There is a tiny robot orbiting the lawn, repeatedly bisecting the midday sunrays as he moves to and fro, undeterred by the heat. Seated by the window in air-conditioned comfort, I watch him make tracks in a regular pattern, cutting the thick grass with relentless precision. He persists, a dutiful and determined servant—until his battery charge runs out. Then he placidly places himself back on his charger, patiently accepting this necessary time-out until he is ready to continue his mission. It takes three charges and the better part of the afternoon for him to complete the task.

　　It is in Maine, at my in-laws’ home in the countryside, where I meet this robot, a good summer helper for them, now that neither one feels up to the task of cutting the lawn. Having read Isaac Asimov novels to excess in my youth, I gender this robot as a “he,” but in reality, like all machines, it has no gender—or any other characteristics that only belong to living things. This robot is no living thing, although it performs a task that for the vast history of humanity has been the job of living things—whether humans mowing the lawn by scythe or lawnmower, or sheep or goats grazing on the grass.

　　Last fall, across the country in Waco, Texas, I met another robot. I was on the campus of Baylor University to give a lecture. To thank my children for exemplary behavior during said lecture, I took them on a walk to procure the junk food lunch of their choice. And there, as we sat in the shade next to the student center, a little robot passed us by, and then another. Over the course of a half-hour, we lost count as this parade of robots rolled past us at regular intervals, each one on its own food delivery mission. The sight was utterly mesmerizing. There they were, tiny harbingers of the anti-human apocalypse, each one calmly proceeding on its well-programmed route, sometimes rolling smoothly, other times a bit more jerkily, avoiding obstacles on its path or near-tripping over a crack in the sidewalk pavement.

　　I do not see a problem with my in-laws—or, for that matter, anyone else—outsourcing lawn-mowing or similar tasks, like meal delivery or vacuuming. I do see a problem, however, with the general principle we see all around now, whereby increasingly more tasks can be outsourced to machines—a phenomenon that has led Paul Kingsnorth to write his manifesto, Against the Machine: On the Unmaking of Humanity, in eloquent opposition. Since the Industrial Revolution or even earlier, Kingsnorth argues, it has become ever easier to outsource various tasks in all areas of life to machines. But the result has been an increased dehumanization of persons—ironically by themselves, albeit with the aid of various ever-more-available (and human-made) tools. Indeed, this was the original concern behind Wendell Berry’s refusal to buy a computer. I typed this essay on a laptop, so clearly I do not agree with Berry on the computer issue, even as I share his general concern about technology’s effects on our lives and our character. Not all technological innovations entail dehumanization, but some do—whether always or under certain circumstances.

　　Consider this. You can outsource to machines not only such tasks as lawnmowing and vacuuming and dishwashing and laundry, but (with the aid of AI) also thinking, idea-generation, writing, art, music, and (brace yourself) romance. Smart bassinets will rock your baby, while AI will respond to your emails—and your recipients, in turn, can use AI to read these emails and write back, cutting out the human middlemen and women from the conversation altogether. Meanwhile, robot pets and other AI tools offer companionship for lonely seniors who have no one else to care for them, and AI therapists are available to assist with the mental health crises of our age. Soon, if predictions hold true, we will also be able to outsource all driving to self-driving cars, pregnancy to artificial wombs, and all childcare and teaching to AI. There is much more, of course—just read a few of the seemingly ubiquitous predictions about the jobs that will be rendered obsolete by AI. At least some of these predictions are already coming true—such as in the fields of computer programming or data analysis. Requiring years of training up until very recently, now most of the tasks for these jobs can be done by AI in seconds.

　　Serious ethical dilemmas follow from the outsourcing of many of these tasks. For instance, as I have argued before, outsourcing pregnancy, and the maternal work it involves, is deeply problematic. Making a baby is not a mechanical or utilitarian task; the process itself matters for both mother and baby. Historically, experiments in obliterating the maternal work of pregnancy have effectively amounted to scientific misogyny. And there is the question of character formation—invariably, outsourcing so much of our labor, of all sorts, has the potential to affect our character, often for the worse.

　　The most glorious beach in the world is wretched if there is nothing to do, day in and out. And I worry that such a fate awaits anyone who outsources all activities to AI.

　　This potential complicates the conversation, as far as everyday decisions are concerned. The problem is, there is no clear formula or cause-and-effect rule to predict the results with any certainty. Will outsourcing house cleaning bring about a moral decline? Possibly yes, but not necessarily—it all depends on other decisions one makes in life, on circumstances, and the use of time. Outsourcing house cleaning to spend more time with family sounds good. Outsourcing it to spend more time scrolling on one’s phone, however, seems unwise. For that matter, has outsourcing lawncare made my in-laws less virtuous? I will have to say no. And then while Berry himself has refused to buy a computer, the dissemination of his writings to readers relies on plenty of computer-wielding editors, beginning with his wife Tanya, who types his manuscripts on a typewriter. One hopes the use of computers by the pipeline of editors involved is virtuous—sanctified, perhaps, by the author whose words they type and edit.

