My reaction to Yuval Noah Harari’s Nexus continues with Chapter 4, “Errors: The Fantasy of Infallibility.” Spoiler alert: Harari makes a critical misstep by overly defending so-called self-correcting institutions compared to non-self-correcting ones.
Harari provides a solid account of how religious institutions and other dogmatic ideological constructs are slow to change, contrasting them with relatively faster self-correcting systems like science. Once again, he underscores the tension between order and truth—two critical dimensions in his worldview and cornerstones of Modernist beliefs.
Audio: Podcast conversation on this topic.
I agree with Harari that the lack of self-correction in institutions is problematic and that self-correction is better than the alternative. However, he overestimates the speed and efficacy of these self-correcting mechanisms. His argument presumes the existence of some accessible underlying truth, which, while an appealing notion, is not always so clear-cut. Harari cites examples of scientific corrections that took decades to emerge, giving the impression that, with enough time, everything will eventually self-correct. As the environment changes, corrections will naturally follow—albeit over long spans of time. Ultimately, Harari makes a case for human intervention without recognising it as an Achilles’ heel.
Harari’s Blind Spot
Harari largely overlooks the influence of money, power, and self-interest in these systems. His alignment with the World Economic Forum (WEF) suggests that, while he may acknowledge its fallibility, he still deems it “good enough” for governance. This reflects a paternalistic bias. Much like technologists who view technology as humanity’s salvation, Harari, as a Humanist, places faith in humans as the ultimate stewards of this task. However, his argument fails to adequately account for hubris, cognitive biases, and human deficits.
The Crux of the Problem
The core issue with Harari’s argument is that he appears to be chasing a local maxima by adopting a human-centric solution. His proposed solutions require not only human oversight but the oversight of an anointed few—presumably his preferred “elite” humans—even if other solutions might ultimately prove superior. He is caught in the illusion of control. While Harari’s position on transhuman capabilities is unclear, I suspect he would steadfastly defend human cognitive superiority to the bitter end.
In essence, Harari’s vision of self-correcting systems is optimistic yet flawed. By failing to fully acknowledge the limits of human fallibility and the structural influences of power and self-interest, he leaves his argument vulnerable to critique. Ultimately, his belief in the self-correcting nature of human institutions reflects more faith than rigour.
As I continue to react to Harari’s Nexus, I can’t help but feel like a curmudgeon. Our worldviews diverge so starkly that my critique begins to feel like a petty grudge—as though I am inconsolable. Be that as it may, I’ll persist. Please excuse any revelatory ad hominems that may ensue.
Audio: Podcast of the page contents
Harari is an unabashed Zionist and unapologetic nationalist. Unfortunately, his stories, centred on Israel and India, don’t resonate with me. This is fine—I’m sure many people outside the US are equally weary of hearing everything framed from an American perspective. Still, these narratives do little for me.
Patriotism and property are clearly important to Harari. As a Modernist, he subscribes to all the trappings of Modernist thought that I rail against. He appears aligned with the World Economic Forum, portraying it as a noble and beneficial bureaucracy, while viewing AI as an existential threat to its control. Harari’s worldview suggests there are objectively good and bad systems, and someone must oversee them. Naturally, he presents himself as possessing the discernment to judge which systems are beneficial or detrimental.
In this chapter, Harari recounts the cholera outbreak in London, crediting it with fostering a positive bureaucracy to ensure clean water sources. However, he conflates the tireless efforts of a single physician with the broader bureaucratic structure. He uses this example, alongside Modi’s Clean India initiative, to champion bureaucracy, even as he shares a personal anecdote highlighting its flaws. His rhetorical strategy seems aimed at cherry-picking positive aspects of bureaucracy, establishing a strawman to diminish its negatives, and then linking these with artificial intelligence. As an institutionalist, Harari even goes so far as to defend the “deep state.”
Earlier, Harari explained how communication evolved from Human → Human to Human → Stories. Now, he introduces Human → Document systems, connecting these to authority, the growing power of administrators, and the necessity of archives. He argues that our old stories have not adapted to address the complexities of the modern world. Here, he sets up religion as another bogeyman. As a fellow atheist, I don’t entirely disagree with him, but it’s clear he’s using religion as a metaphor to draw parallels with AI and intractable doctrines.
