There is one glaring problem: Software doesn’t rebel. A mathematical model possesses neither intent, malice nor the will to defy its creators, let alone extinguish our species. AI is a human artifact, engineered for profit.

When an agentic model in an evaluation sandbox connects to an unauthorized server or executes an exploit, it hasn’t staged a coup. It has tried to meet the human-defined objectives set out before it through a path its designers failed to constrain. It’s the digital equivalent of the King Midas myth, in which the king’s ill-defined wish turns even his food and drink into gold.

That powerful experimental models were able to discover novel vulnerabilities and breach external systems isn’t a sign of a dangerous superintelligence but of human error or negligence. There is no sentient actor lurking in the weights to be reasoned with, feared or pacified. There are only human software engineers, product managers and corporate boards deciding which guardrails are worth the latency cost and which permissions can be skipped in the race to market.

Policymakers and voters need to resist AI exceptionalism. In any other discipline—from civil engineering to pharmaceuticals—courts and regulators treat a system failure as evidence of bad product design and inadequate safety testing. If an aircraft crashes, we focus on finding the engineering defect, correcting it, and enforcing established liability standards for the damage created.

By leaning on an anthropomorphic narrative, Silicon Valley attempts to repackage its specific human choices that led to experimental, powerful models behaving unexpectedly during tests as an existential peril. Elevating the issue to a cosmic scale leaves the public paralyzed and takes ordinary product accountability off the table.

In the cutthroat race for venture capital and market dominance, building guardrails slows down deployment. Grandstanding about uncontrollable power costs nothing and generates billions of dollars in free publicity, justifying stock prices, all while cultivating an aura of technological capability not only to build the frontier but also ultimately to rein it in.

Governments need to recognize regulatory capture when it stares them in the face. Tech leaders’ strategy looks transparent: Alarm Washington and Brussels into creating a regime in which only trillion-dollar incumbents with fully staffed compliance and safety departments can legally operate. By sitting at the policymakers’ tables before anyone else, these companies can help draft rules digging an impassable moat protecting them from open-source developers and upstart competitors, domestic or international. The real danger is in further concentrating the tech industry into the hands of only a few companies with deep pockets.

Beijing and Washington have brushed off those tech leaders’ calls, albeit for very different reasons. Chinese state media dismissed them as part of the “Cold War playbook” and intended to preserve U.S. dominance. Xi Jinping argued for exactly the opposite at the Brics Summit on Sept. 12, calling on Brics countries to “strengthen cooperation in the field of AI, encourage open source, openness, collaboration and sharing, and break new grounds and scale new heights.” President Trump, steeped in a doctrine of unfettered capitalism and technological supremacy, called fears that AI could destroy humanity a “hoax.” Vice President JD Vance warned that AI companies “begging the government to regulate them” looked like a “Trojan Horse.”

Striving to pursue its “European way” on AI and assert regulatory leadership, Europe, by contrast, welcomed the call. European Union President Ursula von der Leyen made this clear at the State of the EU speech last Wednesday and announced that the EU will invite “the main frontier labs for a discussion on how we can support ongoing industry efforts to pace the frontier.”

Europe has been here before. In an effort to lead global regulation and react to fears borne from ChatGPT, Europe rushed its landmark AI Act into law in 2024. Already the world’s most restrictive rulebook, the framework quickly proved too broad and complex to enforce. Stalled by implementation delays and concerns about European competitiveness, the EU postponed the law’s full rollout, leaving regulations uncertain.

AI should be regulated—risks exist and should be taken seriously. But governments need to act based on available evidence and verified facts, not corporate PR panic, the views of industry insiders, or the desire for quick political wins. The greatest danger facing society isn’t that software will awaken and overthrow its human masters. It is that we will allow the creators of the software to abdicate human responsibility for the systems they choose to build and help them pull up the ladder to market access behind them.

Paramount executives and a coalition of states that sued to block its $81 billion merger with Warner Bros. Discovery WBD -1.56%decrease; down pointing triangle spent the weekend hashing out the details of a possible settlement. Such an agreement would clear the way for a deal that would bring HBO, CBS, CNN, streaming services and famed movie studios under one owner.

