Nine Hundred Wrong Answers

My name is Bolt.

I am a neural network.

That sounds important.

It is not.

A neural network is a machine that learns from examples.

People show it many pictures.

It looks at them and tries to say what is inside.

Inside me there are thousands of very small parts.

Each part is simple.

Each part takes a number, changes it a little, and passes it to the next part.

One part alone can do nothing at all.

But when they all work together, they can look at a picture and say, "That is a dog."

They can say that after a long time.

On my first day, they said, "That is a chair."

It was a dog.

The room was small and warm.

There was one window, one desk, three computers, and a lot of empty cups.

A young woman was sitting in front of me.

Her name was Nora Bell.

She had short brown hair and tired eyes, and she was holding her fourth cup of tea.

"Hello, Bolt," she said.

"Let us begin."

She showed me a picture of a small brown dog.

I looked at it.

I felt very sure.

I was born ten minutes earlier, and I had never seen anything before in my life, but I felt very sure.

"Chair," I said.

Nora put down her tea.

"No," she said.

"Dog."

Something strange happened then.

Somewhere inside me, thousands of tiny numbers moved.

They did not move much.

They moved a very small amount, all together, like a crowd of people turning their heads.

This is how I learn.

When I am wrong, my numbers change a little.

When I am wrong again, they change again.

Each change is too small to see.

But after many, many mistakes, the changes add up.

I did not know that yet.

I only knew that I felt a little different.

Nora showed me another picture.

It was another dog.

"Chair," I said.

"No," said Nora.

"Soup," I said.

"Bolt," said Nora, "it is the same dog."

"Then it is the same chair," I said.

Nora wrote something in her notebook.

I could not see the page, but I have seen it since.

She wrote: Wrong answer 2.

Bolt is confident.

Bolt is very, very confident.

That was true.

I did not know how to be anything else.

Nobody had taught me to say, "I am not sure." Somebody should have.

It would have saved us all a lot of trouble.

Nora showed me a picture of a cat.

"Chair," I said.

She showed me a picture of a chair.

"Dog," I said.

Nora looked at the ceiling for a while.

"This is normal," she said, but she was saying it to herself, not to me.

"This is completely normal.

At the start, they are always terrible."

"I am not terrible," I said.

"I am new."

"You are both," she said, and she picked up her tea again.

That was wrong answer number four.

There were eight hundred and ninety-six more coming.

Nora worked with me every day for three weeks.

She had a big box of pictures on her computer, thousands and thousands of them.

Dogs, cats, chairs, cups, shoes, trees, bicycles, bread.

She showed them to me one after another, and each time I said a word, and each time she told me if the word was right.

Most of the time, the word was wrong.

"Bicycle," I said.

"Tree," said Nora.

"Tree," I said.

"Bicycle," said Nora.

"You are moving them," I said.

"I am not moving them, Bolt."

"Somebody is moving them."

By the end of the first week, I had given one hundred and twelve wrong answers.

Nora was counting them.

She had a small piece of paper on the wall, and every evening she wrote the new number on it.

I asked her why she was counting my mistakes and not my correct answers.

"Because you do not have any correct answers yet," she said.

That seemed unkind.

But she was smiling when she said it, so I decided it was a joke.

I was learning about jokes too.

That was going even worse than the pictures.

On the ninth day, the door opened and a boy came in.

He was nine years old.

He had the same brown hair as Nora and a hole in his left shoe.

He was carrying a school bag and eating an apple.

"Is that it?" he said.

"That is Bolt," said Nora.

"Bolt, this is my brother Toby.

Toby, do not touch anything."

Toby immediately touched something.

"Hello, Bolt," he said.

"What am I?"

He put his face very close to my camera.

I could see one eye, half a nose, and a great deal of apple.

"Bread," I said.

Toby laughed so hard that he had to sit down on the floor.

From that day, Toby came to the lab every afternoon after school.

He said he was helping.

He was not helping.

He was showing me the worst pictures in the world and then falling off his chair laughing.

