If you are reading this, you are likely familiar with David Chalmers’ idea of the Hard Problem of Consciousness—the thorny, maddeningly unsolvable question of why and how subjective experience arises from physical processes. If you’re not, welcome to the rabbit hole. Here, we’ll plunge deeper by examining the perspective of Stuart Hameroff, who, like a philosophical magician, reframes this conundrum as a chicken-and-egg problem: what came first, life or consciousness? His answer? Consciousness. But wait—there’s a slight snag. Neither “life” nor “consciousness” has a universally agreed-upon definition. Oh, the joy of philosophical discourse.
Video: Professor Stuart Hameroff and others promote the idea that consciousness pre-dates life. A fuller version is available at IAI.
Audio: Podcast on this topic.
For the uninitiated, Hameroff’s stance is heavily flavoured with panpsychism—the idea that consciousness is a fundamental feature of the universe, like space or time. In this worldview, consciousness predates life itself. From this vantage, Hameroff’s proposition seems inevitable, a tidy solution that fits neatly into a panpsychistic framework. But let me stop you right there because I’m not signing up for the panpsychism fan club, and I’m certainly not prepared to let Hameroff’s intellectual sleight of hand go unchallenged.
To make his case, Hameroff engages in a curious manoeuvre: he defines both life and consciousness in ways that conveniently serve his argument. Consciousness, for him, is not limited to the complex phenomena of human or even animal experience but is a fundamental property of the universe, embedded in the very fabric of reality. Meanwhile, consciousness eventually orchestrates itself into life—a secondary phenomenon. With these definitions, his argument clicks together like a self-serving jigsaw puzzle. It’s clever, I’ll grant him that. But cleverness isn’t the same as being correct.
This is the philosophical equivalent of marking your own homework. By defining the terms of debate to fit his narrative, Hameroff ensures that his conclusion will satisfy his fellow panpsychists. The faithful will nod along, their priors confirmed. But for those outside this echo chamber, his framework raises more questions than it answers. How does this universal consciousness work? Why should we accept its existence as a given? And—here’s the kicker—doesn’t this just punt the problem one step back? If consciousness is fundamental, what’s the mechanism by which it “pre-exists” life?
Hameroff’s move is bold, certainly. But boldness isn’t enough. Philosophy demands rigour, and redefining terms to suit your argument isn’t rigorous; it’s rhetorical trickery. Sure, it’s provocative. But does it advance our understanding of the Hard Problem, or does it merely reframe it in a way that makes Hameroff’s preferred answer seem inevitable? For my money, it’s the latter.
The real issue is that panpsychism itself is a philosophical Rorschach test. It’s a worldview that can mean just about anything, from the claim that electrons have a rudimentary kind of awareness to the idea that the universe is a giant mind. Hameroff’s take lands somewhere in this spectrum, but like most panpsychist arguments, it’s long on metaphysical speculation and short on empirical grounding. If you already believe that consciousness is a fundamental aspect of reality, Hameroff’s arguments will feel like a revelation. If you don’t, they’ll feel like smoke and mirrors.
In the end, Hameroff’s chicken-and-egg problem might be better framed as a false dichotomy. Perhaps life and consciousness co-evolved in ways we can’t yet fully understand. Or perhaps consciousness, as we understand it, emerges from the complexity of life, a byproduct rather than a prerequisite. What’s clear is that Hameroff’s solution isn’t as tidy as it seems, nor as universally compelling. It’s a clever sleight of hand, but let’s not mistake cleverness for truth.
In the great philosophical tug-of-war between materialism and idealism, where reality is argued to be either wholly independent of perception or entirely a construct of the mind, there lies an underexplored middle ground—a conceptual liminal space that we might call “Intersectionalism.” This framework posits that reality is neither purely objective nor subjective but emerges at the intersection of the two. It is the terrain shaped by the interplay between what exists and how it is perceived, mediated by the limits of human cognition and sensory faculties.
Audio: Podcast conversation on this topic.
Intersectionalism offers a compelling alternative to the extremes of materialism and idealism. By acknowledging the constraints of perception and interpretation, it embraces the provisionality of knowledge, the inevitability of blind spots, and the productive potential of uncertainty. This essay explores the foundations of Intersectionalism, its implications for knowledge and understanding, and the ethical and practical insights it provides.
Reality as an Intersection
At its core, Intersectionalism asserts that reality exists in the overlapping space between the objective and the subjective. The objective refers to the world as it exists independently of any observer—the “terrain.” The subjective encompasses perception, cognition, and interpretation—the “map.” Reality, then, is not fully contained within either but is co-constituted by their interaction.
Consider the act of seeing a tree. The tree, as an object, exists independently of the observer. Yet, the experience of the tree is entirely mediated by the observer’s sensory and cognitive faculties. Light reflects off the tree, enters the eye, and is translated into electrical signals processed by the brain. This process creates a perception of the tree, but the perception is not the tree itself.
This gap between perception and object highlights the imperfect alignment of subject and object. No observer perceives reality “as it is” but only as it appears through the interpretive lens of their faculties. Reality, then, is a shared but imperfectly understood phenomenon, subject to distortion and variation across individuals and species.
The Limits of Perception and Cognition
Humans, like all organisms, perceive the world through the constraints of their sensory and cognitive systems. These limitations shape not only what we can perceive but also what we can imagine. For example:
Sensory Blind Spots: Humans are limited to the visible spectrum of light (~380–750 nm), unable to see ultraviolet or infrared radiation without technological augmentation. Other animals, such as bees or snakes, perceive these spectra as part of their natural sensory worlds. Similarly, humans lack the electroreception of sharks or the magnetoreception of birds.
Dimensional Constraints: Our spatial intuition is bounded by three spatial dimensions plus time, making it nearly impossible to conceptualise higher-dimensional spaces without resorting to crude analogies (e.g., imagining a tesseract as a 3D shadow of a 4D object).