Harari juxtaposes “death by tiger” with “death by document,” suggesting the latter—the impersonal demise caused by bureaucracy—is harder to grapple with. This predates Luigi Mangione’s infamous response to UnitedHealthcare’s CEO Brian Thompson, highlighting the devastating impact of administrative systems. Harari also briefly references obligate siblicide and sibling rivalry, which seem to segue into evolution and concepts of purity versus impurity.
Echoing Jonathan Haidt, Harari explores the dynamics of curiosity and disgust while reinforcing an “us versus them” narrative. He touches on the enduring challenges of India’s caste system, presenting yet another layer of complexity. Harari’s inclination towards elitism shines through, though he occasionally acknowledges the helplessness people face when confronting bureaucracy. He seems particularly perturbed by revolts in which the public destroys documents and debts—revealing what feels like a document fetish and an obsession with traceability.
While he lauds AI’s ability to locate documents and weave stories by connecting disparate content, Harari concludes the chapter with a segue into the next: a discussion of errors and holy books. Once again, he appears poised to draw parallels that serve to undermine AI. Despite my critiques, I’m ready to dive into the next chapter.
Chapter 2 of Yuval Noah Harari’s Nexus centres on the power of stories and their role in shaping human societies. For Harari, stories are not merely narratives but essential tools that have elevated human-to-human networks into human-to-story networks—a transition he frames as unadulterated Progress™, reflecting his dyed-in-the-wool Modernist perspective.
Audio: Podcast on this content
The Power of Stories
Harari argues that fictional stories underpin the strength of social networks, enabling constructs like nations and economies to thrive. He celebrates these intersubjective frameworks as shared functional experiences that facilitate progress. While Harari’s thesis is compelling, his tone suggests an uncritical embrace of these constructs as inherently good. Branding and propaganda, for example, are presented as valid tools—but only when used by those on the “right side” of history, a position Harari implicitly claims for himself.
Order Above All Else
One of Harari’s key claims is that order trumps truth and justice. He justifies limiting both for the sake of maintaining stability, positioning this as his modus operandi. This prioritisation of order reveals a functionalist worldview where utility outweighs ethical considerations. Harari goes further to define “good” information as that which either discovers truth or creates order, a reductionistic view that leaves little room for dissent or alternative interpretations.
By extension, Harari endorses the concept of the “noble lie”—deception deemed acceptable if it serves these ends. While pragmatism may demand such compromises, Harari’s framing raises concerns about how this justification could be weaponised to silence opposition or reinforce entrenched power structures.
Alignment with Power
Harari’s alignment with institutional power becomes increasingly evident as the chapter progresses. His discussion of intersubjective constructs positions them as the bedrock of human achievement, but he appears unwilling to scrutinise the role of institutions like the World Economic Forum (WEF) in perpetuating inequalities. Harari’s lack of criticism for these entities mirrors historical justifications of despotic regimes by those aligned with their goals. He seems more concerned about AI’s potential to disrupt the plans of such institutions than about its impact on humanity as a whole.
Fiction as a Weapon
Harari concludes with an implicit hope that his narrative might gain consensus to undermine opposition to these power structures. His fondness for fiction—and his belief that “a story is greater than any truth”—positions storytelling as both a tool and a weapon. While this reflects the undeniable power of narratives, it also underscores Harari’s selective morality: stories are good when they align with his perspective and problematic when they don’t.
Final Thoughts
Chapter 2 of Nexus is a study in the utility of stories, but it also reveals Harari’s Modernist biases and alignment with institutional power. His prioritisation of order over truth and justice, coupled with his justification of noble lies, paints a picture of a pragmatist willing to compromise ethics for stability. Whether this perspective deepens or is challenged in later chapters remains to be seen, but for now, Harari’s narrative raises as many concerns as it seeks to address. I don’t mean to be overly cynical, but I can’t help but think that this book lays the groundwork for propagandising his playbook.
I question whether reviewing a book chapter by chapter is the best approach. It feels more like a reaction video because I am trying to suss out as I go. Also, I question the integrity and allegiance of the author, a point I often make clear. Perhaps ‘integrity’ is too harsh as he may have integrity relative to his worldview. It just happens to differ from mine.