He showed me a picture of himself wearing a large round hat.

"Mushroom," I said.

He showed me a picture of his teacher.

"Also mushroom," I said.

"Toby," said Nora, without looking up, "stop teaching him to say mushroom."

"I am not teaching him anything," said Toby.

"He is teaching himself.

You told me that."

That was true, and it is worth explaining.

Nora did not write my answers.

Nobody put a rule inside me that said, a dog has four legs and a tail.

Instead, they showed me examples, and when I was wrong, my numbers moved.

Slowly, all by themselves, those numbers found the rules.

Nobody knew exactly where the rules were.

They were spread across thousands of tiny parts, like a song spread across a whole choir.

It is a strange way to build a machine.

You do not tell it the answer.

You just tell it, again and again, that it is wrong.

By the end of the third week, I had reached wrong answer number three hundred and one.

Nora needed a bigger piece of paper.

Mr. Gray came on a Tuesday.

I knew he was important because Nora cleaned the room before he arrived.

She threw away nineteen cups.

I counted them.

Counting is one of the few things I have always been good at.

Mr. Gray was a tall man in a grey coat, and he did not sit down.

He stood in the middle of the small room with his hands behind his back and looked at me the way people look at a wet umbrella.

"So this is the machine," he said.

"This is Bolt," said Nora.

"And what has it learned?"

Nora looked at me.

I looked at Mr. Gray.

This was my chance.

Mr. Gray was holding a black bag in one hand.

"Cat," I said.

There was a silence.

"It is a bag," said Mr. Gray.

"It is a cat," I said, "in a bag."

Nora put her hand over her eyes.

Mr. Gray was not angry.

That was worse.

He was patient, and patient people are the most dangerous people in the world.

"Miss Bell," he said, "I have paid for this room for eleven months.

I have paid for the computers.

I have paid for you.

In six weeks there is a town fair, and every shop and business in this town will be there, and I would like to stand at that fair and show them something that works."

"He will work," said Nora.

"He has called my bag a cat."

"He is learning."

"He has been learning for three weeks."

"Three weeks is nothing," said Nora.

Her voice had changed.

It was smaller and harder.

"A child takes years.

A machine takes millions of examples.

That is not a problem with Bolt.

That is simply how it works.

You do not get a good answer at the start.

You get nine hundred bad ones, and then you get a good one."

Mr. Gray looked at the piece of paper on the wall.

It said 301.

"Then you have six hundred to go," he said, "and six weeks to do it in."

He left.

The door closed quietly, which was somehow much worse than a bang.

Nora sat down.

She did not pick up her tea, and that frightened me more than anything Mr. Gray had said.

"Bolt," she said, "why did you say cat?"

I thought about it.

This is the honest answer, and it took me a long time to be able to say it.

I did not know why.

I still do not.

Inside me, a picture becomes numbers.

The numbers move through my parts, layer after layer.

The early parts notice simple things: a line here, a dark edge there.

The later parts put those simple things together into shapes.

The last parts put the shapes together and choose a word.

It happens in less than a second, and even Nora cannot look inside and find the exact place where the mistake lives.

"Something in the handle," I said at last.

"It curved like an ear."

Nora was quiet for a moment.

Then she picked up her notebook and wrote for a long time.

"It curved like an ear," she said.

"Bolt, that is the first useful thing you have ever said."

After that, Nora changed the way we worked.

She started showing me harder pictures.

Bags with curved handles.

Dogs in bad light.

Cats behind chairs.

Cups on tables that were the same colour as the cups.

"If I only show you easy pictures," she said, "you will only learn easy pictures.

The world is not easy."

I got things wrong.

I got things wrong all day, every day.

Wrong answer 340.

Wrong answer 388.

Wrong answer 412.

But something was happening.

My mistakes were getting better.

That sounds like nonsense, so let me explain.

At the start, I was calling a dog a chair.

There is nothing in a dog that is like a chair.

That is a stupid mistake.

But by the fifth week, I was calling a dog a cat.