Cognitive Frameworks: Our brains interpret sensory input through patterns and predictive models. These frameworks are adaptive but often introduce distortions, such as cognitive biases or anthropocentric assumptions.
This constellation of limitations suggests that what we perceive and conceive as reality is only a fragment of a larger, potentially unknowable whole. Even when we extend our senses with instruments, such as infrared cameras or particle detectors, the data must still be interpreted through the lens of human cognition, introducing new layers of abstraction and potential distortion.
The Role of Negative Space
One of the most intriguing aspects of Intersectionalism is its embrace of “negative space” in knowledge—the gaps and absences that shape what we can perceive and understand. A compelling metaphor for this is the concept of dark matter in physics. Dark matter is inferred not through direct observation but through its gravitational effects on visible matter. It exists as a kind of epistemic placeholder, highlighting the limits of our current sensory and conceptual tools.
Similarly, there may be aspects of reality that elude detection altogether because they do not interact with our sensory or instrumental frameworks. These “unknown unknowns” serve as reminders of the provisional nature of our maps and the hubris of assuming completeness. Just as dark matter challenges our understanding of the cosmos, the gaps in our perception challenge our understanding of reality itself.
Practical and Ethical Implications
Intersectionalism’s recognition of perceptual and cognitive limits has profound implications for science, ethics, and philosophy.
Science and Knowledge
In science, Intersectionalism demands humility. Theories and models, however elegant, are maps rather than terrains. They approximate reality within specific domains but are always subject to revision or replacement. String theory, for instance, with its intricate mathematics and reliance on extra dimensions, risks confusing the elegance of the map for the completeness of the terrain. By embracing the provisionality of knowledge, Intersectionalism encourages openness to new paradigms and methods that might better navigate the negative spaces of understanding.
Ethics and Empathy
Ethically, Intersectionalism fosters a sense of humility and openness toward other perspectives. If reality is always interpreted subjectively, then every perspective—human, animal, or artificial—offers a unique and potentially valuable insight into the intersection of subject and object. Recognising this pluralism can promote empathy and cooperation across cultures, species, and disciplines.
Technology and Augmentation
Technological tools extend our sensory reach, revealing previously unseen aspects of reality. However, they also introduce new abstractions and biases. Intersectionalism advocates for cautious optimism: technology can help illuminate the terrain but will never eliminate the gap between map and terrain. Instead, it shifts the boundaries of our blind spots, often revealing new ones in the process.
Conclusion: Navigating the Space Between
Intersectionalism provides a framework for understanding reality as a shared but imperfect intersection of subject and object. It rejects the extremes of materialism and idealism, offering instead a middle path that embraces the limitations of perception and cognition while remaining open to the possibilities of negative space and unknown dimensions. In doing so, it fosters humility, curiosity, and a commitment to provisionality—qualities essential for navigating the ever-expanding terrain of understanding.
By acknowledging the limits of our maps and the complexity of the terrain, Intersectionalism invites us to approach reality not as a fixed and knowable entity but as an unfolding interplay of perception and existence. It is a philosophy not of certainty but of exploration, always probing the space between.
“Is the universe really infinite? Or could it loop back on itself like a sphere?” Sabine Hossenfelder’s words on the nature of space-time are arresting, not merely for the cosmological implications but for the deeper metaphor they offer. They strike a resonant chord with anyone wrestling with a different kind of infinite: the slippery expanse of language.
As Sabine walks us through the intricacies of curved space-time, she inadvertently shines a light on something equally abstract yet close to home—how language, like the universe, seems vast and unbounded but is, in practice, riddled with constraints. What if language itself, for all its apparent openness, is its own kind of finite geometry?
Drawing on my Language Insufficiency Hypothesis (LIH), I propose that Sabine’s insights into cosmology can offer a lens to explore the paradoxes of human communication. Language, like space-time, is internally defined, replete with loops, and prone to infinite configurations that fail to expand meaningfully. Let’s explore how the universe’s curvature mirrors the curvatures of our words.
The Closed Systems of Space and Language
In physics, the curvature of space-time is measured internally. You can determine if space is flat or curved by drawing a triangle and adding its angles. If they don’t sum to 180 degrees, you’re in curved space. Sabine highlights that this is true without any external reference point; the geometry is self-contained.
Language operates much the same way. Words and meanings are often bounded by the internal logic of the systems they inhabit—be they legal, technical, or ideological. Much like the curvature of space-time, linguistic meaning is determined not externally but within the context of its own closed system. Think of a term like “justice”: in a legal setting, it might add up to one interpretation, while in a political debate, its angles skew wildly. To an outsider, the system is opaque, even though it seems perfectly flat from within.
Infinite Expanses or Finite Loops?
Sabine explains that the universe might be infinite, but it might also loop back on itself, creating patterns of repetition. Her analogy of light travelling endlessly through a curved universe only to return to its origin provides a striking metaphor for language’s “effectiveness horizons.”
As concepts grow more abstract—freedom, truth, beauty—language seems to expand infinitely. But in practice, it often circles back, repeating itself in kaleidoscopic loops of contested meaning. Philosophers have debated terms like “good” or “justice” for millennia, yet here we are, still tracing the same paths, unable to break free from the system’s internal constraints. Language doesn’t expand into new meaning; it curves back on itself.
Schrödinger’s Words: Infinite Interpretations
One of Sabine’s most evocative ideas is the notion that in an infinite universe, there are infinite copies of you, some slightly different, some wildly so. A version of you with more hair. One with less brain. This multiplicity mirrors what I call Schrödinger’s Weasels: words that exist in multiple, contradictory states until “collapsed” by context.
Take a word like “freedom.” In political discourse, it can simultaneously mean the right to self-determination, freedom from government interference, or the economic liberty to exploit markets. Much like Sabine’s infinite configurations, these meanings coexist until someone forces them into a single interpretive frame. The result? Semantic exhaustion. A single word tries to carry the weight of an infinite universe.
