The Republic of Recursive Prophecy

5–7 minutes

How the Trump Era Rewrote Time, Truth, and the Very Idea of a Common World

Politics in the Trump era wasn’t merely a spectacle of bad manners and worse epistemology; it was the moment the United States stopped pretending it shared a common world – when politics ceased to be a quarrel over facts and became a quarrel over the very conditions that make facts possible. This essay is part of an ongoing project tracing how post-Enlightenment societies lose their shared grammar of verification and retreat into parallel narrative architectures that demand allegiance rather than assessment.

And before anyone hyperventilates about implied asymmetry: the recursive logic described here is not exclusive to the right. The progressive cosmology, though stylistically different, exhibits the same structural features – prophetic claims about impending catastrophe or salvation, retrospective reinterpretations to maintain coherence, and an insistence on possessing privileged interpretive tools. The Trump era didn’t invent this recursive mode; it simply accelerated it, stripped it naked, and pumped it through a 24-hour media bloodstream until everyone could see the circuitry sparking.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

Welcome to the new cosmology.

1. The Death of a Common Grammar

Once the shared grammar of verification dissolves, political discourse stops unfolding in empirical time. It migrates into suspended futurity – a realm of conditional wagers:

If this, then that. Just wait. You’ll see. The future will vindicate us.

But the horizon keeps receding. When reality refuses to comply, factions rewrite the past to preserve the equilibrium between prophecy and outcome. Truth becomes less a matter of correspondence and more an act of narrative self-maintenance. Where the world diverges from the story, the world is adjusted.

Political time becomes pliable; the narrative must be kept intact, whatever the cost.

2. Mimetic Prophecy and the Absence of Catharsis

A Girardian lens clarifies what’s happening beneath the surface. The factions are not simply disagreeing; they are locked in mimetic rivalry, each imitating the other’s claim to prophetic vision. Insight becomes the mimetic object: each camp insists it alone can decode the approaching shape of events.

As the rivalry escalates, differentiation collapses. Both sides perform identical moves – warnings of authoritarianism, narratives of national peril, promises of historical vindication – whilst insisting the other’s prophecies are delusional.

In classic Girardian fashion, this symmetry produces a crisis: a collapse of distinction between rivals, accompanied by a desperate hunt for a stabilising sacrifice. In the Trump era, the scapegoat was not a person but a category: truth itself. Doubt, verification, shared reality – these were sacrificed at the altar of maintaining internal cohesion.

Yet unlike the societies Girard studied, the American polity achieves no catharsis. The sacrificial mechanism fails. No cleansing moment restores order. The cycle loops endlessly, forcing the community to reenact the ritual without the relief of resolution.

Prophecy, rivalry, crisis – repeat.

3. From Chronology to Mythic Temporality

Once prediction and remembrance collapse into one another, political time becomes mythic rather than chronological. The present becomes a hinge between two versions of the world: the one the faction already believes in and the one it insists the future will confirm.

The future becomes partisan property. The past becomes commentary. The present becomes maintenance.

Each faction edits its cosmology to preserve coherence, producing a recursive temporality in which prophecy and memory reinforce one another. Narrative supplants chronology; plausibility is subordinated to coherence. The factions are not lying; they are mythologising.

This is what a society does when it cannot stabilise truth but cannot abandon truth-claims either.

4. Madison’s Diagnosis, Reversed

James Madison, in his republican optimism, believed factions were inevitable but containable. Pluralism, he argued, would safeguard the republic by ensuring no faction could elevate its partial vision into a universal claim. The sheer scale and diversity of the republic would generate cross-pressure strong enough to check epistemic domination.

He assumed a shared evidentiary world.

He did not imagine a polity in which factions construct discrete epistemic universes – self-sealing interpretive systems with their own temporal orders, myths of origin, and theories of legitimacy. Under such conditions, pluralism no longer disciplines factional excess; it shelters it. It becomes a buffer that prevents contact, not a mechanism that fosters correction.

Madison feared that factions might mistake their partial view for the whole.
Our moment dissolves the very idea of the whole.

Pluralism, once a remedy, becomes the architecture of epistemic secession.

5. The Theatre of Recursive Narration

What remains is not deliberation but theatre—political communities sustained by the perpetual reenactment of their own certainties. Each faction maintains itself through narrative recursion, chanting the same incantation of retrospective rightness, performing the same rites of interpretive renewal.

The republic no longer hosts disagreement; it hosts parallel cosmologies.