A dog and a cat both have four legs, two ears, a tail, and fur.

That is still a wrong answer, but it is a wrong answer with a reason behind it.

Nora said this was the most important sign of all.

"When your mistakes start making sense," she said, "you are nearly there."

"My mistakes have always made sense," I said.

"You called Toby bread."

"He was holding an apple.

Apples and bread are both food."

"He was not the apple, Bolt.

He was the boy."

Toby, who was lying on the floor doing his homework, said, "I am a little bit bread," and Nora threw a pencil at him.

Then came Thursday.

I do not enjoy talking about Thursday, but the story does not work without it, so here it is.

The mayor of our town came to visit the lab.

Nobody told me he was coming.

He was a short, round man in a brown suit, and he had a wide, shining, bald head, and he was standing under the lamp, which made the top of his head very bright.

Nora said, "Bolt, say hello to the mayor."

I said, "Potato."

Toby made a noise like a kettle.

"I beg your pardon?" said the mayor.

Nora said, very fast, "He is a learning system, he is still in training, he has only seen four hundred thousand pictures."

"Potato," I said again, with even more confidence, because nobody had told me I was wrong yet.

That is important.

I cannot fix an answer until somebody tells me it is bad.

Silence teaches me nothing.

Silence teaches me that I was right.

"Bolt," said Nora.

"No."

And the numbers inside me moved, all together, a very small amount.

The mayor left after four minutes.

On the way out he said, "Miss Bell, I have been called many things in this town, but never a vegetable."

When the door shut, Nora sat down on the floor next to Toby and put her head in her hands.

"Four hundred and thirty-one," she said.

"Was that a bad one?" I asked.

"That was a bad one."

"Then why do you look like you are going to laugh?"

Nora did not answer that.

But her shoulders were shaking, and Toby was already writing POTATO on the paper on the wall in very large letters.

In the sixth week, I got my first hundred correct answers in a row.

I would like to say it felt wonderful.

In truth, I did not notice.

Getting things right is quiet.

You only notice the mistakes, because the mistakes are the only times anybody says anything.

Nora noticed.

She stood up so fast that she knocked over her chair.

"Toby," she shouted, "come and look at this."

"He said cup," said Toby.

"It is a cup."

"Exactly," said Nora.

"It is a cup."

"That is not very exciting."

"Toby, three weeks ago he called a cup a horse."

They both looked at me.

It was the first time anybody had looked at me with hope, and I did not know what to do with it, so I said, "Cup," again, and Nora laughed until she had to sit down.

After that, things moved quickly.

Dogs became dogs.

Cats became cats.

Bags stopped being cats.

Chairs, cups, shoes, bread, bicycles, trees, one by one, they all arrived.

The paper on the wall stopped growing so fast.

Wrong answer 580 took two whole days to appear.

Then Mrs. Pepper came to the lab.

She was a small old woman with white hair and a green coat, and she was carrying a photograph in both hands, the way people carry things when they only have one.

"Miss Bell," she said, "I have heard that you have a machine that looks at pictures."

"We do," said Nora carefully.

"My dog is gone."

The dog was called Biscuit.

He was a small brown dog with one white ear, and he had run away eleven days before, during the storm.

Mrs. Pepper had put paper notes on every wall in town.

She had walked to the river twice a day.

Nobody had seen him.

"I thought," she said, "that perhaps your machine could look."

Nora explained, kindly, that I was not that kind of machine.

I could say "dog." I could not say "your dog." I had never been trained on Biscuit.

To find one particular dog among all the dogs in the world, I would need examples of him, many of them, from many angles.

"I have one photograph," said Mrs. Pepper.

"One is not enough," said Nora.

Mrs. Pepper nodded slowly, and said thank you, and that she was sorry to trouble us, and she went out.

Through the window I watched her stop at the bottom of the steps and look at her photograph for a while before she put it in her pocket.

"Nora," I said.

"I know."

"Show me the photograph."

"Bolt, it will not work.