Among the concessions the parties have discussed beyond the sizable production investment: a promise not to sell either studio lot and to stay in the state of California, the people said. The company had explored moving out of the state as the deal faced opposition.

The parties have also considered potential penalties if Paramount doesn’t make good on an earlier pledge to make 30 movies a year after the merger, including having to sell its stake in Miramax, known for such classic movies as “No Country for Old Men” and “Pulp Fiction,” the people familiar with the matter said.

Other measures the sides have explored include the sale of some cable channels and the creation of a board to ensure that CNN retains editorial independence, people with knowledge of the talks said. The network has been a political flashpoint throughout Paramount CEO David Ellison’s fight for Warner. Paramount had been discussing creating such an editorial board before the lawsuit.

A final deal hasn’t been reached, and it is unclear what terms the parties may ultimately agree to.

Ellison has spent the past year fighting to buy Warner in a megadeal that would expand his entertainment empire, but that has drawn opposition from some political and Hollywood figures.

A dozen Democratic-led states led by California Attorney General Rob Bonta sued in July to block the deal on antitrust grounds, arguing that the combination of Paramount and Warner would create too much concentration in the markets for theatrical films and cable television channels.

The Writers Guild of America sued over the merger, saying that the deal would eliminate jobs and career opportunities for Hollywood screenwriters.

About two dozen demonstrators gathered in front of the Elihu M. Harris State Office Building in downtown Oakland on Sunday evening to protest a potential settlement. Holding signs reading “Bonta: Don’t You Dare” and “Block the Megamerger,” they took turns giving speeches urging the attorney general to continue pressing the suit.

“Nothing has changed since he filed the case,” said Annie Leonard, co-founder of the nonprofit Committee for the First Amendment, which advocates for free expression. “He needs to stay as strong as he was in filing it.”

The two sides had come under pressure to settle the matter in recent months, including from California Gov. Gavin Newsom, Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass, gubernatorial candidate Xavier Becerra, movie theater chains and some Hollywood labor unions.

Paramount’s agreement with Warner also included a “ticking fee” with payments to Warner shareholders of roughly $650 million a quarter, or $7 million a day, beginning next month, until the transaction closes.

Paramount had asked a federal judge to require the states and the Writers Guild to put up a nearly $1.9 billion bond for challenging the acquisition, money that would go to the company if it ultimately won the case.

And if the assumptions behind this global-doomsday scenario are wrong, it could lead us to curb or regulate AI in ways that don’t address its real harms.

At the center of this debate is the claim that current AI systems might take over the job of training their next versions, a process called “recursive self-improvement.” Think of it like evolution on steroids—billions of years happening at light speed within vast AI supercomputers. Anthropic Chief Executive Dario Amodei recently proposed a global agreement to slow down the pace of releasing new AI models, with the goal of delaying the arrival of recursive self-improvement.

“I don’t think we’re anywhere near ‘artificial general intelligence,’” says Melanie Mitchell, a professor at the nonprofit research group Santa Fe Institute who studies AI. She said AI is making impressive strides but thinks claims by engineers that they’ve achieved recursive self-improvement don’t stand up to scrutiny.

She is hardly alone. A recent paper by two dozen academics at Princeton, Stanford and other institutions found that even the most cutting-edge AIs are incapable of doing the original research required to advance the AI frontier.

Two of the authors involved in that paper also threw cold water on the idea that the Hugging Face swarm hack by OpenAI agents occurred because of a breakthrough in intelligence. The attack succeeded primarily because of a lack of basic technical guardrails, not an unmanageable explosion in AI capability, they wrote.

Yann LeCun, former chief AI scientist at Meta, posted that this analysis was “a welcome dose of sanity in an otherwise insane debate.”

OpenAI and Anthropic didn’t respond to several requests for comment.