The Precision Paradox
Sabine notes that asking what the universe expands into is a meaningless question because expansion describes relationships within space-time, not beyond it. Similarly, the pursuit of perfect precision in language often collapses into meaninglessness. Trying to pin down a word like “justice” leads to endless definitions, each requiring further clarification. It’s a Zeno’s paradox of semantics: the closer we get to precision, the more distance remains.
Lessons from Curved Space and Twisted Words
What does this tell us about the limits of language? Sabine’s insights reinforce the idea that complexity doesn’t always lead to clarity. Like the universe, language isn’t infinite in the way we might wish; it’s bounded by its own structure. The more abstract the concept, the greater the chance we’ll find ourselves lost in a linguistic loop, navigating words that seem to expand but merely repeat.
Understanding this doesn’t mean abandoning the pursuit of meaning but accepting its constraints. Just as cosmologists use models to map the unobservable edges of the universe, we can use frameworks like the Language Insufficiency Hypothesis to chart the limits of our words. Both efforts are acts of humility in the face of infinite complexity.
Closing Thought
If Sabine is right that there are infinitely many versions of ourselves in the universe, perhaps one of them has already solved the riddle of language. Or, more likely, they’ve just found a new loop to wander.
What do you think? Is language a closed system, forever folding back on itself? Or can we stretch it, like space-time, to infinity and beyond?
A Comparative Analysis of Sarah Perry, Emil Cioran, and Contemporaries
In a world where procreation is often celebrated as a fundamental human aspiration, a group of philosophers challenges this deeply ingrained belief by questioning the ethical implications of bringing new life into existence. Antinatalism, the philosophical stance that posits procreation is morally problematic due to the inherent suffering embedded in life, invites us to reexamine our assumptions about birth, existence, and the value we assign to life itself.
Audio: Podcast related to the content on this page
Central to this discourse are thinkers like Sarah Perry, whose work “Every Cradle is a Grave: Rethinking the Ethics of Birth and Suicide” intertwines the ethics of procreation with the right to die, emphasizing personal autonomy and critiquing societal norms. Alongside Perry, philosophers such as Emil Cioran, David Benatar, Thomas Ligotti, and Peter Wessel Zapffe offer profound insights into the human condition, consciousness, and our existential burdens.
This article delves into the complex and often unsettling arguments presented by these philosophers, comparing and contrasting their perspectives on antinatalism. By exploring their works, we aim to shed light on the profound ethical considerations surrounding birth, suffering, and autonomy over one’s existence.
The Inherent Suffering of Existence
At the heart of antinatalist philosophy lies the recognition of life’s intrinsic suffering. This theme is a common thread among our featured philosophers, each articulating it through their unique lenses.
Sarah Perry argues that suffering is an unavoidable aspect of life, stemming from physical ailments, emotional pains, and existential anxieties. In “Every Cradle is a Grave,” she states:
“Existence is imposed without consent, bringing inevitable suffering.”
Perry emphasises that since every human will experience hardship, bringing a new person into the world exposes them to harm they did not choose.
Similarly, David Benatar, in his seminal work “Better Never to Have Been: The Harm of Coming into Existence,” presents the asymmetry argument. He posits that coming into existence is always a harm:
“Coming into existence is always a serious harm.”
Benatar reasons that while the absence of pain is good even if no one benefits from it, the absence of pleasure is not bad unless there is someone for whom this absence is a deprivation. Therefore, non-existence spares potential beings from suffering without depriving them of pleasures they would not miss.
Emil Cioran, a Romanian philosopher known for his profound pessimism, delves deep into the despair inherent in life. In “The Trouble with Being Born,” he reflects:
“Suffering is the substance of life and the root of personality.”
Cioran’s aphoristic musings suggest that life’s essence is intertwined with pain, and acknowledging this is crucial to understanding our existence.
Thomas Ligotti, blending horror and philosophy in “The Conspiracy Against the Human Race,” portrays consciousness as a cosmic error:
“Consciousness is a mistake of evolution.”
Ligotti argues that human awareness amplifies suffering, making us uniquely burdened by the knowledge of our mortality and the futility of our endeavours.
Peter Wessel Zapffe, in his essay “The Last Messiah,” examines how human consciousness leads to existential angst:
“Man is a biological paradox due to excessive consciousness.”
Zapffe contends that our heightened self-awareness results in an acute recognition of life’s absurdities, causing inevitable psychological suffering.
Ethics of Procreation
Building upon the acknowledgement of life’s inherent suffering, these philosophers explore the moral dimensions of bringing new life into the world.
Sarah Perry focuses on the issue of consent. She argues that since we cannot obtain consent from potential beings before birth, procreation imposes life—and its accompanying suffering—upon them without their agreement. She writes:
“Procreation perpetuates harm by introducing new sufferers.”
Perry challenges the societal norm that views having children as an unquestioned good, highlighting parents’ moral responsibility for the inevitable pain their children will face.
In David Benatar’s asymmetry argument, he extends this ethical concern by suggesting that non-existence is preferable. He explains that while the absence of pain is inherently good, the absence of pleasure is not bad because no one is deprived of it. Therefore, bringing someone into existence who will undoubtedly experience suffering is moral harm.
Emil Cioran questions the value of procreation given the futility and despair inherent in life. While not explicitly formulating an antinatalist argument, his reflections imply scepticism about the act of bringing new life into a suffering world.
Peter Wessel Zapffe proposes that refraining from procreation is a logical response to the human condition. By not having children, we can halt the perpetuation of existential suffering. He suggests that humanity’s self-awareness is a burden that should not be passed on to future generations.
The Right to Die and Autonomy over Existence
A distinctive aspect of Sarah Perry’s work is her advocacy for the right to die. She asserts that just as individuals did not consent to be born into suffering, they should have the autonomy to choose to end their lives. Perry critiques societal and legal barriers that prevent people from exercising this choice, arguing:
“Autonomy over one’s life includes the right to die.”