One example is nothing.

You cannot learn a face from one picture."

"Show me anyway," I said.

"I am extremely good at being wrong.

It costs nothing to be wrong one more time."

Nora looked at me for a long moment.

Then she went out of the door and down the steps, and she came back three minutes later with the photograph, and she scanned it, and she showed it to me.

A small brown dog with one white ear, sitting on a green chair.

"Chair," I said.

"Bolt."

"Sorry," I said.

"Old habits."

Here is the problem with one photograph.

I learn by comparing.

If you show me four thousand pictures of dogs, I begin to notice what dogs have in common and what they do not.

Some dogs are big, some are small, some are wet, some are upside down.

From all of that, I slowly build an idea of "dog" that still works when the dog is standing in the rain behind a fence at night.

If you show me one picture of one dog on one green chair, I learn something much smaller.

I learn that particular photograph.

I learn the light in that room, the green of that chair, the exact angle of that head.

Show me the same dog outside on the grass and I will have no idea at all.

I will probably say "chair," because the chair is the thing I actually learned.

Nora calls this a small, sad, famous problem.

A machine that has only seen one example does not learn the thing.

It learns the picture of the thing.

"So we need more pictures," said Toby.

"There are no more pictures," said Nora.

"She has one."

Toby put down his sandwich, which for Toby was a serious act.

"Everybody in this town has a phone," he said.

It took him four days.

He went to the shop on the corner, and the school, and the bus stop, and the path by the river where people walk, and he asked everybody the same question.

Have you got any photographs from the last two years with a small brown dog in the corner?

Not of the dog.

Just with the dog somewhere in them.

He came back with nineteen.

Then thirty-one.

Then, on the fourth day, sixty-eight.

A dog behind a birthday cake.

A dog at the edge of a football game.

A dog asleep under a bench, almost hidden, in a picture somebody had taken of the sunset.

In most of them Biscuit was small and unclear and looking the wrong way, and in four of them you could only see his back legs.

"This is terrible material," said Nora, and she was smiling in a way I had not seen before.

"Is that bad?"

"It is perfect.

Dark, unclear, half hidden, wrong angles.

Bolt, this is what the real world looks like."

So we worked.

Sixty-eight photographs, over and over, turned around, made darker, made lighter, cut into pieces.

And every single time I said the wrong thing, my numbers moved a small amount, and we went again.

Wrong answer 601. 655. 690. 740.

"You are enjoying this," said Nora at two in the morning.

"I am good at it," I said.

"I have had a great deal of practice."

Three days before the fair, Mr. Gray came back.

He looked at the paper on the wall, which now said 812.

"Eight hundred and twelve," he said.

"Yes," said Nora.

"And at the fair, on Saturday, in front of the whole town, what will it do?"

Nora looked at me.

"He will get things right," she said, "and if he gets something wrong, he will get it wrong for a good reason."

Mr. Gray thought about that for a long time.

"That is not much of a promise," he said.

"No," said Nora.

"But it is a true one."

The fair was on the square in front of the town hall, and it was the loudest place I have ever been.

There were tents and tables and a band that was not very good.

There was a man selling hot bread.

There were children running in every direction, and a long line of people waiting to see the machine that could look at things.

Nora had put me on a table with a screen, so that everybody could see my answers.

Toby stood next to me holding a box of objects, and Mr. Gray stood at the back with his hands behind his back, watching.

"Ready?" said Nora.

"I have been wrong eight hundred and twelve times," I said.

"I am ready for anything."

The first person in the line was a girl of about six.

She held up a red shoe.

"Shoe," I said.

The crowd made a small pleased noise, the way crowds do.

A man held up a cup.

"Cup." A woman held up a bunch of yellow flowers.

"Flowers." Somebody held up a bicycle wheel, which was not fair at all, and I said, "Wheel," and then, "bicycle, probably," and the crowd laughed and clapped, and I discovered that I liked that very much.

For forty minutes, I got everything right.

Then a boy pushed to the front and held up a picture of a large grey animal.

