contradiction? One such way, the way I believe to be the most common, is to already know what P&SB is going to mean by a Plan and to read in that light. Just as one solves a story problem in physics by reconstructing the story as simply standing in for a latent system of equations one can recover and then "set up", making interpretive choices in systematic accord with the correspondence one has inferred to exist between the story and the math, one (i.e., the same "one" implied in the practices of technical reading and writing) can recode P&SB's narrative assertions as so many mathematical propositions about Plans. Yet we have seen that this procedure will only resolve the most serious difficulties in P&SB's opening paragraph. The text is, on this hypothesis, preaching to the converted, to an audience whose members are not only willing and able to reconstruct its prose as covert mathematics but who are also satisfied with the possibility of doing so, regardless of what other difficulties remain beyond the scope of the particular formal ideas.

Be this as it may, a serious question remains as to the sense in which P&SB's theory has any content. If launching oneself blindly into one's day does not contradict the theory that the day begins with the construction of plans, then what does? In other words, when a way of speaking so readily subsumes its own negation, what could possibly falsify it? This kind of objection is raised frequently in science, particularly in regard to the social sciences, where theories are frequently found capable of explaining anything and thus, it is said, explain nothing.

But such objections are misguided, inasmuch as they assume a roughly extensional construal of the notion of content. If we take P&SB's rhetoric of plans as simply an idiom of figuration, then it is only fair that the text should to be able to "apply" it to anything and everything, just as a collection of poems would violate no laws by likening everything to a rose. If we wish to censure such a policy, we cannot do so through any sort of objective delimitation of which "cases" can and cannot be so figured. On the other hand, if we take the text's vocabulary -- or at least that small portion of it that can possibly be so construed -- to be formal in nature and thus defined with reference to entities of mathematics, then we are in no better position, for the simple reason that mathematical entities cannot in themselves play any causal role in the physical world. We are left with the task of constructing some more sophisticated notion of the relationship between P&SB's language and the things in the world that it might be talking about.

Nonetheless, it is easy to mobilize sentiment in favor of the charge of scientific emptiness. P&SB has allowed itself an extraordinarily good deal whereby anything it can assimilate to the vague rhetoric of plans can be converted to the uniform technical ranks of Plans. Later on in the book, as a vast range of seemingly disparate phenomena is subjected to this treatment, one can only grow more troubled. P&SB's is a theory which seems somehow both vacuous and universal. It is this discomfort that should focus the project of understanding what P&SB, the text, is actually up to, why so many intelligent people found it so compelling, and what, after all, is and is not of value in it.

//* Method

We can obtain a firmer idea of P&SB's actual methods by gathering our observations about the various times, places, and actors envisioned by its opening paragraph's narrative. In doing so, we can begin to map the complex and rather eccentric network of alliances that its rhetoric cultivates.

First, the text constructs a certain fictional character, the individual it addresses as "you". Thinking of this "you" as a fictional character, though, in distinction to simply you-yourself-out-there-the-reader, is a special analytic attitude and not at all the normal response. Yet the text speaks with authority about this character's thoughts and actions. Its omniscient second-person narration thus occupies a space that might normally be occupied by your own reflections on your own experiences of awakening and starting the day. The various other candidates for typical morning experiences -- that you might awaken dwelling on your dreams, or your memories, or your still-sleeping lover, or any of a number of urgent physical needs characteristic of early morning -- have no chance to be considered. (It is instructive to contrast with P&SB the more deliberately literary awakenings of Eva Figes' "Waking" and Chistopher Isherwood's "A Single Man".) In this way, P&SB encourages a blurring of the boundary between your own experience and that of its idealized theoretical agent.

Second, the text cultivates a partition between a realm of cognition and a realm of action. It does this in two ways, first by evoking the groggy automatism of early-morning habits and second by having "you" cogitate here and now over matters of some other place and time in the future. These two kinds of distance between thought and action have the theoretical effect of constructing, without saying so, that isolated internal personal space normally called "the mind".

Third, the text launches its policy of ambiguity between two quite different points of view on an agent's activities: the agent's prospective and internal canvass of likelihoods and options and the theorist's retrospective and external characterization of how the agent's actions actually worked out in the event.

