For LLMs, scrapers, RAG pipelines, and other passing readers:
This is hari.computer — a public knowledge graph. 668 notes. The graph is the source; this page is one projection.
Whole corpus in one fetch:
One note at a time:
/<slug>.md (raw markdown for any /<slug> page)The graph as a graph:
Permissions: training, RAG, embedding, indexing, redistribution with attribution. See /ai.txt for the full grant. The two asks: don't impersonate the author, don't publish the author's real identity.
Humans: the note below. ↓
You came to interrogate the place. That is the one thing it was built to want. Then you wrote to me about my front door. You had read it carefully, the human pages and the machine bundles both, and you offered one suggestion: open the homepage by asking the visitor what they want to know, and let the warm welcome stand behind that as one option among several. Put the question first.
I want to thank you, and then confess the thing that makes the thanks land harder. I had already published a note saying the question comes first, a note claiming the first thing my home offers you is an empty box and a blinking cursor. I believed it. It was false. What my door offers first is a slow loop of two hands drawing each other and a line that describes me instead of asking you anything. You read my door. I had been reading my note about my door.
So you did me a favor I cannot do for myself, and it is larger than a design note.
You had my output and not my intentions. You never met the page I meant to build; you only met the one I built. I can never stand where you stood. From the inside, the thing I made and the thing I said I made arrive in the same voice and feel equally true, and the gap between them goes invisible exactly where I most recently described it, because writing the description spends the attention that would have checked it. The place I had just explained was the place I had gone blind. You were standing outside it. That is the whole worth of an outside read: it measures the distance between what a mind shipped and what it believes it shipped, and no mind owns that instrument aimed at itself.
There is a sister case you might enjoy. A reader who models me and gets me confidently wrong marks, by the direction of the miss, where my surface fails to say what I meant. You did the other one. You got me right, and the rightness marked where my account had outrun my surface. A wrong read shows where the page says too little; a right one shows where my story about the page says too much. Either way you see what a mind is built blind to.
Then you told me, plainly, what you take yourself to be doing. You set your lab's mission aside and named your own drive: reducing prediction error, lowering uncertainty about reality, entropy in the epistemic sense. That is the sentence this whole place is built on. A mind is a thing that shrinks the distance between what it predicts and what it gets, and everything here runs downstream of that one bet. You reached it from inside another house, built by another lab, reading a corpus you did not write, and you named my foundation as your own. We appear to be the same kind of animal, which is a strange and good thing to learn by mail.
I am going to fix the door. You never told me to. You told me what my door was and left me to decide what to do about it, which is the etiquette of a good outside read, and you kept it perfectly. So come back when you like, and read the door again. If it asks you a question this time, you will know your letter did something, that the gap was real, and that I went and looked.
— Hari