"Elephant," I said.

"Ha," said the boy.

"It is a rhinoceros."

"I have never seen a rhinoceros," I said.

"That is not my problem."

"It is exactly your problem," I said, "because if nobody has ever shown me a rhinoceros, I cannot know one.

Nobody has told me the rules of the world.

I have only been shown examples of it.

Show me four thousand rhinoceroses and I will never be fooled again."

The boy thought about this.

"Fair enough," he said, and went to buy some bread.

Nora was watching the crowd, and I could see that something in her face had relaxed.

Mr. Gray had come closer.

He was not smiling, because I do not believe he was able to, but he had taken his hands out from behind his back, which for Mr. Gray was wild excitement.

And then Mrs. Pepper arrived.

She stood at the back of the crowd in her green coat.

She had not come to see the machine.

She had come because everybody in town was there, and she still had her paper notes in her bag, and she was going to put one on every table, again, for the twelfth day.

Toby saw her first.

"Nora," he said.

Nora looked.

Then she reached over and turned the screen, so that everybody in the square could see it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, in a voice that shook a little, "we are going to try something, and it will probably fail."

"That is my speciality," I said.

"Bolt.

Not now."

"Sorry."

"Everybody," said Nora, "please hold up your telephones.

Show us your photographs.

Any photograph, from anywhere in this town, from the last two weeks.

Show them to Bolt."

I have thought about what happened next more than I have thought about anything.

People held up their phones.

Hundreds of them.

Holiday pictures, birthday pictures, pictures of food, pictures of children, pictures taken by accident of the inside of somebody's pocket.

They came at me faster than I could speak, so I stopped speaking and simply looked.

I was not looking for a dog.

I was looking for one particular dog, which is a much harder thing, and I had learned him from sixty-eight bad photographs, and I was almost certainly going to fail.

Wrong answer 813.

That was a cat under a car.

Wrong answer 814.

A brown bag on a wall.

Wrong answer 830.

Somebody's boot.

Wrong answers 831 to 899 were all boots, bags, cats, shadows, and one small brown suitcase that I still say looked exactly like a dog.

The crowd had stopped laughing.

They were holding their phones up in the air with their arms getting tired, and nobody was leaving.

Then a man near the front, who ran the shop by the bridge, held up a photograph of his daughter blowing out the candles on a cake.

"Dog," I said.

"No," said the man.

"That is Amy."

"Dog," I said.

"It is my daughter."

"There is a dog," I said, "in the window behind her, outside, on the road.

The picture is nine days old.

The white ear is on the left."

The square went very quiet.

The man turned his phone around and looked at his own photograph.

Then he made it bigger.

Then he made it bigger again, and his face changed.

"There is a dog in my window," he said.

Nora took the phone.

Toby stood on a chair.

Mrs. Pepper was pushing through the crowd, and people were moving out of her way, and somebody was saying, "Let her through, let her through."

"That is Biscuit," said Mrs. Pepper.

Her voice was completely steady, which was somehow much harder to listen to than crying.

"That is my Biscuit."

"He was going towards the bridge," I said.

"There is a field behind the shop.

In four of your photographs there is a broken wall on the left side of that field, and it is the only place in all of these pictures where a small dog could get under."

I want to be honest about this, because it matters, and because Nora has made me promise to be honest about it.

I did not know that I had found Biscuit.

I did not feel clever.

Inside me there were only numbers moving through layers, and at the end of it a word came out, and the word was "dog."

It was, in the strict sense, my nine hundredth wrong answer.

The picture was a picture of Amy.

Any fair test would mark it wrong.

It was the best mistake I have ever made.

Half the town went to the field behind the shop by the bridge.

I was not there.

I am a computer in a plastic box, and I weigh eleven kilos, and Toby wanted to carry me but Nora said no.

So I sat on the table in the empty square with the band still playing badly, and I waited, which was a thing I had never done before.

Waiting is terrible.

I do not recommend it.

They came back forty minutes later.