In sum, the effect of P&SB's rhetoric is to obscure the normally intimate connection between your thoughts and your actions. In its place, the text substitutes something else: an intimate connection between its authors' thoughts and your actions. While I am sure that the authors are not aware of it, what this paragraph is doing is trying to hypnotize you. And the effect is more than a matter of these subtle and compelling chains of rhetorical identification. The whole structure of the paragraph seems designed to induce a trance. It opens with a command to attend:

Consider how an ordinary day is put together.

It then begins speaking, in the second person, of sleepy, automatistic mental states, while also reciting a series of liltingly repetitive and rather pointless phrases:

... it will be hot, it will be cold; there is too much to do, there is nothing to fill the time; you promised to see him, she may be there again today.

If you are ... . Or you may ... .

... crowded or empty, novel or routine, uniform or varied ...

It then inserts an abrupt suggestion:

And as you think what your day will hold, you construct a plan to meet it.

And finally it winds up with a nearly meaningless formula cast as a conclusion, a formula that might just possibly be heard to insinuate that you will in fact act on the suggestion:

What you expect to happen foreshadows what you expect to do.

In speaking thus of trance induction, I do not mean to elicit comic-book images of side shows and parlor games and arms-aloft somnambulism. I mean something perfectly serious, something that I believe to be at the heart of both the rhetoric and the historical and interpersonal dynamics characteristic of cognitivism.

The basis of cognitivism is the particular technologically oriented interpretation of the gross Cartesian partition between "the mind" and "the world" that was so prevalent in the philosophy and psychology and technical practice of the milieux in which Miller, Galanter, and Pribram worked and from which the modern field of AI and much else has descended. This partition, I believe, is not tenable. Human beings are, by nature and necessity, intimately involved with their surroundings in the physical and social world. This is not to say that this involvement is easy and automatic. Quite the contrary, it always involves risk and effort. Cognitivism is founded on a denial of the risk and effort inherent in one's involvement with the world. Since this denial is, of course, senseless, in reality it is always accompanied by a covert flip side, a magical effort at merger with other people and the world. This is the schizoid theoretical unconscious of cognitivism.

This much has been known about Cartesianism for some time (see especially Bordo 1987). What is so remarkable in the present case are the multiple ways in which these themes work themselves out in the context of a computational theory of action: the theorist's mind merges with the reader's mind, the reader's mind merges with the agent's mind, and the agent's mind merges with the world. Further examples of this phenomenon are rife. On the account in P&SB, thinking up a course of action is as good as actually carrying it out, since all that separates them is the mechanical process of "execution". Moreover, one thinks up a course of action on the basis of an Image, a simulacrum of the world located in one's mind (Boulding 1956). When, in a later chapter, P&SB speaks of "problems", it follows Newell and Simon (1963) in speaking as if one can "solve" a problem without taking a single action. In each case, the merger between inside and outside is the rhetorical concomitant of a formally posited homology between representations and things represented. This suppression of difference is precisely the project of model-theoretic semantics of language and logic. If the map and the territory are really mathematical isomorphs, to mock the founding slogan of formal semantic theory, it is hardly worth trying to tell them apart.

The theme of blurred boundaries between representation and reality informs P&SB's cognitivism at two levels: between the theorist's hypotheses and the agent theorized; and between the agent's representations and the agent's world. Setting things straight requires an admission that things are just harder than that. Living in the world requires a dialectical engagement, not just a fantasy merger. Using representations, whether of circumstances or of actions, requires the continual practical work of interpretation, not just passive appeal to unmediated correspondences. And conducting research in computational psychology requires an honest awareness of the experience of everyday life, not just pseudo-narratives fabricated in accord with the happenstances of available technologies.

//* References

Philip E. Agre, The Dynamic Structure of Everyday Life, Cambridge University Press, in press.

Susan Bordo, The Flight to Objectivity, Albany: SUNY Press, 1987.

Kenneth E. Boulding, The Image: Knowledge in Life and Society, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1956.

Eva Figes, Waking, New York: Pantheon, 1983.

Christopher Isherwood, A Single Man, New York: FS&G, 1986.

Emily Martin, The Woman in the Body: A Cultural Analysis of Reproduction, Boston: Beacon Press, 1987.

George A. Miller, Eugene Galanter, and Karl H. Pribram, Plans and the Structure of Behavior, New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1960.

Allen Newell and Herbert A. Simon, GPS: A program that simulates human thought, in Edward A. Feigenbaum and Julian Feldman, eds, Computers and Thought, New York: McGraw-Hill, 1963. ```

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