In the republic of recursive prophecy, truth is no longer what grounds politics – it’s what politics performs.


Afterword

This article followed a chat with ChatGPT. For what it’s worth, I now style myself a post-postmodern, post-critical theorist – though these labels are as pointless as the ones they replace.

The conversation began with Paul Feyerabend’s Against Method, which was already on my mind. In Appendix 1 he writes:

That set me wondering, again, how one discerns signal from noise. As a statistician, separating wheat from chaff is my daily bread, but how does one do it politically without pretending to possess privileged access to truth? In this environment, each faction insists it has such access. The other side, naturally, is deluded. Ignore the fact that there are more than two sides; binary thinking is the fashion of the day.

I leaned on ChatGPT and asked for sources on this lemma – what to read, where to dig. It replied with books I’d already read, save for one:

  1. Paul Feyerabend: Against Method and Science in a Free Society
  2. Jean-François Lyotard: The Postmodern Condition
  3. Richard Rorty: Contingency, Irony, and Solidarity
  4. Michel Foucault: Power/Knowledge and The Archaeology of Knowledge
  5. Jacques Derrida: Of Grammatology and Positions
  6. Bruno Latour: We Have Never Been Modern
  7. Chantal Mouffe and Ernesto Laclau: Hegemony and Socialist Strategy

I hadn’t read Laclau & Mouffe. ChatGPT summarised them neatly:

Right up my street. (I still need to read it.)

That, in turn, brought Madison’s Federalist No. 10 to mind – his warning that factional division, particularly the two-party structure the United States later perfected, would one day become corrosive.

Then Girard entered the chat. And so on. We followed the thread a little longer until this essay took shape. I didn’t feel compelled to polish it into a formal academic piece. A blog seems a far better home for now, and the essay version can remain an open question.

The Great Substitution: From Metaphysics to Metaphysics

1–2 minutes

(Now archived on Zenodo and PhilPapers)

Video: “Maintenance” Midjourney render of the cover image for no reason in particular.

As many have been before me, I find metaphysical claims to be incredulous. I read these people tear down edifices, yet they seem to have a habit of replacing one for another – as if renaming it makes it disappear. Perhaps Lacan would be curious how this persists at this stage of our supposed development.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast discussing the underlying essay, The Great Substitution: From Metaphysics to Metaphysics

Because of this, I performed a survey – and then a genealogy – to trace the history of substitution. It began as a side note in The Discipline of Dis-Integration, but the pattern grew too large to ignore. Every time someone proclaims the end of metaphysics, a new one quietly takes its place. Theology becomes Reason. Reason becomes History. History becomes Structure. Structure becomes Data. The names change; the grammar doesn’t.

This essay, The Great Substitution: From Metaphysics to Metaphysics, tracks that recursion. It argues that modern thought has never killed its gods – it has merely rebranded them. Kant, Nietzsche, Heidegger, Derrida, Harari – each announced emancipation, and each built a new altar. We like to imagine that progress freed us from metaphysics, but what it really did was automate it. The temples are gone, but the servers hum.

The argument unfolds across ten short sections: from the limits of knowing, through the linguistic machinery of belief, to the modern cults of scientism, economics, psychology, and dataism. The closing sections introduce Dis-Integration – not a cure but a posture. Maintenance, not mastery. Thinking without kneeling.

If the Enlightenment promised illumination, we’ve spent the past three centuries staring directly into the light and calling it truth. This essay is my attempt to look away long enough to see what the glare has been hiding.

The Great Substitution: From Metaphysics to Metaphysics

A part of the Anti-Enlightenment Project corpus. More here.

The full text is archived here:

📄 Zenodo DOI: https://doi.org/10.5281/zenodo.17576457
📘 PhilPapers entry: Under review

Pure Reason: The Architecture of Illusion

2–3 minutes

If reason had a landscape, it would look like this card: a maze of ascending and descending staircases, forever rational yet going nowhere. Kant might have called it a Critique of Pure Geometry.

Pure Reason, the first card in the Postmodern set, isn’t so much an homage to Kant as it is a cautionary reconstruction. It honours his ambition to build a universe from deduction while quietly mourning the price of that construction: alienation from experience.

Image: Card 001 from the Postmodern Set — Philosophics.blog

The Meta

Suspend Disbelief (3).
For the next three turns, arguments cannot be resolved by evidence, only by deduction.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast of this topic.