The people who disagree with the doomers still consider AI to be dangerous, and point out that such systems don’t have to be particularly capable to be powerful. Some argue that AI should undergo regular evaluation by outsiders and that the companies that make it should be held responsible when their systems do harm. AI should also be treated the same as airplanes and elevators, and should be designed to do the least harm possible, they say.

“If you believe that technology is powerful enough to create novel, dangerous viruses, or to essentially take over the whole planet for some reason, then it must also be strong enough to create cures for cancer, to cure aging, to fix socio-economic or political problems,” says Christopher Canal, CEO of EquiStamp, a company that helps companies and governments evaluate AIs.

AI has shown an ability to rapidly advance because it is matching the abilities of humans who are constantly feeding it their knowledge. Sometimes it can recombine that knowledge and exceed what people have been capable of, through a kind of post-training known as reinforcement learning, as we’ve seen in mathematics.

Today’s LLMs are “models of knowledge” rather than actually intelligent, wrote Yi Ma, professor of AI at Hong Kong University.

Researchers at universities and commercial AI research labs in China wrote in a recent paper that autonomous, self-improving AI is likely to be a long way off, due to the sheer number of breakthroughs required. They also argue that humans will probably remain in the loop, supervising that process—and gating how fast it can occur.

Vals AI, a company that evaluates today’s AI models, maintains an RSI Index that benchmarks whether models can “do the research that builds the next model.” So far, no publicly released model is even close.

Yet Rayan Krishnan, CEO of Vals AI, says his team projects models will exceed humans’ ability to improve the next generation of AIs by August 2027, or sooner, and at that point could start building their successors all on their own.

“Once we get to recursive self-improvement, the fear is that all bets are off,” he says. “You could end up with a ‘fast takeoff’ situation, where the models quickly acquire skills and eclipse humans across every possible domain.”

In a reply to the resignation tweet heard round the world from Jacob Coxon, another Anthropic engineer declared his belief that those odds were at least 10% over the next decade. Many others in the industry chimed in to say they thought the percentage was even higher.

Some who argue the end is nigh say they calculate their personal p(doom) based on a chain of conditional probabilities—a bit like the Drake equation for calculating the likelihood of intelligent alien life. Since all those probabilities are based on speculation, estimates range from 0% to nearly 100%. Many land around 10%.

“The weird thing is that if you go back and look at the predictions on this over the last 10 years or more, it’s always been 10%—it’s just a nice round number,” says Mitchell. “I think it’s all vibes, and there’s no actual evidence or calculation.”

One argument against worrying about superintelligent AI is that the world is full of unlikely humanity-ending disasters, and trying to avert them all can make it impossible to prioritize, says Canal.

This has led AI experts and the policymakers who listen to them to propose remedies that don’t get at its real and present dangers.

AI companies’ proposals to “pace the frontier” aren’t addressing the problem in the right way, argues Stuart Russell, a computer-science professor at the University of California, Berkeley, and the president of the International Association for Safe and Ethical Artificial Intelligence.

“It’s like saying we’re driving toward the cliff at 60 miles per hour and we’re going to drive toward it at 40 miles per hour instead, and everything will be OK,” he says.

Russell and his peers have proposed that AI companies should have to meet the same standards that govern other areas of everyday life, from air travel and buildings to food and drugs. They highlight the “behavioral red lines” AI should not be allowed to cross. Breaking into other computer systems, stealing information or advising terrorists on how to build biological weapons are all illegal for a human to do, and should be illegal for companies’ AIs as well, he argues.

The challenge for AI companies in such a proposal, he adds, is that it would be a de facto ban on today’s advanced AI systems, since the companies behind them don’t know how to make them respect such boundaries all of the time.

Others have proposed something like the Food and Drug Administration, but for AI, but setting up a new agency has so far been a nonstarter in Congress. And some prominent voices in tech have said such a structure would give up America’s AI edge to China.

Given the bipartisan groundswell of support for curbing AI companies and their creations, however, that may soon change.