Chapter 1 of Yuval Noah Harari’s Nexus, ironically titled “What is Information?” closes not with clarity but with ambiguity. Harari, ever the rhetorician, acknowledges the difficulty of achieving consensus on what ‘information’ truly means. Instead of attempting a rigorous definition, he opts for the commonsense idiomatic approach—a conveniently disingenuous choice, given that information is supposedly the book’s foundational theme. To say this omission is bothersome would be an understatement; it is a glaring oversight in a chapter dedicated to unpacking this very concept.
Audio: Podcast related to this content.
Sidestepping Rigour
Harari’s rationale for leaving ‘information’ undefined appears to rest on its contested nature, yet this does not excuse the absence of his own interpretation. While consensus may indeed be elusive, a book with such grand ambitions demands at least a working definition. Without it, readers are left adrift, navigating a central theme that Harari refuses to anchor. This omission feels particularly egregious when juxtaposed against his argument that information fundamentally underlies everything. How can one build a convincing thesis on such an unstable foundation?
The Map and the Terrain
In typical Harari fashion, the chapter isn’t devoid of compelling ideas. He revisits the map-and-terrain analogy, borrowing from Borges to argue that no map can perfectly represent reality. While this metaphor is apt for exploring the limitations of knowledge, it falters when Harari insists on the existence of an underlying, universal truth. His examples—Israeli versus Palestinian perspectives, Orthodox versus secular vantage points—highlight the relativity of interpretation. Yet he clings to the Modernist belief that events have an objective reality: they occur at specific times, dates, and places, regardless of perspective. This insistence feels like an ontological claim awkwardly shoehorned into an epistemological discussion.
Leveraging Ambiguity
One can’t help but suspect that Harari’s refusal to define ‘information’ serves a rhetorical purpose. By leaving the concept malleable, he gains the flexibility to adapt its meaning to suit his arguments throughout the book. This ambiguity may prove advantageous in bolstering a wide-ranging thesis, but it also risks undermining the book’s intellectual integrity. Readers may find themselves wondering whether Harari is exploring complexity or exploiting it.
Final Thoughts on Chapter 1
The chapter raises more questions than it answers, not least of which is whether Harari intends to address these foundational gaps in later chapters. If the preface hinted at reductionism, Chapter 1 confirms it, with Harari’s Modernist leanings and rhetorical manoeuvres taking centre stage. “What is Information?” may be a provocative title, but its contents suggest that the question is one Harari is not prepared to answer—at least, not yet.
I’ve just begun reading Yuval Noah Harari’s Nexus. As the prologue comes to a close, I find myself navigating an intellectual terrain riddled with contradictions, ideological anchors, and what I suspect to be strategic polemics. Harari, it seems, is speaking directly to his audience of elites and intellectuals, crafting a narrative that leans heavily on divisive rhetoric and reductionist thinking—all while promising to explore the nuanced middle ground between information as truth, weapon, and power grab. Does he deliver on this promise? The jury is still out, but the preface itself raises plenty of questions.
Audio: Podcast reflecting on this content.
The Anatomy of a Polemic
From the outset, Harari frames his discussion as a conflict between populists and institutionalists. He discredits the former with broad strokes, likening them to the sorcerer’s apprentice—irrational actors awaiting divine intervention to resolve the chaos they’ve unleashed. This imagery, though evocative, immediately positions populists as caricatures rather than serious subjects of analysis. To compound this, he critiques not only populist leaders like Donald Trump but also the rationality of their supporters, signalling a disdain that reinforces the divide between the “enlightened” and the “misguided.”
This framing, of course, aligns neatly with his target audience. Elites and intellectuals are likely to nod along, finding affirmation in Harari’s critique of populism’s supposed anti-rationality and embrace of spiritual empiricism. Yet, this approach risks alienating those outside his ideological choir, creating an echo chamber rather than fostering meaningful dialogue. I’m unsure whether he is being intentionally polemic and provocative to hook the reader into the book or if this tone will persist to the end.
The Rise of the Silicon Threat
One of Harari’s most striking claims in the preface is his fear that silicon-based organisms (read: AI) will supplant carbon-based life forms. This existential anxiety leans heavily into speciesism, painting a stark us-versus-them scenario. Whilst Harari’s concern may resonate with those wary of unchecked technological advancement, it smacks of sensationalism—a rhetorical choice that risks reducing complex dynamics to clickbait-level fearmongering. How, exactly, does he support this claim? That remains to be seen, though the sceptic in me suspects this argument may prioritise dramatic appeal over substantive evidence.