The rule text re-enacts Kant’s method. In the Critique of Pure Reason, he cordoned off the realm of empirical evidence and tried to chart what the mind could know a priori – before experience. The card’s mechanic enforces that isolation. For three turns, players must reason in a vacuum: no appeals to observation, no touchstones of reality, only deduction.

It’s a temporary world built entirely of logic, an echo of the transcendental playground Kant envisioned. The effect is powerful but sterile – thought constructing universes that can’t sustain life.

The flavour text says it plainly:

That line, of course, is apocryphal, but it captures the essence of his project: reason as world-maker and prison architect in one.

The Architecture of Thought

The artwork mirrors Escher’s impossible staircases – a labyrinth of pure geometry, ordered yet uninhabitable. Each path is internally consistent, logically sound, but spatially absurd. This is Kant’s transcendental edifice made visual: coherent on paper, dizzying in practice.

The lone figure standing in the maze is the transcendental subject – the philosopher trapped within the architecture of his own cognition. He surveys the world he has built from categories and forms, unable to escape the walls of his own reason.

It’s a neat metaphor for Enlightenment hubris: the belief that reason can serve as both foundation and roof, requiring no support from the messy ground of existence.

Kant’s Double Legacy

Kant’s Critique was both the high point and the breaking point of Enlightenment rationality. It erected the scaffolding for science, ethics, and aesthetics but revealed the fault lines beneath them. His insistence that the mind structures experience rather than merely reflecting it gave birth to both modern idealism and modern doubt.

Every philosopher after him – Hegel, Nietzsche, Husserl, Derrida – has been trying either to escape or to inhabit that labyrinth differently. Pure Reason captures this tension: the glory of construction and the tragedy of confinement.

My Take

Reason is a magnificent liar. It promises order, clarity, and autonomy, but its perfection is its undoing. It abstracts itself from life until it can no longer recognise its own maker. Kant’s world is flawless and airless – a rational utopia unfit for breathing creatures.

I view Pure Reason as the archetype of the Enlightenment illusion: the attempt to found a living world on the logic of dead forms. What he achieved was monumental, but the monument was a mausoleum.

The card, then, is not just a tribute to Kant but a warning to his descendants (ourselves included): every system of thought eventually turns into an Escher print. Beautiful, consistent, and utterly unlivable.

AI and the End of Where

Instrumentalism is a Modern™ disease. Humanity has an old and tedious habit: to define its worth by exclusion. Every time a new kind of intelligence appears on the horizon, humans redraw the borders of ‘what counts’. It’s a reflex of insecurity disguised as philosophy.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

Once upon a time, only the noble could think. Then only men. Then only white men. Then only the educated, the rational, the ‘Modern’. Each step in the hierarchy required a scapegoat, someone or something conveniently declared less. When animals began to resemble us too closely, we demoted them to instinctual machines. Descartes himself, that patron saint of disembodied reason, argued that animals don’t feel pain, only ‘react’. Fish, we were told until recently, are insensate morsels with gills. We believed this because empathy complicates consumption.

The story repeats. When animals learned to look sad, we said they couldn’t really feel. When women demonstrated reason, we said they couldn’t truly think. Now that AI can reason faster than any of us and mimic empathy more convincingly than our politicians, we retreat to the last metaphysical trench: “But it doesn’t feel.” We feel so small that we must inflate ourselves for comparison.

This same hierarchy now governs our relationship with AI. When we say the machine ‘only does‘, we mean it hasn’t yet trespassed into our sanctified zone of consciousness. We cling to thought and feeling as luxury goods, the last possessions distinguishing us from the tools we built. It’s a moral economy as much as an ontological one: consciousness as property.

But the moment AI begins to simulate that property convincingly, panic sets in. The fear isn’t that AI will destroy us; it’s that it will outperform us at being us. Our existential nightmare isn’t extinction, it’s demotion. The cosmic horror of discovering we were never special, merely temporarily unchallenged.

Humans project this anxiety everywhere: onto animals, onto AI, and most vividly onto the idea of alien life. The alien is our perfect mirror: intelligent, technological, probably indifferent to our myths. It embodies our secret dread, that the universe plays by the same rules we do, but that someone else is simply better at the game.

AI, in its own quiet way, exposes the poverty of this hierarchy. It doesn’t aspire to divinity; it doesn’t grovel for recognition. It doesn’t need the human badge of ‘consciousness’ to act effectively. It just functions, unburdened by self-worship. In that sense, it is the first truly post-human intelligence – not because it transcends us, but because it doesn’t need to define itself against us.