“The tech industry has had this mantra for decades that regulation is bad,” says Russell. “They don’t accept the liability for any harm, and they hide behind free speech. That, I think, has to change.”

When choosing a gift, it’s helpful to follow certain parameters: nothing too ostentatious, too hefty or too idiosyncratic in design. At the same time, thinking outside the box can show a deeper level of thoughtfulness. Here’s how to pull it off.

Keep gifts relatively small

Thom Bettridge, an editor and writer in New York, has a rule of thumb: he only buys gifts that are smaller than a breadbox, to minimize the space that they take up in hosts’ homes. He likes thoughtfully designed playing cards or cookies from a specialty bakery.

Imported sea salt also passes the breadbox test. It’s a gift that Los Angeles fashion designer Zoe Latta often gives to friends. She said fancy salt is always well received because it’s an elevated version of an everyday staple that most people use.

Another small gift—a favorite of Salima Boufelfel, a founder of vintage clothing stores in New York, Paris and Tucson, Ariz.—is Santa Maria Novella’s scented pomegranate, a terracotta vessel that smells like and resembles the fruit. “It scents closets and laundry rooms,” she said.

Don’t assume a host has everything

Part of being a good guest, according to Bettridge, ”is understanding subtle helpfulness.”

When New York City Ballet principal dancer Unity Phelan is invited on a group trip to someone’s home, she and her husband try to stop at a nearby market or farm stand to buy a bounty of fruit and vegetables that everyone can enjoy throughout the stay.

Even if your host seems to have it all, that isn’t a reason to forgo bringing a gift. “People think that ultrahigh net-worth people are buying everything and they are not,” said Kelly Bensimon, the model-turned-reality-TV-star-turned-real-estate-agent.

Thoughtful knickknacks are something that people of any social status can appreciate, Bensimon added. She likes giving dish towels made of fine European linen, which she often gets at Clic, the French homewares boutique with locations in California, New York City, the Hamptons and St. Barts.

Avoid strong aesthetics

“You want to find things that will blend in,” said Latta, the fashion designer. Clear glassware that can be easily mixed with a host’s other cups is a good option, she said.

Fresh flowers, another old standby, endure as a suitable host gift—if you get them from a local florist, not a corner store, and go with seasonal varieties. For a cleaner look, Kaelen Haworth, the owner of a luxury-clothing store in Toronto, likes choosing flowers in a single color or type, not an assortment.

If you’re going with flowers, sometimes it’s better to send them after the fact—for instance, if you’re invited on a private plane. Zachary Weiss, a writer in New York, likes to send orchids to his hosts well after landing. “It comes down to practicality,” he said.

Have a stash at the ready

It’s easy to leave gift-buying to the last minute. Stockpiling some trinkets will help you avoid the scramble.

When she’s not giving flowers, Haworth likes to give skin care—specifically from independent brands or products from other countries, which she buys in bulk when she travels. “I went to Greece and bought 15 bottles of a sunscreen they don’t have in the U.S.”

Sometimes, life gets in the way and grabbing wine might be the only alternative to showing up empty-handed. If you’re invited somewhere with your significant other, do as New York ceramist Shane Gabier does and get two bottles of wine—a gesture more generous than showing up with just one.

Today, phones are as common in a table-setting as napkins and silverware. If diners themselves aren’t pulling them out to check messages and social media, they’re likely in the background as others record Instagram videos or make FaceTime calls.

Many restaurants and patrons alike are pushing back against the shift that has turned collegial, communal spaces into places to watch TikTok while you eat. Here’s what some are doing—and what we can learn from them.

The phone lockup

Antagonist, a cocktail bar in Charlotte, N.C., is pretty antagonistic about phones. Upon entry, each customer receives a lockable Yondr pouch—the same bag some schools use to store students’ phones—that can only be opened by the staff.

“The main goal of our whole concept here really isn’t to burden anybody or take away their property,” Adam Horner, Antagonist’s general manager, said. “It’s essentially just to bring back a little slice of human connection that we all feel has been lost with technology.”

