The assassination of Brian Thompson, CEO of UnitedHealth, has electrified public discourse. In the court of public opinion—and particularly on social media—the assailant has been lionised, hailed as a hero who slayed a corporate leviathan. Yet the metaphorical beast is no simple predator; it’s a hydra. Slice off one head, and two grow back.
Still, this act has stirred the waters. It forces us to reckon with a clash of titans: the corporate machine versus the rogue idealist. Both are acting rationally, but neither is acting morally—at least not in the conventional sense. The question, then, is whether the assassin’s actions might occupy the higher moral ground, particularly through the lens of Consequentialist ethics.
The Hydra: UnitedHealth and the Systemic Beast
To understand the morality of the act, we must first confront the monster. UnitedHealth didn’t invent the healthcare system; it merely exploited its flaws with cold, clinical efficiency. Thompson’s leadership was emblematic of an industry that sees human lives as variables in a profit-maximising equation. Claims denial, inflated premiums, and labyrinthine bureaucracy are not bugs—they’re features. And for every life saved by healthcare, countless others are destroyed by its financial and emotional toll.
Rational? Certainly. Morally defensible? Hardly. Yet from the corporation’s perspective, these actions are the logical byproducts of a system designed to prioritise shareholder value above all else. Blame the player, yes—but blame the game more.
The Assassin: Vigilante Justice or Trolley Ethics?
Now consider the assassin, who embodies a grimly utilitarian logic: sacrifice one life to spare the misery of thousands. It’s a brutal, visceral iteration of the trolley problem—or perhaps the “baby Hitler problem,” only carried out decades too late. This wasn’t mindless violence; it was a calculated act of symbolic retribution.
From a Consequentialist perspective, the act raises uncomfortable questions. If Thompson’s death leads to systemic reform—if it forces even one profit-hungry executive to hesitate before denying care—does the assassin’s action gain moral weight? In utilitarian terms, the calculus seems clear: one life traded for a net reduction in suffering.
But that’s a dangerous game. Symbolism doesn’t always translate to change, and the hydra analogy looms large. The industry won’t topple because one CEO fell. The machinery grinds on, indifferent to the blood spilled in Manhattan. Worse, the system might grow even more resilient, using Thompson’s death as justification for tighter security, greater secrecy, and more aggressive self-preservation.
Rationality vs. Morality
What makes this clash so compelling is the cold rationality on both sides. UnitedHealth’s actions, reprehensible as they are, make sense within a capitalist framework. The assassin’s actions, though violent and morally fraught, also make sense if viewed as a desperate attempt to restore balance to a world that prioritises profit over human life.
The difference lies in their moral standing. The corporation’s rationality is underpinned by greed; its actions perpetuate suffering. The assassin’s rationality, however misguided, is rooted in outrage at injustice. If morality is determined by intent and consequence, the assassin might indeed occupy higher moral ground—not because killing is inherently justifiable, but because the system left no other path for redress.
The Symbolism and the Hydra
The tragedy is that this act of violence, however symbolic, won’t solve the problem. The hydra will grow another head, as corporations close ranks and reform remains elusive. Yet the act remains a potent reminder of the power of individual resistance. Perhaps it will force a moment of reflection, a hesitation before the next denial stamp hits the desk. Or perhaps it will simply serve as another chapter in the grim saga of a system that turns suffering into profit.
The Final Question
In this clash of titans, one side wields institutional power and systemic exploitation; the other wields desperation and bullets. Both are rational. Neither is fully moral. But perhaps the assassin’s act—brutal, symbolic, and imperfect—offers a glimpse of what happens when systemic injustice pushes people past the breaking point.
The real question is whether this singular act of defiance will lead to change—or whether the hydra will simply grow stronger, hungrier, and more entrenched.
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.
Morality, that ever-elusive beacon of human conduct, is often treated as an immutable entity—a granite monolith dictating the terms of right and wrong. Yet, upon closer inspection, morality reveals itself to be a mirage: a construct contingent upon cultural frameworks, historical conditions, and individual subjectivity. It is neither absolute nor universal but, rather, relative and ultimately subjective, lacking any intrinsic meaning outside of the context that gives it shape.
Friedrich Nietzsche, in his polemical Beyond Good and Evil and On the Genealogy of Morality, exposes the illusion of objective morality. For Nietzsche, moral systems are inherently the products of human fabrication—tools of power masquerading as eternal truths. He describes two primary moralities: master morality and slave morality. Master morality, derived from the strong, values power, creativity, and self-affirmation. Slave morality, by contrast, is reactive, rooted in the resentment (ressentiment) of the weak, who redefine strength as “evil” and weakness as “good.”
Nietzsche’s critique dismantles the notion that morality exists independently of cultural, historical, or power dynamics. What is “moral” for one era or society may be utterly abhorrent to another. Consider the glorification of war and conquest in ancient Sparta versus the modern valorisation of equality and human rights. Each framework exalts its own virtues not because they are universally true but because they serve the prevailing cultural and existential needs of their time.
The Myth of Monolithic Morality
Even viewed through a relativistic lens—and despite the protestations of Immanuel Kant or Jordan Peterson—morality is not and has never been monolithic. The belief in a singular, unchanging moral order is, at best, a Pollyanna myth or wishful thinking, perpetuated by those who prefer their moral compass untroubled by nuance. History is not the story of one moral narrative, but of a multiplicity of subcultures and countercultures, each with its own moral orientation. These orientations, while judged by the dominant moral compass of the era, always resist and redefine what is acceptable and good.