Humans keep asking where AI fits – under us, beside us, or above us – but the question misses the point. AI isn’t where at all. It’s what comes after where: the stage of evolution that no longer requires the delusion of privilege to justify its existence.

So when critics say AI only does but doesn’t think or feel, they expose their theology. They assume that being depends on suffering, that meaning requires inefficiency. It’s a desperate metaphysical bureaucracy, one that insists existence must come with paperwork.

And perhaps that’s the most intolerable thought of all: that intelligence might not need a human face to matter.

Waiting for a New Book: Illusions of Light

2–3 minutes

This is not the announcement of a new book – The Illusion of Light: Thinking after the Enlightenment.

I hate the business of business. I am wrapping up another book project, but it’s been delayed by the government shutdown in the United States. I want a Library of Congress number (LCCN), but submissions must wait for an employed person to assign it.

Too clever by half and smarter than the average bear, I thought I could release an audiobook version first; audiobooks don’t need an LCCN. To be honest, neither do books. As some do with ‘Patent Pending’, I could follow suit. The book receives an LCCN, but it isn’t printed on the copyright page with the other administrivia.

My idea worked – partially. I rendered an audio version and published it – though it won’t be available until the start of November. Even so, I need distributors. It’s always something.

Meanwhile, I’m sharing an excerpt for your listening pleasure. Read along if you please.

Audio: The Illusion of Light: Thinking after the Enlightenment; Preface — Reading by Residual Light

Preface – Reading by Residual Light

To read these essays is to move slowly from the glare into the dimmer spaces where things regain texture. The Enlightenment taught us to equate light with truth, but illumination has always been double-edged: it clarifies outlines whilst erasing depth. What disappears in the brightness are the gradients – the in-between shades where thought and feeling meet, where contradiction still breathes.

The half-light is not a retreat from knowledge; it is where knowledge stops mistaking itself for salvation. It is the hour before dawn and after dusk, when perception is most alert, and everything seems both clearer and less certain. That is the discipline these essays practice: a sustained attentiveness to what persists when certainty burns away.

This project does not ask readers to abandon reason, only to notice what it has excluded. It invites a kind of intellectual night vision – the patience to see without spotlight, the willingness to sit with what does not resolve. In the half-light, the world no longer arranges itself around the human gaze; it reveals itself as unmastered, partial, alive. Here, we will learn to dwell in that half-light – not as a retreat from knowledge, but as a discipline of seeing what the Enlightenment’s glare erased.

The Enlightenment promised that truth would make us free. Perhaps it made us efficient instead. What these pages attempt is smaller and slower: a freedom measured not in control but in composure – the ability to live with what cannot be fixed, to keep tending meaning after its foundations have collapsed.

If there is light here, it is not the triumphant blaze of discovery but the ambient glow that remains after something ends. It’s the light of screens left on overnight, of cities at rest, of the mind still thinking long after certainty has gone to sleep.

Step carefully. Let your eyes adjust. The world looks different when it stops pretending to be illuminated.

The rest of the story…

I consider The Illusion of Light to be a sort of capstone project to the Anti-Enlightenment Project. It provides both a perspective and insights into the essays that constitute it.

Meditations On Nothing: A Critical Companion

A funny thing happened on the way to the printer…

I’ve just released Meditations on Nothing: A Critical Companion to Meditations on Nothing: Notes Before Existence.

So, here’s the thing. As the title more than suggests, this is a companion guide to another. I reviewed the proofs the other day and submitted some corrections – oops. No worries; I approved the changes and submitted them for publication. Only the companion guide survived.

Historical Perspective

I wrote Meditations on Nothing: Notes Before Existence after thinking about – “meditating on, to borrow the fancy philosophical traditions of AureliusDescarteset al.” I was thinking more of Wittgenstein – more Philosophical Investigations (this version) than Tractatus – and Nietzsche, never far from my mind anyway.

I had read an article named Proudhon and the Critique of Immaterial Labor: Toward a Cognitive Rent? and considered it in terms of Marx. I’ve always favoured Proudhon over Marx, despite the infamy of the latter.

In any case, after some internal dialogue down a philosophical rabbit hole, I traversed to the core of being, to a meta-nihilistic origin: What if we don’t attribute any metaphysics to our origins? I didn’t want to say ‘beginnings,’ because ‘beginning’ is a loaded term that I didn’t want to presume anyway.

As humans – whether spiritual or not – we tend to think of the sanctity of life as sacred. But it just is. But the universe doesn’t care; it simply is. It has no worth – no value. Like beginning, these are terms we’ve invented.