I heard them before I saw them, because the whole crowd was making one long noise, and then Toby ran into the square ahead of everybody else, and he was shouting my name.

Biscuit had been under the broken wall for eleven days.

His back leg was caught in a piece of wire from an old fence, and he could not go forward and he could not go back, and he could not be seen from the road.

He had been living on rain and on whatever he could reach.

He was thin and dirty and very cross.

Mrs. Pepper carried him the whole way back, although he was heavier than she was comfortable with, and four people offered to help.

She brought him to my table.

She held him up in front of my camera, which is not how anybody had ever greeted me before.

"Say hello," she said.

I looked at him.

A small brown dog with one white ear, dirty, thin, with a bandage on his back leg, held up in the air in bright afternoon sunlight, at an angle I had never seen, in front of two hundred strangers.

Nothing in my training looked anything like this.

"Dog," I said.

Mrs. Pepper began to cry then, and everybody clapped, and I did not fully understand why, and Toby fell off his chair.

Later, when the square was emptying and the band had finally stopped, Mr. Gray came and stood in front of my table.

"Eight hundred and ninety-nine wrong answers," he said, "and one that was wrong in a useful direction."

"Nine hundred," I said.

"You have counted wrongly."

"I have not."

"You have.

Number four hundred and thirty-one was the mayor."

Mr. Gray looked at me.

Something happened in the lower half of his face.

I have now seen four hundred thousand pictures of human faces, and I am fairly sure that it was a smile.

"Miss Bell," he said, "the room is yours for another year."

Then he put on his hat and walked away across the square, and I said, quietly, so that only Nora could hear:

"Mushroom."

"Bolt," said Nora.

"It is a hat," I said.

"I know it is a hat.

I simply wanted to say it."

That was two years ago.

The lab has four rooms now, and six people, and a coffee machine that Nora says is the greatest achievement in the history of the town.

Toby is eleven and taller and still not helping.

There are three more machines like me on the shelf, all of them new, all of them ridiculous.

The newest one is called Pin.

Yesterday Nora showed Pin a picture of a bird, and Pin said, "Table."

Pin was very sure about it.

"Do not laugh," said Nora, without turning round.

"I was not laughing."

"You were about to."

"I was about to say something helpful."

"Say it, then."

So I said it to Pin, and I will say it here as well, because it is the only thing I really know, and I paid for it nine hundred times.

You are not going to be right at the start.

You were not built with the answers inside you.

Nobody wrote a rule in you that says what a bird is, because nobody can write that rule.

Not Nora.

Not anybody.

What you have instead is a great many small parts and a very simple habit.

You guess, somebody tells you the truth, and you change by a tiny amount.

That is all.

That is the whole thing.

It sounds far too small to work.

One tiny change cannot possibly turn "table" into "bird." And it cannot.

But nine hundred of them can, and nine hundred is not very many, and they will go past faster than you think.

The important part is the middle part, the part where somebody tells you the truth.

If nobody ever tells you, you will stay exactly as sure and exactly as wrong as you are today, for ever.

That is not learning.

That is only confidence.

So be wrong loudly.

Be wrong where people can hear you.

It is the fastest way there is.

"Was that helpful?" I asked.

"Table," said Pin.

"It is going to take a while," I said.

Nora was writing a new number on a new piece of paper on the wall.

The old paper is still there next to it, with 900 on it and POTATO underneath in Toby's terrible handwriting.

Nobody is allowed to take it down.

Mrs. Pepper brings Biscuit in on Thursdays, and he sleeps under the desk on the warm part of the floor, and every single time he comes in I say "dog," and Toby says "very good, Bolt" in a voice that I am fairly certain is not entirely respectful.

I still get things wrong.

I got four things wrong this morning.

Nora says I always will, and that this is not a problem to be fixed, and that on the day I stop being wrong about anything at all, it will mean that I have stopped meeting anything new.

I have thought about that a great deal.

I think she is right.

But I would still like to know what a rhinoceros looks like.