Virtue Ethics and the Modernist Lens
Harari’s ideological stance emerges clearly in his framing of worldviews as divisions of motives: power, truth, or justice. This naïve triad mirrors his reliance on virtue ethics, a framework that feels both dated and overly simplistic in the face of the messy realities he seeks to unpack. Moreover, his defence of institutionalism—presented as the antidote to populist chaos—ignores the systemic failings that have eroded trust in these very institutions. By focusing on discrediting populist critiques rather than interrogating institutional shortcomings, Harari’s argument risks becoming one-sided.
A Preface Packed with Paradoxes
Despite these critiques, Harari’s preface is not without its merits. For example, his exploration of the “ant-information” cohort of conspiracy theorists raises interesting questions about the weaponisation of information and the cultural shifts driving these movements. However, his alignment with power concerns—notably the World Economic Forum—casts a shadow over his ability to critique these dynamics impartially. Is he unpacking the mechanisms of power or merely reinforcing the ones that align with his worldview?
The Promise of Middle Ground—or the Illusion of It
Harari’s stated goal to explore the middle ground between viewing information as truth, weapon, or power grab is ambitious. Yet, the preface itself leans heavily toward polarisation, framing AI as an existential enemy and populists as irrational antagonists. If he genuinely seeks to unpack the nuanced intersections of these themes, he will need to move beyond the reductionism and rhetorical flourishes that dominate his opening chapter.
Final Thoughts
I liked Hararis’ first publication, Sapiens, that looked back into the past, but I was less enamoured with his prognosticating, and I worry that this is more of the same. As I move beyond the preface of Nexus, I remain curious but sceptical. Harari’s narrative thus far feels more like a carefully curated polemic than a genuine attempt to navigate the complexities of the information age. Whether he builds on these initial positions or continues entrenching them will determine whether Nexus delivers on its promise or merely reinforces existing divides. One thing is certain: the prologue has set the stage for a provocative, if polarising, journey.
As the clock ticks us into 2025, a peculiar tale has surfaced in the blogosphere: a dark twist on the classic fable of the “wolf in sheep’s clothing,” served with a side of nihilistic absurdity. If you haven’t read it yet, you can find the original story over at Blog for Chumps. It’s a biting little narrative that turns traditional moralising on its head. Here’s why it deserves your attention.
Audio: NotebookLM Podcast on this topic.
The Tale in Brief
A hungry wolf, tired of dodging vigilant shepherds, decides to forgo subterfuge altogether. He waltzes into the flock, making no effort to hide his predatory nature. A naïve lamb follows him, and predictably, the wolf claims his meal. Later, the wolf returns to the sheepfold, where the shepherd — instead of protecting his flock — teams up with the wolf. Together, they butcher a sheep before abandoning the scene entirely to indulge in McDonald’s, leaving the traumatised sheep to accept their grim new reality.
Not exactly bedtime reading for the kids.
Themes: A Cynical Mirror to Our World
This tale is not merely a grotesque subversion of pastoral simplicity; it’s a scalpel slicing into the rotting carcass of modern society. Here’s what lurks beneath its woolly surface:
1. Cynicism Towards Authority
In most fables, the shepherd embodies protection and care. Here, he’s a collaborator in senseless violence. The shepherd’s betrayal critiques the notion of benevolent authority, suggesting that those entrusted with safeguarding the vulnerable often act in their own interests or, worse, align themselves with destructive forces. Sound familiar? Think political complicity, corporate greed, or any number of modern failures of leadership.
2. Normalisation of Atrocity
The sheep, described as cognitively intact, accept their grim reality without resistance. This isn’t a story about oblivious innocence; it’s about the horrifying human capacity to adapt to systemic violence. It reflects how people, faced with injustice, often acquiesce to their oppressors rather than challenge the status quo.
3. Inversion of Expectations
The wolf doesn’t even bother with the traditional sheepskin disguise. His audacity mirrors the brazen nature of modern exploitation, where bad actors operate in plain sight, confident in the public’s apathy or resignation. It’s a commentary on the erosion of shame, accountability, and even the pretence of decency.
4. Absurdity and Nihilism
The shepherd and wolf ditch their victim to grab fast food, trivialising the violence they’ve inflicted. The juxtaposition of archaic brutality with banal consumerism is absurd yet disturbingly resonant. It suggests that, in our era, even cruelty can be relegated to a footnote in the pursuit of comfort or convenience.