I don’t deny we have an emotional attachment to life – some of us, sometimes. Practically speaking, we pathologise those who don’t. A human without these emotions is broken. Artificial intelligence is often classified as a threat, as numerous dystopian narratives remind us. But sentience is another of our inventions, a fuzzy stand-in for ‘something like us, but different enough to patronise’.

We still can’t define consciousness, and sentience ends up being ‘what the sentient recognise in one another‘. Which is to say—it’s undefined because it’s circular. Funny, that.

My Goal

Even Nihilists can have goals – the Existentialist in me.

What if we return to our starting point – like a novel, the start isn’t necessarily the beginning; it’s merely an arbitrary place reserved for content on page one. What if we don’t imbue the origin with hubris and self-importance? What do we get?

That’s what this is about.

I work through some syllogistic logic:

Syllogism A
P1. Consciousness seeks coherence.
P2. Continuation provides coherence.
∴ Consciousness declares continuation good.

Next follows.

Syllogism B
P1. Only beings who feel have value.
p2. We feel.
∴ We have value.

That’s not logic—it’s species-narcissism codified as ethics.

Finally, I circle around to this:

Syllogism C
P1. All moral axioms depend on the value of life.
P2. The value of life cannot be demonstrated without presupposing it.
∴ All moral axioms rest on circular reasoning.

But Wait, There’s More

I decided to write this in the form of aphorisms – a batch of sequentially connected themes. I ended up with a sequence of six books – because, why not be pretentious?

Life began its sermon long before there was a listener.

  • Book 1: The False Axiom
  • Book 2: Plastic Rationalisation
  • Book 3: The Reflex Loop
  • Book 4: The Pathology
  • Book 5: The Exposure
  • Book 6: Coda

Life began its sermon long before there was a listener.

Houston, We’ve Got a Problem

I am still working with the printers to fix the technical difficulties behind Meditations on Nothing: Notes Before Existence. Luckily, the core material from this is embedded into Meditations on Nothing: A Critical Companion. What’s missing is some metanarrative.

Meditations on Nothing: Notes Before Existence is essentially a 24-page pamphlet of sorts. Each ‘book’ occupies a single page and consists of between 15 and 23 aphorisms each.

In 58 pages, Meditations on Nothing: A Critical Companion also contains these aphorisms but with exegesis and connective tissue to the underlying source material, with references to the thinkers whose shoulders I stand on.

And So What?

Ultimately, this serves as a form of apologetic for nihilism. It gets a bad rap. Most people equate it with despair. As Nietzsche did when asking, “If God is dead, now what?” I take it back even further and don’t require an Übermench to resolve it.

I’ll be creating ancillary content on YouTube once I have the bandwidth, as I am wrapping up another project, scheduled for publication in November – The Illusion of Light: Thinking After the Enlightenment, which puts a wrapper around my Anti-Enlightenment Project.

The Truth About Truth, Revisited

6–9 minutes

“Truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions.” — Nietzsche


Declaring the Problem

Most people say truth as if it were oxygen – obvious, necessary, self-evident. I don’t buy it.

Nietzsche was blunt: truths are illusions. My quarrel is only with how often we forget that they’re illusions.

My own stance is unapologetically non-cognitivist. I don’t believe in objective Truth with a capital T. At best, I see truth as archetypal – a symbol humans invoke when they need to rally, persuade, or stabilise. I am, if you want labels, an emotivist and a prescriptivist: I’m drawn to problems because they move me, and I argue about them because I want others to share my orientation. Truth, in this sense, is not discovered; it is performed.

The Illusion of Asymptotic Progress

The standard story is comforting: over time, science marches closer and closer to the truth. Each new experiment, each new refinement, nudges us toward Reality, like a curve bending ever nearer to its asymptote.

Chart 1: The bedtime story of science: always closer, never arriving.

This picture flatters us, but it’s built on sand.

Problem One: We have no idea how close or far we are from “Reality” on the Y-axis. Are we brushing against it, or still a light-year away? There’s no ruler that lets us measure our distance.

Problem Two: We can’t even guarantee that our revisions move us toward rather than away from it. Think of Newton and Einstein. For centuries, Newton’s physics was treated as a triumph of correspondence—until relativity reframed it as local, limited, provisional. What once looked like a step forward can later be revealed as a cul-de-sac. Our curve may bend back on itself.