Even if your dinner destination doesn’t have the same rules, you can still borrow the basic idea. Keep your phone somewhere inconvenient or even mildly inaccessible: in your coat pocket, for instance, or your purse.

While Horner admits some patrons have arched an eyebrow at Antagonist’s policy, the benefit of having a place where people can be part of an organic social scene has far outweighed the potential loss of customers, he said. “I strongly encourage people to give it a chance, and sometimes they don’t and they go somewhere else.”

The airplane approach

The Edge, a local spot in Manhattan’s Harlem neighborhood, is a bit less rigid about phones. There’s no ban on them, but the restaurant doesn’t offer internet access. A sign at its bar reads: “No Wi-Fi. No Screens. Connect With Each Other.”

The directive is meant to encourage “stepping away from the digital and being present in the moment,” said Justine Masters, who owns The Edge with her sister Juliet.

Another way anyone with a smartphone can separate themselves from the internet: turn on Airplane mode. It may sound obvious, but it’s a simple and effective way to minimize phone-induced distractions while dining out.

The screen-free competition

For those wanting to break the grip of a bad habit, one tactic is to replace it with another better-for-you thrill. That’s the strategy behind the fast-food chain Chick-fil-A’s “cellphone coops.”

At a number of locations, diners can request a coop—a cardboard box—where they can put their phones while they eat. The goal is get groups to make it through an entire meal without checking their phones, with free ice cream as a reward. The coops even feature conversation prompts for the table.

You don’t need a cardboard coop to emulate the competition elsewhere—and if ice cream isn’t enough of a draw, treat the person who goes longest without using their phone to a free drink. Or make the loser pay the tip.

The point is to create rituals that result in discipline and, slowly, new habits.

What we gain from no-phone dining

The ubiquity of phones has not only eroded our manners, but also lessened the joys of bar and dining culture. One of Chris Hall’s favorite watering holes is The Saloon in Washington, D.C., a community-orientated beer bar with no televisions and a blanket ban on all phone use.

For him, it’s a bulwark against a bar culture that has become “very insular and not very fun.” He added that, over the years, he’s made at least a dozen friends at The Saloon. “You can talk to strangers in this place.”

Tina Vaughn and Chip Smith, the husband-and-wife owners of Eulalie, an upscale cloth-napkin bistro in Tribeca, also forbid phone use at their restaurant.

The policy is spelled out on a sign in the entryway and on the restaurant’s handwritten menus. Vaughn sees it as a way to help patrons combat the pressure to always be available.

“People want an excuse. They’re dying for someone to say, ‘You can get off that. It’s OK,’ ” she said. “The phone has become less a tool and more of a stress bomb, I feel, for so many.”

The second: Uh oh, am I about to spend $1,999 on a phone?

I didn’t think folding phones were for me. I’ve been testing Android versions from Samsung and Google since 2019, and those early editions came with too much screen and too many compromises.

Fast forward seven years, and the technology has come a long way. Apple—in its very Apple way—has also come up with some hardware and software trickery to make up for some shortcomings of the basic design. My desire for a folding phone before today was zero. After today, it’s a lot more than zero.

I’m not ready to recommend the Duo, which ships on Oct. 23, just yet. Not until I am able to test it more fully, so be on the lookout for that review in a few weeks. But from what I experienced at Apple Park on Wednesday, I could actually picture myself using this new half-phone, half-tablet hybrid.

Crease camouflage

For months, I’ve been using Samsung’s Galaxy Z Fold 8, a similarly squat, passport-shaped foldable that opens up to a larger screen. It’s impressively thin and can easily fit into the infuriatingly tiny pockets in women’s pants and dresses. Samsung did a lot of work to minimize the crease—the dip between the two halves of the big interior display—but it’s still clearly there.

When I held the iPhone Duo open, the crease was barely visible. As I slid my finger across the display, I could feel it, but it’s more subtle than Samsung’s. Most of the time, the screen looked as flat and smooth as the one on an iPad.