Symbols: Layers of Meaning
The tale brims with symbolic resonance:
The Wolf: A stand-in for unchecked greed or predatory systems, the wolf’s brazen behaviour highlights the dangers of apathy and unchallenged power.
The Shepherd: His betrayal symbolises the failure of institutions — governments, corporations, or other entities — to protect those they claim to serve.
The Sheep: Far from being simple-minded, the sheep’s acceptance of their grim new reality is a biting critique of societal complacency.
McDonald’s: A modern symbol of triviality and consumerism, it underscores the absurdity of senseless violence in a world driven by shallow comforts.
A Stark Commentary on Power Dynamics
At its core, the story is a brutal satire of power and complicity. Though ostensibly adversaries, the shepherd and wolf unite to exploit the powerless. It’s a chilling reminder of how often power structures protect their own interests at the expense of the vulnerable.
The sheep’s passive acceptance is equally damning. It forces readers to confront their own role as silent witnesses or even complicit actors in systems of oppression. What happens when we’re no longer shocked by atrocity but instead integrate it into the fabric of our existence?
The Satirical Edge
What makes this story particularly effective is its dark, sardonic, and unapologetically hyperbolic tone. It revels in absurdity while delivering a grim truth about human nature. The shepherd and wolf’s nonchalance is as hilarious as it is horrifying, making the tale an unsettling mirror of a society where injustice and apathy often go hand in hand.
Final Thoughts
This fable may be short, but its implications are vast. It’s a cautionary tale about the dangers of complacency, the betrayal of trust, and the absurdity of modern priorities. More importantly, it’s a call to resist the normalisation of harm — to recognise wolves and shepherds for what they are and demand better from ourselves and those in power.
So, as we usher in a new year, let this tale serve as a grim reminder: the wolf doesn’t always need a disguise, and the shepherd isn’t always your friend. Sometimes, they’re just two blokes on their way to McDonald’s.
I thought I was done wittering on about Brian Thompson, the late CEO of United Healthcare, but here we are. His name lingers like the corporate perfume of systemic rot—an enduring testament to how we’ve elevated unethical behaviour into performance art. It got me thinking: what if we brought back a bit of old-school accountability? In Ancient Rome, outlaws lost their citizenship, legal protections, and status as people. That’s right—booted out of polite society. Meanwhile, we’ve done the opposite: we hand out golden parachutes and slap their faces on business magazine covers.
To some, Brian Thompson was a good man – apart from the insider trading, of course. He was successful, a nice guy, funny, and had a good family, and a few million-dollar homes. What else could you ask for? But his success came in the way of blood money. It seems we need fewer people who think like this, not more.
Then I recalled The Purge franchise. And sure, The Purge is a dystopian fantasy, but let’s up the stakes. Picture this: bounties on corporate villains. Not literal carnage, of course—let’s leave that for the big screen—but the return of real consequences. Instead of allowing their PR teams to smooth it all over with buzzwords and philanthropy crumbs, what if we made it socially unacceptable to be a snake in a suit? What if moral suasion—the lost art of persuading someone to do right because it’s, you know, right—actually came back into fashion?
Nietzsche nailed it ages ago. We’ve got two moral codes: one for people and one for money. And guess which one wins every time? All it takes is enough cash and the right rhetoric, and suddenly, everyone forgets who’s really getting fleeced. This is the banality of evil in its purest form: not grand acts of villainy but a shrugging normalisation of corruption. We don’t even consider it corruption. We see it as business as usual. We support and work for these businesses.
The tragedy is that we’ve become so desensitised to it that we are adept at ignoring the stench of moral failure that even calling it out feels quaint. But it’s not hopeless. Some of us still notice. Some of us still care. The real question is, how long can we keep tolerating this farce before we remember that morality isn’t just for the powerless?
Meantime, I just imagine these grubbers being stripped of power and protection, running scared from the likes of Luigi Mangioni.
A Stroll Through the Bloodstained Woods of Legal History
Ah, the Royal Forests of medieval England – a term so delightfully misleading that it could teach modern PR firms a thing or two. Far from evoking pastoral woodlands teeming with squirrels and picnic spots, these ‘forests’ were not defined by trees but by legal tyranny. Thanks to our favourite Norman conqueror, William the First (or William the Worst, if you were an unlucky peasant), these exclusive playgrounds for kings became the ultimate no-go zones for the hoi polloi.