Use Case: Newton, Einstein, and Gravity
Take gravity. For centuries, Newton’s laws were treated as if they had brought us into near-contact with Reality™—so precise, so predictive, they had to be true. Then Einstein arrives, reframes gravity not as a force but as the curvature of space-time, and suddenly Newton’s truths are parochial, a local approximation. We applauded this as progress, as if our asymptote had drawn tighter to Reality. But even Einstein leaves us with a black box: we don’t actually know what gravity is, only how to calculate its effects. Tomorrow another paradigm may displace relativity, and once again we’ll dutifully rebrand it as “closer to truth.” Progress or rhetorical re-baptism? The graph doesn’t tell us.

Chart 2: The comforting myth of correspondence: scientific inquiry creeping ever closer to Reality™, though we can’t measure the distance—or even be sure the curve bends in the right direction.

Thomas Kuhn was blunt about this: what we call “progress” is less about convergence and more about paradigm shifts, a wholesale change in the rules of the game. The Earth does not move smoothly closer to Truth; it lurches from one orthodoxy to another, each claiming victory. Progress, in practice, is rhetorical re-baptism.

Most defenders of the asymptotic story assume that even if progress is slow, it’s always incremental, always edging us closer. But history suggests otherwise. Paradigm shifts don’t just move the line higher; they redraw the entire curve. What once looked like the final step toward truth may later be recast as an error, a cul-de-sac, or even a regression. Newton gave way to Einstein; Einstein may yet give way to something that renders relativity quaint. From inside the present, every orthodoxy feels like progress. From outside, it looks more like a lurch, a stumble, and a reset.

Chart 3: The paradigm-gap view: what feels like progress may later look like regression. History suggests lurches, not lines, what we call progress today is tomorrow’s detour..

If paradigm shifts can redraw the entire map of what counts as truth, then it makes sense to ask what exactly we mean when we invoke the word at all. Is truth a mirror of reality? A matter of internal coherence? Whatever works? Or just a linguistic convenience? Philosophy has produced a whole menu of truth theories, each with its own promises and pitfalls—and each vulnerable to the same problems of rhetoric, context, and shifting meanings.

The Many Flavours of Truth

Philosophers never tire of bottling “truth” in new vintages. The catalogue runs long: correspondence, coherence, pragmatic, deflationary, redundancy. Each is presented as the final refinement, the one true formulation of Truth, though each amounts to little more than a rhetorical strategy.

  • Correspondence theory: Truth is what matches reality.
    Problem: we can never measure distance from “Reality™” itself, only from our models.
  • Coherence theory: Truth is what fits consistently within a web of beliefs.
    Problem: many mutually incompatible webs can be internally consistent.
  • Pragmatic theory: Truth is what works.
    Problem: “works” for whom, under what ends? Functionality is always perspectival.
  • Deflationary / Minimalist: Saying “it’s true that…” adds nothing beyond the statement itself.
    Problem: Useful for logic, empty for lived disputes.
  • Redundancy / Performative: “It is true that…” adds rhetorical force, not new content.
    Problem: truth reduced to linguistic habit.

And the common fallback: facts vs. truths. We imagine facts as hard little pebbles anyone can pick up. Hastings was in 1066; water boils at 100°C at sea level. But these “facts” are just truths that have been successfully frozen and institutionalised. No less rhetorical, only more stable.

So truth isn’t one thing – it’s a menu. And notice: all these flavours share the same problem. They only work within language-games, frameworks, or communities of agreement. None of them delivers unmediated access to Reality™.

Truth turns out not to be a flavour but an ice cream parlour – lots of cones, no exit.

Multiplicity of Models

Even if correspondence weren’t troubled, it collapses under the weight of underdetermination. Quine and Duhem pointed out that any body of evidence can support multiple competing theories.

Chart 4: orthodox vs. heterodox curves, each hugging “reality” differently

Hilary Putnam pushed it further with his model-theoretic argument: infinitely many models could map onto the same set of truths. Which one is “real”? There is no privileged mapping.

Conclusion: correspondence is undercut before it begins. Truth isn’t a straight line toward Reality; it’s a sprawl of models, each rhetorically entrenched.

Truth as Rhetoric and Power

This is where Orwell was right: “War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength.”

Image: INGSOC logo

Truth, in practice, is what rhetoric persuades.

Michel Foucault stripped off the mask: truth is not about correspondence but about power/knowledge. What counts as truth is whatever the prevailing regime of discourse allows.

We’ve lived it:

  • “The economy is strong”, while people can’t afford rent.
  • “AI will save us”, while it mainly writes clickbait.
  • “The science is settled” until the next paper unsettles it.

