Maybe it was Abbie Hoffman.  It was of that era.  Poets still played pool and you could fix your own car.  The book’s title was Steal This Book.  I guess I could Google it to check the author’s name, but I am pretending it is 60 years ago, pre- the Post-Literate-‘Lectron Era, back in book time.  No temporal cheating. 

I learned today that four of my novels had been swallowed whole by some Cyclops of an AI Large Language Model, off somewhere washing them down with gigavolt gulps of wasted energy.  I envision chewing.  Eat This Book.  I am not surprised that it does not bother me.  Only cadaver pieces are worth anything.  All those words were not mine once they left the house, freed.

I am invited to litigate.  I forget there are people who do this for money.  Let them sue, and good fortune.  But how can you have freedom at all unless some things are free?