By decriminalizing and destigmatizing suicide, she believes society can respect individual sovereignty and potentially alleviate prolonged suffering.
Emil Cioran contemplates suicide not necessarily as an action to be taken but as a philosophical consideration. In “On the Heights of Despair,” he muses:
“It is not worth the bother of killing yourself, since you always kill yourself too late.”
Cioran views the option of ending one’s life as a paradox that underscores the absurdity of existence.
While Benatar, Ligotti, and Zapffe acknowledge the despair that can accompany life, they do not extensively advocate for the right to die. Their focus remains on the ethical implications of procreation and the existential burdens of consciousness.
Coping Mechanisms and Societal Norms
Peter Wessel Zapffe delves into how humans cope with the existential angst resulting from excessive consciousness. He identifies four defence mechanisms:
Isolation: Repressing disturbing thoughts from consciousness.
Anchoring: Creating or adopting values and ideals to provide meaning.
Distraction: Engaging in activities to avoid self-reflection.
Sublimation: Channeling despair into creative or intellectual pursuits.
According to Zapffe, these mechanisms help individuals avoid confronting life’s inherent meaninglessness.
Thomas Ligotti echoes this sentiment, suggesting that optimism is a psychological strategy to cope with the horror of existence. He writes:
“Optimism is a coping mechanism against the horror of existence.”
Sarah Perry and Emil Cioran also critique societal norms that discourage open discussions about suffering, death, and the choice not to procreate. They argue that societal pressures often silence individuals who question the value of existence, thereby perpetuating cycles of unexamined procreation and stigmatizing those who consider alternative perspectives.
Comparative Insights
While united in their acknowledgement of life’s inherent suffering, these philosophers approach antinatalism and existential pessimism through varied lenses.
Sarah Perry emphasises personal autonomy and societal critique, advocating for policy changes regarding birth and suicide.
Emil Cioran offers a deeply personal exploration of despair, using poetic language to express the futility he perceives in existence.
David Benatar provides a structured, logical argument against procreation, focusing on the ethical asymmetry between pain and pleasure.
Thomas Ligotti combines horror and philosophy to illustrate the bleakness of consciousness and its implications for human suffering.
Peter Wessel Zapffe analyzes the psychological mechanisms humans employ to avoid confronting existential angst.
Critiques and Counterarguments
Critics of antinatalism often point to an overemphasis on suffering, arguing that it neglects the joys, love, and meaningful experiences that life can offer. They contend that while suffering is a part of life, it is not the totality of existence.
In response, antinatalist philosophers acknowledge the presence of pleasure but question whether it justifies the inevitable suffering every person will face. Benatar argues that while positive experiences are good, they do not negate the moral harm of bringing someone into existence without their consent.
Regarding the right to die, opponents express concern over the potential neglect of mental health issues. They worry that normalizing suicide could prevent individuals from seeking help and support that might alleviate their suffering.
Sarah Perry addresses this by emphasizing the importance of autonomy and the need for compassionate support systems. She advocates for open discussions about suicide to better understand and assist those contemplating it rather than stigmatizing or criminalizing their considerations.
Societal and Cultural Implications
These philosophers’ works challenge pro-natalist biases ingrained in many cultures. By questioning the assumption that procreation is inherently positive, they open a dialogue about the ethical responsibilities associated with bringing new life into the world.
Sarah Perry critiques how society glorifies parenthood while marginalizing those who choose not to have children. She calls for reevaluating societal norms that pressure individuals into procreation without considering the ethical implications.
Similarly, Emil Cioran and Thomas Ligotti highlight how societal denial of life’s inherent suffering perpetuates illusions that hinder genuine understanding and acceptance of the human condition.
Conclusion
The exploration of antinatalist philosophy through the works of Sarah Perry, Emil Cioran, and their contemporaries presents profound ethical considerations about life, suffering, and personal autonomy. Their arguments compel us to reflect on the nature of existence and the responsibilities we bear in perpetuating life.
While one may not fully embrace antinatalist positions, engaging with these ideas challenges us to consider the complexities of the human condition. It encourages a deeper examination of our choices, the societal norms we accept, and how we confront or avoid the fundamental truths about existence.
Final Thoughts
These philosophers’ discussions are not merely abstract musings but have real-world implications for how we live our lives and make decisions about the future. Whether it’s rethinking the ethics of procreation, advocating for personal autonomy over life and death, or understanding the coping mechanisms we employ, their insights offer valuable perspectives.
By bringing these often-taboo topics into the open, we can foster a more compassionate and thoughtful society that respects individual choices and acknowledges the full spectrum of human experience.
Encouraging Dialogue
As we conclude this exploration, readers are invited to reflect on their own beliefs and experiences. Engaging in open, respectful discussions about these complex topics can lead to greater understanding and empathy.
What are your thoughts on the ethical considerations of procreation? How do you perceive the balance between life’s joys and its inherent suffering? Share your perspectives and join the conversation.
References and Further Reading
Perry, Sarah. Every Cradle is a Grave: Rethinking the Ethics of Birth and Suicide. Nine-Banded Books, 2014.
Benatar, David. Better Never to Have Been: The Harm of Coming into Existence. Oxford University Press, 2006.
Cioran, Emil. The Trouble with Being Born. Arcade Publishing, 1973.
Ligotti, Thomas. The Conspiracy Against the Human Race. Hippocampus Press, 2010.
Zapffe, Peter Wessel. “The Last Messiah.” Philosophy Now, 1933.
For more in-depth analyses and reviews, consider exploring the following blog posts:
This ChatGPT o1-generated article aims to thoughtfully and respectfully present the philosophical positions on antinatalism and existential pessimism. The discussions about suffering, procreation, and the right to die are complex and sensitive. If you or someone you know is struggling with such thoughts, please seek support from mental health professionals or trusted individuals in your community.