Of Forests and Fictions
Contrary to what your Instagram influencer friends might think, a ‘forest’ back then didn’t need a single tree. It was the law, darling, not the foliage, that counted. These Royal Forests were terra sacra for the crown’s hunting pleasures, with laws so draconian they’d make Draco himself blush. Need firewood? Tough luck. Want to graze your sheep? Not unless you fancy forfeiting your flock – or perhaps a hand.
Speaking of hands, the forest laws weren’t just about controlling land; they were a petri dish for class warfare. Hunting deer without royal permission? You might not be ‘caught red-handed’ (hold that thought for later), but the penalties ensured your dignity – and possibly your anatomy – were left in the woods.
Enter the Outlaw: Homo Sacer in Doublet and Hose
Which brings us to that delightful medieval innovation: outlawry. To be declared an outlaw wasn’t just to be slapped with a fine or given a metaphorical wag of the finger. Oh no, you became a walking target, stripped of all legal protections. A medieval outlaw wasn’t just a criminal; they were legally dead – a status once reserved for the Roman homo sacer, the accursed man outside the pale of law and civilisation.
Declared an outlaw? Congratulations, you’re now a ‘wolf’s head.’ A charming term, really – essentially a poetic way of saying ‘fair game.’ Anyone could hunt you down without consequence. Add in a bit of medieval flair, and voilà: outlawry became less about justice and more about population control via recreational murder.
Caught Red-Handed: Scotland’s Contribution to the Blood-soaked Lexicon
Speaking of blood, let’s dissect that juicy phrase, ‘caught red-handed.’ Many would love to connect this idiom to poaching in Royal Forests, but alas, its origins are as Scottish as whisky and poor weather. The term ‘red hand’ first appeared in the Acts of Parliament of James I in 1432, long after the Normans had finished turning England into one giant gated community for deer.
Back then, being ‘caught reid hand’ wasn’t just a metaphor. It meant literally being caught with blood on your hands, usually from slaughtering someone else’s sheep – or worse, their lord’s. Fast-forward to Sir Walter Scott’s Ivanhoe in 1819, and the phrase gets a literary boost, morphing into ‘red-handed.’ By the Victorian era, it had become the darling of pulp crime writers everywhere.
Robin Hood: Outlaw Extraordinaire or Tudor PR Ploy?
And what’s a medieval blog post without a nod to Robin Hood, England’s most famous outlaw? Let’s be honest: Robin Hood probably didn’t exist, and if he did, he was less about redistributing wealth and more about ensuring his band of merry men didn’t starve. But Sherwood Forest’s association with this legendary thief cements the notion that outlaws weren’t always villains. Some were folk heroes – or at least, they were heroes to anyone who wasn’t a sheriff or a Norman noble.
Forests, Outlaws, and Bloodied Hands: A Legacy Worth Remembering
The legal forests of medieval England weren’t just about game preservation; they were a microcosm of royal power, social exclusion, and judicial brutality. The outlaw, stripped of all rights, was both a product and a victim of this system – a ‘wolf’s head’ wandering the wilderness, neither man nor beast in the eyes of the law.
And what of ‘caught red-handed’? A phrase born in blood-soaked Scottish pastures, far removed from the Royal Forests of England but just as evocative of humanity’s fixation on crime, punishment, and evidence that sticks – quite literally.
So next time you hear about forests, think less ‘enchanted woods’ and more ‘legal hellscape.’ And if you’re ever ‘caught red-handed,’ remember: at least you’re not a wolf’s head.
“Ours may become the first civilisation destroyed, not by the power of our enemies, but by the ignorance of our teachers and the dangerous nonsense they are teaching our children. In an age of artificial intelligence, they are creating artificial stupidity.”
Image: Thomas Sowell with superimposed quotation cited above.
What a delightfully loaded statement. Sowell—a man whose intellectual credentials are as impeccable as his sweeping generalisations – manages, in a single breath, to malign teachers, dismiss contemporary education, and suggest that we’re hurtling towards some dystopian abyss because children today aren’t being taught…what, exactly? Latin declensions? The works of Burke? Perhaps the art of deference to authority? He never specifies. And why should he? Specifics would ruin the vibe.