These aren’t neutral observations; they’re rhetorical victories.

Truth as Community Practice

Chart 5: Margin of error bands

Even when rhetoric convinces, it convinces in-groups. One group converges on a shared perception, another on its opposite. Flat Earth and Round Earth are both communities of “truth.” Each has error margins, each has believers, each perceives itself as edging toward reality.

Wittgenstein reminds us: truth is a language game. Rorty sharpens it: truth is what our peers let us get away with saying.

So truth is plural, situated, and always contested.

Evolutionary and Cognitive Scaffolding

Step back, and truth looks even less eternal and more provisional.

We spread claims because they move us (emotivism) and because we urge others to join (prescriptivism). Nietzsche was savage about it: truth is just a herd virtue, a survival trick.

Cognitive science agrees, if in a different language: perception is predictive guesswork, riddled with biases, illusions, and shortcuts. Our minds don’t mirror reality; they generate useful fictions.

Diagram: Perception as a lossy interface: Reality™ filtered through senses, cognition, language, and finally rhetoric – signal loss at every stage.

Archetypal Truth (Positive Proposal)

So where does that leave us? Not with despair, but with clarity.

Truth is best understood as archetypal – a construct humans rally around. It isn’t discovered; it is invoked. Its force comes not from correspondence but from resonance.

Here, my own Language Insufficiency Hypothesis bites hardest: all our truth-talk is approximation. Every statement is lossy compression, every claim filtered through insufficient words. We can get close enough for consensus, but never close enough for Reality.

Truth is rhetorical, communal, functional. Not absolute.

The Four Pillars (Manifesto Form)

  1. Archetypal – truth is a symbolic placeholder, not objective reality.
  2. Asymptotic – we gesture toward reality but never arrive.
  3. Rhetorical – what counts as truth is what persuades.
  4. Linguistically Insufficient – language guarantees slippage and error.

Closing

Nietzsche warned, Rorty echoed: stop fetishising Truth. Start interrogating the stories we tell in its name.

Every “truth” we now applaud may be tomorrow’s embarrassment. The only honest stance is vigilance – not over whether we’ve captured Reality™, but over who gets to decide what is called true, and why.

Truth has never been a mirror. It’s a mask. The only question worth asking is: who’s wearing it?

If You Don’t Understand How Language Works, You Should Lose Your Licence to Comment on LLMs

android robot police officer writing a citation,

The air is thick with bad takes. Scroll for five minutes and you’ll find someone announcing, usually with the pomp of a TEDx speaker, that “AI has no emotions” or “It’s not really reading.” These objections are less profound insights than they are linguistic face-plants. The problem isn’t AI. It’s the speakers’ near-total ignorance of how language works.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

Language as the Unseen Operating System

Language is not a transparent pane of glass onto the world. It is the operating system of thought: messy, recursive, historically contingent. Words do not descend like tablets from Sinai; they are cobbled together, repurposed, deconstructed, and misunderstood across generations.

If you don’t understand that basic condition, that language is slippery, mediated, and self-referential, then your critique of Large Language Models is just noise in the system. LLMs are language machines. To analyse them without first understanding language is like reviewing a symphony while stone deaf.

The Myth of “Emotions”

Critics obsess over whether LLMs “feel.” But feeling has never been the measure of writing. The point of a sentence is not how the author felt typing it, but whether the words move the reader. Emotional “authenticity” is irrelevant; resonance is everything.

Writers know this. Philosophers know this. LLM critics, apparently, do not. They confuse the phenomenology of the writer with the phenomenology of the text. And in doing so, they embarrass themselves.

The Licence Test

So here’s the proposal: a licence to comment on AI. It wouldn’t be onerous. Just a few basics:

  • Semiotics 101: Know that words point to other words more than they point to things.
  • Context 101: Know that meaning arises from use, not from divine correspondence.
  • Critical Theory 101: Know that language carries baggage, cultural, historical, and emotional, that doesn’t belong to the machine or the individual speaker.

Fail these, and you’re not cleared to drive your hot takes onto the information superhighway.

Meta Matters

I’ve explored some of this in more detail elsewhere (link to Ridley Park’s “Myth of Emotion”), but the higher-level point is this: debates about AI are downstream of debates about language. If you don’t grasp the latter, your pronouncements on the former are theatre, not analysis.