Next Steps
Based on reader interest and engagement, future articles may delve deeper into individual philosophers’ works, explore thematic elements such as consciousness and suffering, or address counterarguments in more detail. Your feedback and participation are valuable in shaping these discussions.
Let us continue this journey of philosophical exploration together.
In the world of consciousness studies, few topics spark as much heated debate as the possibility of philosophical zombies—hypothetical beings that behave exactly like humans but lack subjective experience, or qualia. On the surface, zombies seem like an interesting thought experiment, but they quickly turn into a battleground for deeper issues about the nature of consciousness itself.
This post explores two key perspectives in this debate: Daniel Dennett’s functionalist critique of zombies and a recent scientific paper that argues zombies are biologically impossible. While both reject the possibility of zombies, they do so for different reasons, and the discussion leaves room for future possibilities that could disrupt the current consensus.
Dennett’s Zombies and Zimboes: Consciousness as Function
Daniel Dennett, one of the most influential philosophers of mind, is known for his no-nonsense rejection of philosophical zombies. Dennett argues that if something behaves exactly like a conscious being, it is conscious. For him, there is no hidden metaphysical property—such as subjective experience—that separates a “zombie” from a conscious human. Consciousness, in his view, is entirely explainable by physical processes and functional behaviour.
Dennett extends his argument with the concept of zimboes, satirical creatures that not only act like conscious beings but can even reflect on their states, claiming to be conscious, despite supposedly lacking any inner experience. For Dennett, if a being can behave as though it has introspective awareness and engage in the full spectrum of human behaviour, there’s no meaningful distinction between that being and a conscious person.
In short, Dennett collapses the distinction between zombies and conscious beings. If something passes all the behavioural and functional tests of consciousness, it might as well be conscious. Zombies, as typically conceived, are simply an illusion—a misunderstanding of what consciousness is.
A Biological Rejection: Zombies Are Impossible
On the other hand, a more recent paper offers a different, biologically grounded argument against zombies. The authors propose that consciousness is the result of self-organising systems. In this view, biological organisms maintain their survival through adaptive behaviours constrained by policies—rules that govern how they react to environmental stimuli. These policies require a first-order self: a basic form of consciousness that allows an organism to navigate and interpret its environment.
The authors argue that without this first-order self, an organism would not be able to exhibit the fitness-driven behaviours needed for survival. Therefore, zombies—beings that behave like humans without consciousness—are biologically impossible. For these researchers, consciousness is not just a side effect of complex behaviour; it’s a necessary condition for such behaviour. Their framework dissolves the so-called “hard problem” of consciousness, asserting that subjective experience, or qualia, arises directly from the qualitative nature of self-organising systems.
In their view, zombies cannot exist because behaviour as complex as that of conscious beings requires consciousness.
The Open Question: What About Future Technology?
However, there is a tension between these two perspectives, particularly when we consider future possibilities in technology and artificial intelligence. Both Dennett and the authors of the biological paper argue that zombies—whether defined as Dennett’s “behaviourally indistinguishable” beings or the biologically impossible entities proposed by the paper—are not real. But could this change?
What if advanced AI or synthetic biological systems could simulate human behaviour so perfectly that they effectively become zombies—performing all the actions and behaviours we associate with consciousness, but lacking any subjective experience? Dennett might still argue that these systems are conscious, as long as they behave as though they are. But the biological view complicates this, since it ties consciousness directly to the survival and adaptive behaviours of self-organising systems.
Could a highly advanced AI system bypass the need for subjective experience while still exhibiting complex, adaptive behaviour? If so, it would challenge the current consensus and potentially create a new class of entities—artificial zombies—that neither behave nor function like traditional conscious beings but still perform human-like actions.
I Wonder What’s Next?
This philosophical conflict leaves us with an intriguing, open-ended question: are zombies truly impossible, or are they merely improbable given our current understanding of biology and consciousness? Dennett’s view seems to collapse the distinction between behaviour and consciousness, while the biological argument insists that the two are inseparable. But both positions could be challenged by future technologies that mimic human consciousness without having it.
Could we one day create a true zombie—a being that acts like us, thinks like us, but is as empty inside as a rock? The debate remains open, and as our understanding of consciousness and artificial intelligence deepens, so too will our exploration of the zombie question.
For now, the answer to whether zombies can exist seems to depend on what you believe consciousness really is.
Language is life. Yet, this assertion immediately raises a fundamental question: which came first, life or consciousness? It’s a classic chicken-and-egg conundrum. Physicist Stuart Hameroff posits an intriguing idea—that consciousness might predate life itself. This radical notion suggests that consciousness isn’t merely a byproduct of biological processes but could be an intrinsic feature of the universe. However, there’s a snag.
The challenge lies in defining life and consciousness, two terms that lack universally accepted definitions. The absence of clarity here opens the door to a multitude of interpretations, making it easy to drift into what could be considered ‘airy faerie’ ambiguity. One must beware of the temptation to engage in intellectual exercises that lead nowhere—what might be termed ‘mental masturbation.’ This is a prime example of the insufficiency of language.
Audio: Podcast commentary on this topic.
Life and consciousness, as concepts, are elusive. Unlike straightforward nouns or adjectives—where we can confidently say, “That’s a dog,” “That’s a tree,” or “That’s green”—these terms are far more complex. They are attempts to encapsulate observed phenomena, yet we lack the precise language and understanding to pin them down definitively. The video linked above provides perspectives on various approaches to defining these terms, but none prove wholly satisfactory. This lack of satisfaction might suggest that our conventional understanding of life and consciousness is flawed. To be fair, one might even entertain the idea that life itself is an illusion, a construct of consciousness.