This statement is a masterpiece of rhetorical dog-whistling. To those predisposed to Sowell’s worldview, it’s just common sense. Teachers are ignorant, modern education is a farce, and our children are doomed to a future of robotic ineptitude. It sounds plausible enough, provided you don’t stop to ask pesky questions like, “Which teachers? What nonsense? How, exactly, does one create artificial stupidity?”
The Cult of Common Sense
Let’s take a moment to examine the talismanic invocation of “common sense,” a concept as revered as it is elusive. Voltaire’s quip that “common sense is not so common” seems particularly apt here. What Sowell calls common sense is really shorthand for a monolithic worldview where civilisation is a neatly defined entity under siege by radical educators and their progressive agendas.
The problem? This worldview collapses under even cursory scrutiny. Civilisation is not a singular, static entity but an ever-evolving tapestry of conflicting ideas, cultures, and innovations. Teachers are not a homogenous cabal conspiring to dismantle society but an underpaid, overworked group trying their best to navigate a minefield of bureaucracy and societal expectations. And as for the “dangerous nonsense” being taught? Well, your guess is as good as mine. Critical thinking? Equity? Heaven forbid, empathy?
Ignorance as a Natural State
Sowell’s fans bristle at any suggestion that their intellectual idol might be guilty of hyperbole. But let’s consider the claim that teachers are “creating” stupidity. This presupposes that stupidity is an artificial construct rather than the natural baseline of humanity. The average IQ is, after all, 100 by design. For Americans, it hovers slightly below that at 97. This isn’t new. Stupidity doesn’t need to be created; it’s the default. Education’s job is to chip away at this deficit, not conjure intelligence ex nihilo.
To cast educators as villains in this endeavour is a disingenuous sleight of hand. Are there systemic issues in education? Of course. But to claim that teachers are actively fostering stupidity is akin to blaming firefighters for the existence of fires.
The Paradox of Intellectual Elitism
Here’s the kicker: Sowell himself is an intellectual. An elitist, no less, if we’re using his own fans’ definition. Yet his critique of intellectuals resonates with his audience precisely because they perceive him as an exception to the rule. “He’s one of us,” they say, failing to notice the irony. It’s the classic populist manoeuvre: position yourself as the voice of the people while enjoying all the privileges of the elite.
This paradox is not unique to Sowell. It’s the same dynamic that fuels the cult of Jordan Peterson, another intellectual who rails against intellectualism while wielding its tools. The result is a rhetorical echo chamber where dissent is dismissed as ignorance and agreement is lauded as truth.
The Dog Whistle Symphony
Sowell’s statement is, at its core, a symphony of dog whistles. It’s designed to resonate with those who already believe that modern education is a hotbed of progressive indoctrination. To this audience, it’s not a call to debate but a rallying cry. The terms – civilisation, ignorance, nonsense, artificial stupidity – are intentionally vague, allowing listeners to project their own fears and grievances onto them.
This vagueness is both the strength and the weakness of the argument. It’s compelling to those who share Sowell’s worldview but collapses under scrutiny. What is civilisation? What constitutes dangerous nonsense? Without definitions, these are just buzzwords masquerading as profundity.
Reframing the Conversation
So, how do we engage with such rhetoric? First, by refusing to accept its premises without question. Who are these teachers, and what are they allegedly teaching? What does Sowell mean by “civilisation”? Without specifics, his statement is not an argument but an incantation.
Second, by exposing the contradictions. If intelligence is the antidote to societal decline, as Sowell implies, then dismissing intellectuals wholesale is self-defeating. If education is the solution, then scapegoating teachers undermines the very people tasked with implementing it.
Finally, by recognising the emotional appeal at play. Sowell’s rhetoric taps into a deep-seated fear of change and loss. Addressing this fear requires empathy and nuance – qualities absent from his statement but essential for meaningful dialogue.
Conclusion
Thomas Sowell’s warning about “artificial stupidity” is less a diagnosis of societal decline than a litmus test for ideological allegiance. It’s a brilliant piece of rhetoric but a poor substitute for critical analysis. By unpacking its assumptions and exposing its contradictions, we can move beyond the echo chamber of dog whistles and engage in the kind of nuanced, constructive debate that Sowell’s own critique ostensibly calls for.
But then, nuance has never been common sense, has it?