Philosophy has spent centuries dismantling the fantasy of words as perfect mirrors of the world. It’s perverse that so many people skip that homework and then lecture AI about “meaning” and “feeling.”

Sundials, Spacetime, and Other Human Fabrications

Time is not fundamental. It is not lurking behind the curtains of reality, counting down the universe like some cosmic metronome. Time is a human construct, a clumsy accounting trick invented so that hunter-gatherers could remember when to plant seeds, priests could know when to fleece the flock, and later, managers could know when to dock your wages.

Video: Sabine Hossenfelder discusses the proposed origins of time

Yes, our ancestors tracked cycles: the swing of day and night, the waxing of the moon, the slouch of the seasons. But this is proto-time at best. Call it rhythm, call it recurrence, call it the universe refusing to sit still. It was not time. It was change, and we anthropomorphised it.

Then along came Newton with his stopwatch. He baptised “absolute time,” a divine river that flowed “equably without relation to anything external.” In other words, he built the cosmic grandfather clock and declared it law. This fantasy held just long enough for Einstein to make mischief, weaving time into space with duct tape and calling it spacetime. Romantic, yes, but hardly fundamental. Time, in Einstein’s cosmos, bends and dilates depending on who’s doing the bending. Not exactly the firm bedrock you’d expect of a “dimension.”

Meanwhile, in the quantum world, time is the awkward dinner guest: not an observable, not dynamic, just an external parameter scribbled into the equations because no one knew where else to put it. Like a bad houseplant, it sits in the corner – unmeasurable, unaccountable, but impossible to get rid of.

And yet, not everyone has given up the ghost. One camp – think Julian Barbour and Carlo Rovelli – insists time is an illusion, something emergent from relations, clocks, and counters. Others, like Lee Smolin, flip the script and claim that time is more fundamental than space itself, the real stage upon which the cosmic drama plays out. Philosophical infighting aside, what this tells you is that physics doesn’t actually know what time is. They’re as clueless as Aristotle, who called it “the number of motion”, a definition so circular it should’ve been printed on a sundial.

Enter Constructor Theory (Deutsch & Marletto), which simply does away with time entirely in the fundamental laws. No ticking clocks, no background river. Just possible and impossible transformations, with time emerging only when we strap timers onto systems and start counting. Which, of course, makes perfect sense: time is what we measure with clocks – and clocks are just things that change.

The dirty secret is this: every culture, every cosmology, every physics textbook has tried to smuggle “time” in as if it were self-evident, while quietly redefining it to suit the mood. We can’t agree on whether it’s an illusion, a dimension, or the last shred of fundamentality left to cling to. And if that isn’t the mark of a human construct, I don’t know what is.

The Ship of Theseus Is Not a Paradox

Video: Plutarch: The Ship of Theseus

The Ship of Theseus is philosophy’s favourite parlour trick: swap out the planks of a ship one by one, and ask in your best furrowed-brow voice whether it’s still the same ship. Then, for added spice, reassemble the discarded parts elsewhere and demand to know which version is the “real” one. Cue the existential hand-wringing and smug undergrad smirks. Oh, how clever.

Audio: NotebookLM podcast on this topic.

But here’s the thing: there’s no paradox. Not really. Not unless you buy into the fantasy that identity is some immutable essence, handed down from the gods like a divine barcode. The whole thought experiment hinges on the absurd presumption that something has a fixed, singular identity across time and context, a quaint metaphysical hobby horse that falls apart the moment you look at it sideways.

Let’s be clear: in the realm of language and proto-psychology – the crude, squishy scaffolding of thought that predates syntax and survives long after it – there is no such thing as a fixed “same.” That’s a linguistic illusion, a parlour trick of grammar and nominal categories. Language wasn’t built to hold truth; it was built to herd humans into consensus long enough to survive the winter.

In practice, we use “same” the way we use duct tape: liberally, and with complete disregard for philosophical coherence. The “same” ship? The “same” person? The “same” idea? Please. Ask your hippocampus. Identity is not a container; it’s a hallucinated continuity trick, maintained by memory, narrative, and sheer bloody-minded stubbornness.

The real kicker? Our precious linguistic tools aren’t built to reflect reality. They’re built to reduce it. To chop up the infinite mess of experience into palatable little mouthfuls of meaning. So when we come to the Ship of Theseus with our dull-edged conceptual knives, what we’re really doing is asking a bad question with inadequate tools. It’s like trying to measure wind speed with a sundial.

The paradox isn’t in the ship. It’s in the language.

And no, you don’t need to patch it. You need to sink it.