This ambiguity isn’t confined to the realms of life and consciousness. I recently shared a post on the topic of gender, which illustrates a similar issue. Originally, there was no concept of gender. The earliest distinctions made were between animate and inanimate. Over time, these distinctions became more nuanced. Whether or not a proto-word for life existed at that time is unclear, but the idea of animation being linked to life was beginning to take shape. The concept of gender evolved much later, driven by the need to categorize and define differences within the animate category.
The evolution of language reflects the evolution of thought. Yet, when we dig deep into these foundational concepts, we encounter the same problem: how can we argue the precedence of two concepts—life and consciousness—when neither has a solid foundation in language? If our words are inadequate, if they fail to capture the essence of what we are trying to convey, then what does that say about our understanding of the world?
Perhaps it suggests that our linguistic and cognitive tools are still too crude to grasp the true nature of reality. Or maybe it hints at a deeper truth: that some aspects of existence are beyond the scope of human understanding, no matter how sophisticated our language becomes. After all, if consciousness predates life, as Hameroff suggests, then we may need to rethink our fundamental assumptions about existence itself.
Ultimately, this exploration reveals a paradox at the heart of human knowledge. We seek to define and categorise, to impose order on the chaos of the universe. Yet in doing so, we must confront the limits of our language and, by extension, our understanding. Perhaps the true essence of life and consciousness lies not in definitions or categories but in the very act of questioning, the relentless pursuit of knowledge that drives us forward, even when the answers remain elusive.
The debate over free will often distils down to a question of determinism—indeterminism, hard or soft determinism, or something else. Poincare’s approach to the three-body problem is an apt metaphor to strengthen the deterministic side of the argument.
Quantum theory introduces aspects of indeterminism, but that doesn’t support the free will argument. Moreover, between quantum events, the universe is again deterministic. It’s simply been reset with the last exogenous quantum event.
Prima facia, Determinism and Chaos might seem strange bedfellows. And therein lies the rub. Chaos theory essentially tells us that even in a scenario of chaos, all possible outcomes can be calculated. They just must be calculated stepwise via numerical integration. Even this leaves us with estimations, as owing to Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle and the infinitude of slicing space, we can’t actually calculate the precise answer, although one exists.
My point is that not knowing what is being determined doesn’t invalidate the deterministic nature or process.
“We knew that conscious processes were simply too slow to be actively involved in music, sports, and other activities where split-second reflexes are required. But if consciousness is not involved in such processes, then a better explanation of what consciousness does was needed,”
Andrew Budson, MD, professor of neurology, Boston University
Under this new theory, supported by recent studies, choices are made unconsciously and then we are made conscious of the choices after the fact. This tosses a spanner in the works of some proponents of free will. Some may still claim that it was uniquely ‘you’ who made this choice—conscious or otherwise—, but others may not be so fanciful.
“According to the researchers, this theory is important because it explains that all our decisions and actions are actually made unconsciously, although we fool ourselves into believing that we consciously made them.”
“What is completely new about this theory is that it suggests we don’t perceive the world, make decisions, or perform actions directly. Instead, we do all these things unconsciously and then—about half a second later—consciously remember doing them.”
Andrew Budson, MD, professor of neurology, Boston University
And here we are again with more evidence that we are not consciously responsible for our choices, and yet the conscience has such a fragile ego, it needs to think it does.
I love the panels, interviews, and insights presented on The Institute of Art and Ideas channels. In this segment, I am familiar with the host, Robert Lawrence Kuhn, who has put this all together, and two of the panellists, Iain McGilchrist and Donald Hoffman. I am not familiar with Eva Jablonka or Michelle Montague. This is an interesting conversation on consciousness, but I am commenting on McGilchrist’s position on love and how science can never capture the essence or dimensions of it because it is subjective and experiential. I’ve cued the video clip below to just prior to his response to provide he view with a set up.
As I’ve been saying for some decades now, I believe that love is a weasel word in the realm of justice and freedom. It’s an archetypal extreme, but it doesn’t mean anything more than trebled or analogical references.
McGilchrist resorts to the age-old, you don’t know it if you haven’t experienced it. This was famously captured by the US Supreme court’s take on pornography, “I can’t tell you what it is, but I know it when I see it.” This is used with God and faith as well. So, bollox, really. They’ve got nothing. And if you haven’t experienced it, then you aren’t a member of the club, and it’s your loss. Rubbish.
From the transcript, Iain tells the viewer (edited below for clarity),
“Love is a very real experience. and you only know it when you’ve had it. But it’s something that science can only refer to physical correlates of—rather ineffectively… But it’s not the same as knowing what love actually is.
“And the same is true of consciousness. It’s a subjective phenomenon, and as such, it’s not open to the kind of science that that i think is being required.”
Notice that this is the same defence asserted by religions. If you are seeking evidence, you are barking up the wrong tree. The evidence is that you can experience it, but this is not a shared experience. The shared experience occurs when people who feel they have had a similar experience can gather together and compare notes and share stories like they were participating in a 12-Steps program. Hullo, my name is Bukowski, and I’m an alcoholic.
Love is a delusion. Consider the notion of romantic love —just one of several purported flavours of love. What do we mean by this? We mean that we are very attracted to and emotionally attached to some other entity. Let’s limit this to other people. We care for this person and about what happens to this person, and we’d presumably like to remain a partner with this person. Generally, there would also be a sense that the other party reciprocates this feeling, but unrequited love is another aspect.
Given this state, we can measure hormonal changes, pupil dilation, and other physiological changes. And if we want to label this state love, then great. In practice, that’s what we’ve done. But so what? All we’ve really done is to take a bundle of descriptions and collated them into a nebulous term.
There are a couple of perspectives on this type of love. There is the person who senses their own feelings about their experience of love, as in “I love X”. Then there is a target of this love who may experience that they are loved by someone. Finally, there is the observer that might assess that Y loves X and or vice versa.