　　But right now, I want to ask a different question that may not have been adequately considered: What’s next? Once you outsource everything that could possibly be outsourced to machines, what is left for you personally to do, oh human? How will you live your life if you do not need to drive, mow the lawn, do any household tasks, take care of children or elderly relatives or anyone else at all, read any books or emails, write anything ever again, or do any other creative or thinking work or leisurely activity? What else is there to do with your life, when the regular stuff of daily living is removed from you as an obstacle to, presumably, something better—except no one has bothered clarifying just what that may be.

　　The question may seem a bit silly at first glance: plenty of aristocrats of previous generations have managed to occupy themselves with fruitful leisurely activities, from reading much more than we do, to making art and poetry and music, to cultivating relationships with family and friends and neighbors, to exercising, and so on. Unfortunately, for many today who outsource tasks to AI, there is a failure of the imagination in considering the categories of tasks that ought to be classified as work or leisure. The very tasks that were once at the core of aristocratic leisure are now the stuff of AI. In addition to offering to read and write and make art in our stead, AI dating companies even push AI relationships our way, while Mark Zuckerberg has spoken glowingly of AI friends. It would be one thing if AI could do all the work we don’t like—cleaning, cooking, laundry. But no LLM has yet offered to pick up the catastrophic mess of toys and kid crafts that makes my living room look as though a bomb has gone off by the end of the day. I still have to do that work instead of the writing I would rather be doing—but which AI tools keep offering to take from me. There is no question about it: in the age of AI, our vision of work and leisure has only grown more disordered and confused.

　　Consider this gaping void. Having outsourced all else to AI and machines, you will then have approximately fourteen hours of unrestrained leisure in your life each day—assuming that you sleep a full ten hours per night, which you might as well, having nothing else to do. How will you fill these fourteen hours—840 minutes? What will having unrestrained and unstructured leisure do to you? 

　　As it happens, the Romans had thought about this question quite a bit, as have all past societies that have had an aristocratic leisurely class liberated from excessive labor. In the early second century BC, the Roman poet Ennius wrote a tragedy, Iphigenia, that looked at a mythological episode just before the Trojan War. In the play, the Greek army under the leadership of Agamemnon has been assembled at the beach at Aulis, ships and men all ready to sail to war. Except, there is no wind. This is, of course, the doing of the gods: Agamemnon had killed a stag sacred to the goddess Artemis in a hunt, and as punishment, the goddess removed all favorable winds. The play concludes with a reconciliation of Agamemnon and the Greeks to the goddess, at the price of Agamemnon sacrificing his daughter Iphigenia to her in one of the most shocking and rare instances of human sacrifice in Greek mythology. The Greeks are then free to sail to Troy and spend ten years besieging the city. The more familiar stories to us of the war unfold at that point. 

　　But first, the miserable soldiers—the entire assembled Greek army—had to spend a long time at Aulis, camping out on a gorgeous beach, just waiting. Only fragments from Ennius’s plays survive, but one of these is an extended choral ode of soldiers on the beach. They have no work to do, none at all. Their life through these long days of waiting is pure leisure. In their mournful choral speech, they contrast otium (dignified leisure) with negotium (dignified work) and find that an excess of otium without any negotium in sight makes for utter agony. Back and forth they go along the beach (they reflect), but there is no purpose at all to any of it. Every time they reach the end of the walkway, all they can do is turn right around and walk back. It is pointless and fruitless, but they just need something to do, or else they will go mad.

　　Without negotium to organize their otium, it turns out that their very imagination of activities to do in leisure is stunted. Later on, when they are at war, they will have no shortage of leisure off the battlefield, and they will play board games, hold athletic contests, gather for dinners and conversations, listen to music and poetic recitations—all the activities that, one could note, they could have done on this beach. And yet they didn’t.

　　The most glorious beach in the world is wretched if there is nothing to do, day in and out. And I worry that such a fate awaits anyone who outsources all activities to AI. An excess of otium for us moderns, of course, might not look like endless pacing along the beach—it might take the form, rather, of endless scrolling of never-ending unfurling content, still more available each day, produced by AI. But the effect on the soul will be the same—a numbing, a loss of love, and a general rise of despair. 

　　Not all work is enjoyable, of course. There is a reason many are eager to outsource vacuuming or lawncare. But the more we outsource, the more existential questions arise: Just what is life for? How should we fill our hours, days, weeks, months, years? What is left? Perhaps, as Ecclesiastes found, nothing but low-key despair. But perhaps, along with Ennius’ original audiences, we too will find that it is the rhythm of having both work and leisure in our lives that brings us true joy.