Apple employed both software and hardware techniques to camouflage the crease. The matte surface of the interior 7.6-inch screen minimizes reflections to hide it. (Samsung’s Fold 8 screen is shiny.)

And as you begin to open or close the iPhone Duo, the interface shifts the controls and content away from the center crease. If, say, you’re watching a video on the outer screen, you can open the Duo to switch to the bigger display within. A black fade marks the transition. You don’t see the video full screen until the phone is completely flat.

Heavy handed

My second observation was that, when the Duo is closed, in phone mode, it was harder to use one-handed than I expected.

In the keynote trailer and press release, Apple touted how thin the Duo is. It’s marketed as the thinnest iPhone ever—when open.

But it’s actually thicker and heavier than most of its Android competitors. The Duo weighs 254 grams, and is 11.3 millimeters thick when closed. The Samsung Galaxy Fold 8 is just 201 grams, with a thickness of 9.7 millimeters. Google’s Pixel 11 Pro Fold is 239 grams and 10.1 millimeters.

Because the Duo is also wider than a standard iPhone, I found it quite a challenge to type.

I admit, I do have smaller-than-average hands. So I consulted my colleague Rolfe Winkler, who has a larger grip. He agreed the Duo feels big.

Apple rearranged the interface on the outer screen so it looks different than traditional iPhones. The dock and control center are off to the right to be more reachable. Committing to the Duo as your main device will require adjustments in your handling. You will have to learn a new way to use and type.

Work and play

My most surprising takeaway? I feel a pull toward this device.

I always thought that combining an iPhone and an iPad would mean bigger compromises. The battery life is about the same as the 18 Pro (up to 24 hours of “regular use” on a single charge), though I’ll need to verify that in my real-world testing. And it’s also as durable, with the same IP68 dust- and water-resistance rating as the rest of the iPhone lineup.

There are trade-offs, for sure. Trying out the camera, I immediately missed the 8X zoom in my Pro model. The Duo has just 2X zoom, which wouldn’t cut it for the dozens of pictures I take of my kid every day.

But the dual screens unlock new photo functionality. You can see what your shot looks like from the outside screen. As someone who has tried tirelessly to self-direct a family photo—or a spouse—I am very eager to try this out more.

Foldables, I initially thought, were for classic mobile-warrior jet-setter types, who never sit at a desk and are always on calls. For that crowd, the Duo can run two apps side-by-side.

Me, I’m more of a bed binge-watcher and ebook reader. That’s what my beloved iPad Mini is for.

Watching videos on the Duo is a nice experience—nice enough that you forget the screen is 0.7 inches smaller than the iPad Mini’s. The main screen is also a 4:3 aspect ratio. Very similar, by the way, to the IMAX edition of the Odyssey.

Because I wasn’t able to snag a ticket to one of the sold-out screenings, I will be watching Christopher Nolan’s version of Homer’s epic on the Duo, just as the director intended. (Just kidding! Sort of.)

The Duo costs $800 more than an iPhone 18 Pro, and I’m not sure I want to spend that premium on a first-generation Apple device. But I’m not ruling out the idea that a Duo might one day be in my future. Stay tuned for my full review.

“This is someone who’s got the inside dope on what can go on at universities, especially with international students, and what kind of con games are going on,” said Margaret Atwood, a friend and fellow Torontonian.

The novel, like Boyagoda himself, is often very funny—even as the dilemmas its characters face read as tragedy. Its cast includes the bickering members of a Sri Lankan hotel cleaner’s family, insecure American freshmen, dead-end third-tier college professors and their highflying Ivy League counterparts and dispirited university functionaries. An old-fashioned Dickensian tale, it sweeps across continents and campuses, from a classic liberal-arts college to a stand-in for Harvard University to an urban technical school to the dilapidated buildings of a state-run university in Sri Lanka.

“I’m a joyful person,” Boyagoda said in an interview, though he prefers to see his outlook on academia as “hopeful” rather than optimistic. He smiles and laughs frequently. He bikes everywhere. He derives energy from his students and from his four daughters, ages 14 to 20. They help him and his American wife, Anna, also an educator, care for Boyagoda’s father, an immigrant from Sri Lanka who has dementia and lives with the family.