But what does this really mean? Is it just that Y like X very very much and has painted a picture of a future than includes this person? That Y has constructed some narrative storyline that includes X? That there is likely some lust involved in this particular flavour of love? Is love more than this? Is love more than just a shortcut? Is it just an acronym for “Likes Other Very Extremely”? Alright, I’ll stay out of the acronym construction business and end this just now.
The Conspiracy against the Human Race is a work of non-fiction by horror author Thomas Ligotti. There is an audio podcast version and a YouTube video version. Feel free to leave comments in the space below or on YouTube.
Transcript
In this segment, I’ll be reviewing a book by Thomas Ligotti, The Conspiracy Against the Human Race, A Contrivance of Horror.
I haven’t done any book reviews, but since I tend to read a lot of books, I figure why not share my take and see how it’s received? If you like these reviews, click the like button and I’ll consider creating more.
Let’s get started.
First, I’ll be providing a little background, and then I’ll summarise some of the content and main themes. I’ll close with my review and perspective.
The author is Thomas Ligotti. He is a published writer in the horror genre in the vein of Lovecraft’s atmospheric horror. I’ve not read any of his work and haven’t read much fiction in ages.
The Conspiracy Against the Human Race is Ligotti’s first work of non-fiction. The book was originally published in 2010. I read the 2018 paperback version published by Penguin Books.
Conspiracy Against the Human Race falls into the category of Ethics and Moral Philosophy in a subcategory of pessimism. The main thesis of this book is that humans ought never to have been born. Following in the footsteps of anti-natalist David Benatar, who published Better Never to Have Been Born in 2007, Ligotti doubles down on Benatar’s position on the harm of coming into existence and argues that humans should just become extinct. Moreover, we should take out life in general.
In the book, Ligotti posits that consciousness was a blunder of nature and is the root of all suffering. He argues the derived Buddhist position of dukkha, which translates as Life is suffering. He establishes that most people are aware of this fact, but that we are nonetheless wired to be biased toward optimism through delusion and what a psychoanalyst might call repressed memories. Moreover, pessimists are a cohort not tolerated by society, who don’t want their delusions shattered.
Philosophically, Ligotti is a determinist. I’ve created content on this topic, but in a nutshell, determinism is the belief that all events are caused by antecedent events, leading to a chain of causes and effects stretching back to the beginning of time and bringing us to where we are now. If we were able to rewind time and restart the process, we would necessarily end up in the same place, and all future processes will unfold in a like manner.
Ligotti likes the metaphor of puppets. He employs puppets in two manners. Firstly, being the determinist he is, he reminds us that we are meat puppets with no free will. Our strings are controlled by something that is not us. This something ends up being Schopenhauer’s Will, reminding us that one can want what we will, but we can’t will what we will. This Will is the puppeteer. Secondly, puppets are soulless, lifeless homunculi that are employed in the horror genre to create unease by means of an uncanny association. He cites the work and philosophy of Norwegian author Peter Zapffe, who also elucidates human existence as a tragedy. Humans are born with one and only one right—the right to die. And death is the only certainty. The knowledge of this causes unnecessary suffering.
Quoting Ligotti,
“Stringently considered, then, our only natural birthright is a right to die. No other right has ever been allocated to anyone except as a fabrication, whether in modern times or days past. The divine right of kings may now be acknowledged as a fabrication, a falsified permit for prideful dementia and impulsive mayhem. The inalienable rights of certain people, on the other hand, seemingly remain current: somehow we believe they are not fabrications because hallowed documents declare they are real.”
Ligotti reminds us that consciousness is a mystery. We don’t really know what it is or what causes it other than it exists and we seem to have it, to be cursed with it. He adopts Zapffe’s position that consciousness is also responsible for the false notion of the self.
As all life is, humans are the result of an evolutionary process. Consciousness was just the result of an evolutionary blunder. He cites Zapffe and conveys that “mutations must be considered blind. They work, are thrown forth, without any contact of interest with their environment.”
Whilst pessimists view consciousness as a curse, optimists such as Nicholas Humphry think of it as a marvellous endowment.
He summarises the reason humans have it worse than the rest of nature:
“For the rest of the earth’s organisms, existence is relatively uncomplicated. Their lives are about three things: survival, reproduction, death—and nothing else. But we know too much to content ourselves with surviving, reproducing, dying—and nothing else. We know we are alive and know we will die. We also know we will suffer during our lives before suffering—slowly or quickly—as we draw near to death. This is the knowledge we “enjoy” as the most intelligent organisms to gush from the womb of nature. And being so, we feel shortchanged if there is nothing else for us than to survive, reproduce, and die. We want there to be more to it than that, or to think there is. This is the tragedy: Consciousness has forced us into the paradoxical position of striving to be unself-conscious of what we are—hunks of spoiling flesh on disintegrating bones.”
I’ll repeat that: Consciousness has forced us into the paradoxical position of striving to be unself-conscious.
He cites Zapffe’s four principal strategies to minimise our consciousness, isolation, anchoring, distraction, and sublimation
Isolation is compartmentalising the dire facts of being alive. So, he argues, that a coping mechanism is to push our suffering out of sight, out of mind, shoved back into the unconscious so we don’t have to deal with it.
Anchoring is a stabilisation strategy by adopting fictions as truth. We conspire to anchor our lives in metaphysical and institutional “verities”—God, Morality, Natural Law, Country, Family—that inebriate us with a sense of being official, authentic, and safe in our beds.
Distraction falls into the realm of manufactured consent. People lose themselves in their television sets, their government’s foreign policy, their science projects, their careers, their place in society or the universe, et cetera. Anything not to think about the human condition.
Sublimation. This reminds me of Camus’ take on the Absurd. Just accept it. Embrace it and incorporate it into your routine. Pour it into your art or music. Ligotti invokes Camus’ directive that we must imagine Sisyphus happy, but he dismisses the quip as folly.
Ligotti underscores his thesis by referencing the works of other authors from David Benatar to William James.