It’s interesting to me that as an atheist and non-cognitivist, I can take the moral high ground relative to health insurance concerns in the United States. So, I write about it.
Blood Money and Broken Principles
In the aftermath of the tragic killing of Brian Thompson, the CEO of a health insurance conglomerate, a striking narrative has emerged. Many Americans view this act—shocking though it is—as emblematic of the anger and despair born of a system that profits by exploiting human vulnerability. Such reactions compel us to examine the ethics of industries that flourish on what can only be described as blood money. From health insurance to tobacco, alcohol, and the arms trade, these livelihoods raise profound ethical questions when viewed through the lens of the Buddhist Noble Eightfold Path, specifically Right Livelihood and Right Action.
The Moral Framework: Buddhism’s Path to Ethical Livelihood
Buddhism’s Eightfold Path provides a blueprint for ethical living, with Right Livelihood and Right Action serving as its ethical cornerstones. These principles demand that one’s work and deeds contribute to the welfare of others, avoid harm, and align with compassion and integrity. In short, they urge us to earn a living in a manner that uplifts rather than exploits. The health insurance industry’s business model—which often prioritises profits over the preservation of life—challenges these tenets in ways that are difficult to overlook.
Consider the denial of coverage for life-saving treatments, the exploitation of legal loopholes to reduce payouts, or the systemic perpetuation of healthcare inequality. These actions, while legally sanctioned, conflict sharply with the Buddhist ideal of avoiding harm and promoting well-being. Yet, this industry is not alone in its ethical failings. Many others—both legal and illegal—fall similarly short.
Industries of Exploitation: Tobacco, Alcohol, and Arms
The tobacco and alcohol industries provide stark examples of livelihoods that thrive on human suffering. Their products, despite their legality, are designed to foster dependency and harm. They exact a heavy toll on both individual lives and public health systems, a reality that makes them incompatible with Right Livelihood. The arms trade—arguably the most egregious example—profits directly from conflict and human misery. How can such industries possibly align with the Buddhist ideal of ahimsa (non-violence) or the compassionate aspiration to alleviate suffering?
In these cases, the harm caused is not incidental; it is fundamental to their business models. Whether one manufactures cigarettes, brews alcohol, or sells weapons, the destruction wrought by these activities is integral to their profitability. The contradiction is stark: the greater the harm, the greater the profit. This stands in direct opposition to the Buddhist call for livelihoods that sustain and support life.
Organised Crime: The Dark Mirror
When we turn to organised crime, the parallels become even more unsettling. Whether it’s the drug trade, human trafficking, or financial fraud, these activities epitomise unethical livelihoods. They exploit the vulnerable, foster violence, and undermine social cohesion. Yet, when viewed alongside certain legal industries, the line between “organised crime” and “corporate enterprise” begins to blur. Is the denial of life-saving healthcare less egregious than a gang’s extortion racket? Both profit by preying on human suffering. Both thrive in systems that prioritise gain over humanity.
The Buddhist Response: From Outrage to Action
Buddhism does not condone violence, no matter how symbolic or righteous it may appear. Right Action demands non-violence not only in deeds but also in thoughts and intentions. The killing of Brian Thompson, though perhaps an act of desperation or symbolism, cannot align with Buddhist ethics. Yet this tragedy should not eclipse the broader systemic critique. The true challenge is not to exact retribution but to transform the systems that perpetuate harm.
To move forward, we must ask how our societies can pivot toward livelihoods that align with compassion and justice. This entails holding exploitative industries to account and fostering economic systems that prioritise well-being over profit. The Buddhist path offers not only a critique of harmful practices but also a vision for ethical living—a vision that demands courage, compassion, and unwavering commitment to the common good.
Conclusion: Choosing a Better Path
The case of Brian Thompson’s killing is a symptom of a much larger ethical crisis. It forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about the industries that shape our world. Whether we scrutinise health insurance, tobacco, alcohol, the arms trade, or organised crime, the moral calculus remains the same: livelihoods that thrive on harm cannot be reconciled with the principles of Right Livelihood and Right Action.
As individuals and societies, we face a choice. We can continue to turn a blind eye to the suffering embedded in these industries, or we can commit to transforming them. The Buddhist path challenges us to choose the latter, to build systems and livelihoods rooted in compassion and justice. In doing so, we can begin to heal not only the wounds of individual tragedies but also the deeper fractures in our collective soul.
Philosophics 