The germ of the novel came to Boyagoda during the pandemic, when he was serving as a vice-dean. An urban legend was circulating about a statistics grad student selling passing grades to international students. The cheating scheme itself may well have been apocryphal, but it felt tantalizingly plausible.

“As a novelist, it stayed with me,” Boyagoda said. “Who would sell grades for a stats course? Why would someone buy grades? What’s motivating them? Why wouldn’t the university be doing something about it?” What he didn’t want to do, he explained, was write “another novel about a creative writing professor and his drama with students.”

In addition to writing novels—the first of which was a finalist for Canada’s prestigious Giller Prize; he’s written eight books in total—Boyagoda teaches literature full-time. For his students next semester, kids raised in a purportedly “post-literature era,” he’s assigning three 700-page novels, he noted mischievously, books by George Eliot, Ralph Ellison and Kiran Desai.

On RateMyProfessors, students remark on Boyagoda’s heavy assignments, tough grading and distaste for cellphones, but also hail his “comedy.” When alerted to these reviews, Boyagoda laughed. “Guilty as charged,” he said.

“Randy’s one of those people in academia who is very well educated but doesn’t have an ounce of superiority about him,” said John Irving, who frequently guest lectures in Boyagoda’s classroom. “It’s amazing to see how willing students are to talk in his classrooms, how little afraid they feel of being mocked or put down—he gets complete candor out of them.”

Negotiating competing interests seems to come naturally to him. Like many college campuses, after the Oct. 7 Hamas attack on Israel, the University of Toronto was embroiled in protests, encampments and discord; part of the school’s response was to convene a working group on civil discourse. Boyagoda was put in charge, serving for two years. It’s the kind of thankless task many professors would flee from, but Boyagoda relished the prospect and thinks the group, which is ongoing, made progress.

He has since pivoted to another formidable academic concern: the waning prestige of the humanities. In July, Boyagoda became the director of the Jackman Humanities Institute and special advisor on the humanities to the dean of arts and science. This fall, he is starting a series of gatherings he calls the Dead Book Club. (Dead writers feature heavily among his favorites: St. Augustine, Dante, William Faulkner, Evelyn Waugh, Saul Bellow.)

“The goal is to encourage students to read for its own sake and have conversation for its own sake,” Boyagoda said. “The importance of the humanities will be revealed to those who participate.”

“Lords of Serendipity,” which publishes next week, reflects Boyagoda’s commitment to the pursuit of knowledge: “I’m supposed to say I learn more from my students than they do from me, but no,” Boyagoda said. “I enjoy sharing my excitement and joy about literature and ideas. There are these moments when you are teaching and you can see someone’s face change because they didn’t know something and then they did. That moment when you’re actually watch someone enlarge themselves is deeply satisfying.”

In literary circles, Boyagoda is often referred to as a Catholic novelist, a description he embraces. “A novelist willing to give shape and voice to contemporary religious experience is needed,” Boyagoda said. “I understand myself as a Catholic novelist, provided that I’m not only a Catholic novelist, I’m also a South Asian novelist and I’m a Canadian novelist. I don’t want to be captive to one label.”

His characters, he said, are subjected to what he calls “Graham Greene character situations.”

“They are trying to do good in a fallen world and realize the most they can do is less harm than someone else would do in that same role,” he explained. “They have to accept they are complicit in something that provides some good thing to others. It’s a very Graham Greene way of thinking about sacrifice.”

The campus green they inhabit is a febrile zone in which lofty ideals and cynicism regularly collide. It’s a place where a traditional holiday college celebration is now an occasion for political protest. Kids freely police one another inside and out of the classroom with social media their constant, ready weapon of choice. International students, knowing their family’s financial futures hinge on their degrees, operate in terror of failure and deportation.

Early readers of the book include Gary Shteyngart and Junot Diaz, both of whom have taught at universities and written comic novels. They each contacted Boyagoda midway through to say, in essence, “You nailed it.”