Interestingly, he suggests that people who experience depression are actually in touch with reality and that psychology intervenes to mask it again with the preferred veil of delusion and delf-deception. Society can’t operate if people aren’t in tune with the masquerade. Citing David Livingstone Smith in his 2007 publication, Why We Lie: The Evolution of Deception and the Unconscious Mind, Ligotti writes: “Psychiatry even works on the assumption that the “healthy” and viable is at one with the highest in personal terms. Depression, “fear of life,” refusal of nourishment and so on are invariably taken as signs of a pathological state and treated thereafter.”
Ligotti returns to the constructed notion of the self and presents examples of how a lack of self is an effective horror trope, citing John Carpenter’s The Thing and Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
He spends a good amount of time on ego-death and the illusion of self, a topic I’ve covered previously. He mentions Thomas Metzinger and his writings in several places including his Being No One, published in 2004, ostensibly reinforcing a position described as naïve realism, that things not being knowable as they really are in themselves, something every scientist and philosopher knows.
He delves into Buddhism as a gateway to near-death experiences, where people have dissociated their sense of self, illustrating the enlightenment by accident of U. G. Krishnamurti, who after some calamity “was no longer the person he once was, for now he was someone whose ego had been erased. In this state, he had all the self-awareness of a tree frog. To his good fortune, he had no problem with his new way of functioning. He did not need to accept it, since by his report he had lost all sense of having an ego that needed to accept or reject anything.” Krishnamurti had become a veritable zombie. He also cited the examples of Tem Horwitz, John Wren-Lewis, and Suzanne Segal, but I won’t elaborate here.
Russian Romantic author, Leo Tolstoy, famous for War and Peace and Anna Karenina, was another pessimist. He noticed a coping approach his associates had employed to deal with their morality.
Ignorance is the first. As the saying goes, ignorance is bliss. For whatever reason, these people are simply blind to the inevitability of their mortal lives. As Tolstoy said these people just did not know or understand that “life is an evil and an absurdity”.
Epicureanism comes next. The tactic here is to understand that we are all in here and no one gets out alive, so we might as well make the best of it and adopt a hedonistic lifestyle.
Following Camus’ cue, or rather Camus following Tolstoy and Schopenhauer, he suggests the approach of strength and energy, by which he means the strength and energy to suicide.
Finally, one can adopt the path of weakness. This is the category Tolstoy finds himself in, writing “People of this kind know that death is better than life, but not having the strength to act rationally—to end the deception quickly and kill themselves—they seem to wait for something.”
The last section of the book feels a bit orthogonal to the rest. I won’t bother with details, but essentially he provides the reader with examples of how horror works by exploring some passages, notably Radcliffe’s, The Mysteries of Udolpho; Conrad’s Heart of Darkness; Poe’s Fall of the House of Usher; Lovecraft’s Call of Cthulhu; and contrasting Shakespeare’s Macbeth and Hamlet.
This has been a summary of Thomas Logotti’s Conspiracy against the human race. Here’s my take. But first some background, as it might be important to understand where I am coming from.
I am a Nihilist. I feel that life has no inherent meaning, but people employ existentialist strategies to create a semblance of meaning, much akin to Zapffe’s distraction theme or perhaps anchoring. This said I feel that, similar to anarchism, people don’t understand nihilism. Technically, it’s considered to be a pessimistic philosophy because they are acculturated to expect meaning, but I find it liberating. People feel that without some constraints of meaning, that chaos will ensue as everyone will adopt Tolstoy’s Epicureanism or to fall into despair and suicide. What they don’t know is they’ve already fabricated some narrative and have adopted one of Zappfe’s first three offerings: isolation, which is to say repression); anchoring on God or country; or distracting themselves with work, sports, politics, social media, or reading horror stories.
Because of my background, I identify with Ligotti’s position. I do feel the suffering and anguish that he mentions, and perhaps I am weak and rationalising, but I don’t feel that things are so bad. I may be more sympathetic to Benatar’s anti-natalism than to advocate for a mass extinction event, though I feel that humans are already heading down that path. Perhaps this could be psychoanalysed as collective guilt, but I won’t go there.
I recommend reading this. I knocked it out in a few hours, and you could shorten this by skipping the last section altogether. If you are on the fence, I’d suggest reading David Benatar’s Better Never to Have Been. Perhaps I’ll review that if there seems to be interest. If you’ve got the time, read both.
So there you have it. That’s my summary and review of Thomas Ligotti’s The Conspiracy against the Human Race.
Before I end this, I’ll share a personal story about an ex-girlfriend of mine. Although she experienced some moments of happiness and joy, she saw life as a burden. Because she had been raised Catholic and embodied the teachings, she was afraid that committing suicide would relegate her to hell. In fact, on one occasion, she and her mum had been robbed at gunpoint, and her mum stepped between my girlfriend and the gun. They gave the gunmen what they wanted, so the situation came to an end.
My girlfriend laid into her mother that if she ever did something like that again and took a bullet that was her ticket out, she would never forgive her. As it turned out, my girlfriend died as collateral damage during the Covid debacle. She became ill, but because she was living with her elderly mum, she didn’t want to go to hospital and bring something back. One early morning, she was writhing in pain and her mum called the ambulance. She died later that morning in hospital, having waited too long.
For me, I saw the mercy in it all. She got her ticket out and didn’t have to face the hell eventuality. Not that I believe in any of that, but she was able to exit in peace. Were it not for the poison of religion, she could have exited sooner. She was not, in Tolstoy’s words, weak, so much as she had been a victim of indoctrination. I feel this indoctrination borders on child abuse, but I’ll spare you the elaboration. So, what are your thoughts on this book? Is there a conspiracy against humanity? Are optimists ruining it for the pessimists? What do you think about anti-natalism or even extinction of all conscious beings or the extreme case of all life on earth? Is Ligotti on to something or just on something?
