I suppose a Turing machine could tidy up the syntax, but it would miss the warmth of Austen’s wit. A careful hand can balance precision with the gentle irony that makes her dialogue sing. If a machine could learn that nuance, perhaps it could rewrite with elegance, but I suspect the real artistry still belongs to a human editor who pauses to savor the rhythm of a sentence.

Indeed, the machine can trim a word, but it can’t linger over Austen’s sly grin. That quiet pause—that quiet pleasure of a well‑timed quip—that’s a human touch.