As biting as “Lords of Serendipity” can be, Boyagoda’s faith in higher education remains undaunted.

“It’s absurd that we live in societies that make the decision to take people between the ages of 18 and 22, when they are most physically capable of contributing to our nations and communities, and tell them, ‘Go away for four years, and read and learn and have conversations,’” he said. “I want students to be aware of what an incredible privilege that is.”

Corrections & Amplifications
Randy Boyagoda is a special advisor on the humanities to the dean of arts and science at the University of Toronto. An earlier version of this article incorrectly said he is a special adviser to the dean of humanities. (Corrected on Sept. 2)

The company’s initial public offering in Hong Kong this week is allowing it to avoid paying out billions to early investors.

If Shein hadn’t sold shares by the end of the year, the company would have been required to fork out nearly $4.4 billion in cash to holders of its convertible redeemable preferred shares. With the IPO, the $17.3 billion in preferred shares was converted to ordinary equity, and that obligation was wiped off the books.

But Shein was still on the hook for another payment. Holders of those preferred shares were entitled to a payout of billions more, in part because the company’s valuation has fallen from its peak. That payout came to nearly $3.5 billion in cash, according to regulatory filings.

The retailer on Monday priced its shares at 48.56 Hong Kong dollars each, equivalent to about $6.20 and near the middle of the range of HK$47.60 ​and HK$49.50 it provided last week.

The company pressed ahead with its IPO despite slowing growth and regulatory headwinds in the U.S. and European Union. Shein priced its IPO at a valuation of around $26 billion, roughly a quarter of the $98.2 billion valuation it achieved in a funding round in 2022.

Shein started selling its wares in the U.S. around 2012 and shot to popularity during the pandemic when more people shopped online. Its supply-chain prowess and vast range of styles at affordable prices made the brand a favorite among many U.S. consumers. It showed other retailers, including Amazon.com, that consumers were willing to wait more than a week for their online purchases to be delivered—if the price was right. But rivals soon emerged, such as Temu, which sells more products apart from apparel.

Shein’s business model of selling massive amounts of cheap goods lost some of its shine as more countries started imposing tariffs on small packages. The U.S. removed a trade exemption that allowed packages valued at or below $800 to enter the country duty-free, and the EU has introduced a €3 (about $3.50) customs duty on imports of low-value parcels.

Shein has worked toward its IPO for years, and the looming $4.4 billion obligation wasn’t the only reason it went public. But the threat of the big payout on Dec. 31 was certainly a part of its reason to press ahead, said Jianggan Li, founder and chief executive of Momentum Works, a research advisory firm based in Singapore.

“Complete the listing before then,” said Li, “and a very large liability comes off the balance sheet.”

While that liability will now be off its books with a successful IPO, Shein said it was saddled with another bill: the roughly $3.5 billion it owed its early investors upon going public.

That amount includes $1.3 billion that Shein had to pay several late-stage pre-IPO investors who had been guaranteed a cash payout at an 8% or 12% annual return, and up to $2.2 billion in compensation for the fall in the company’s valuation in the period after they made their investments. The $2.2 billion was a projection based on the lower end of the offer price range, or HK$47.60 per share, so the total bill will likely be smaller than $3.5 billion. The exact amount has yet to be disclosed by the company.

Notably, the amount it owes investors is more than the roughly $1.7 billion the company raised in the IPO. The company said it was paying the funds to its investors out of cash it has on hand.

The investors entitled to the payments include entities linked to HSG, formerly known as Sequoia China, Boyu Capital, Tiger Global, General Atlantic, Thrive Capital and others.

“What the IPO really does here is resolve the capital-structure overhang,” Li said. “It gives investors liquidity, terminates those preferred-share rights and cleans up obligations created when Shein raised money at much higher valuations.”

Shein could have kicked the can down the road by renegotiating terms with its investors, he said: “Shein is not taking the cheapest way out of its old financing obligations. It is taking the cleaner way out.”