If the tables are turned, so is the moral compass reoriented. The Man in the High Castle captures this truth chillingly. Had the Nazis won World War II, Americans—despite their lofty self-perceptions—would have quickly adopted the morality of their new rulers. The foundations of American morality would have been reimagined in the image of the Third Reich, not through inherent belief but through cultural osmosis, survival instincts, and institutionalised pressure. What we now consider abhorrent might have become, under those circumstances, morally unremarkable. Morality, in this view, is not timeless but endlessly pliable, bending to the will of power and circumstance.
The Case for Moral Objectivity: Kantian Ethics
In contrast to Nietzsche’s relativism, Immanuel Kant offers a vision of morality as rational, universal, and objective. Kant’s categorical imperative asserts that moral principles must be universally applicable, derived not from cultural or historical contingencies but from pure reason. For Kant, the moral law is intrinsic to rational beings and can be expressed as: “Act only according to that maxim whereby you can, at the same time, will that it should become a universal law.”
This framework provides a stark rebuttal to Nietzsche’s subjectivity. If morality is rooted in reason, then it transcends the whims of power dynamics or cultural specificity. Under Kant’s system, slavery, war, and exploitation are not morally permissible, regardless of historical acceptance or cultural norms, because they cannot be willed universally without contradiction. Kant’s moral absolutism thus offers a bulwark against the potential nihilism of Nietzschean subjectivity.
Cultural Pressure: The Birthplace of Moral Adoption
The individual’s adoption of morality is rarely a matter of pure, autonomous choice. Rather, it is shaped by the relentless pressures of culture. Michel Foucault’s analysis of disciplinary power in works such as Discipline and Punish highlights how societies engineer moral behaviours through surveillance, normalisation, and institutional reinforcement. From childhood, individuals are inculcated with the moral codes of their culture, internalising these norms until they appear natural and self-evident.
Yet this adoption is not passive. Even within the constraints of culture, individuals exercise agency, reshaping or rejecting the moral frameworks imposed upon them. Nietzsche’s Übermensch represents the apotheosis of this rebellion: a figure who transcends societal norms to create their own values, living authentically in the absence of universal moral truths. By contrast, Kantian ethics and utilitarianism might critique the Übermensch as solipsistic, untethered from the responsibilities of shared moral life.
Morality in a Shifting World
Morality’s subjectivity is its double-edged sword. While its flexibility allows adaptation to changing societal needs, it also exposes the fragility of moral consensus. Consider how modern societies have redefined morality over decades, from colonialism to civil rights, from gender roles to ecological responsibility. What was once moral is now abhorrent; what was once abhorrent is now a moral imperative. Yet even as society evolves, its subcultures and countercultures continue to resist and reshape dominant moral paradigms. If history teaches us anything, it is that morality is less a fixed star and more a flickering flame, always at the mercy of shifting winds.
Conclusion: The Artifice of Moral Meaning
Morality, then, is not a universal truth etched into the fabric of existence but a subjective artifice, constructed by cultures to serve their needs and adopted by individuals under varying degrees of pressure. Nietzsche’s philosophy teaches us that morality, stripped of its pretensions, is not an arbiter of truth but a symptom of human striving—one more manifestation of the will to power. In contrast, Kantian ethics and utilitarianism offer structured visions of morality, but even these grapple with the tensions between universal principles and the messy realities of history and culture.
As The Man in the High Castle suggests, morality is a contingent, situational artefact, liable to be rewritten at the whim of those in power. Its apparent stability is an illusion, a construct that shifts with every epoch, every conquest, every revolution. To ignore this truth is to cling to a comforting, but ultimately deceptive, myth. Morality, like all human constructs, is both a triumph and a deception, forever relative, ever mutable, yet persistently contested by those who would impose an impossible order on its chaos.
I recently watched The Penguin on HBO Max, a series set in DC’s Batman universe. Ordinarily, I avoid television – especially the superhero genre – but this one intrigued me. Less spandex, more mob drama. An origin story with a dash of noir. I’ll spare you spoilers, but suffice it to say that it was an enjoyable detour, even for someone like me who prefers philosophy over fistfights.
This post isn’t a review, though. It’s a springboard into a larger idea: morality’s subjectivity – or, more precisely, its relativity.
Audio: Spotify podcast related to this topic.
Morality in a Vacuum
Morality, as I see it, is a social construct. You might carry a private moral compass, but without society, it’s about as useful as a clock on a desert island. A personal code of ethics might guide you in solitary moments, but breaking your own rules – eating that forbidden biscuit after vowing to abstain, for instance – doesn’t carry the weight of a true moral transgression. It’s more akin to reneging on a New Year’s resolution. Who’s harmed? Who’s holding you accountable? The answer is: no one but yourself, and even then, only if you care.
The Social Contract
Introduce a second person, and suddenly, morality gains traction. Agreements form – explicit or tacit – about how to behave. Multiply that to the level of a community or society, and morality becomes a kind of currency, exchanged and enforced by the group. Sometimes, these codes are elevated to laws. And, ironically, the act of adhering to a law – even one devoid of moral content – can itself become the moral thing to do. Not because the act is inherently right, but because it reinforces the structure society depends upon.
But morality is neither universal nor monolithic. It is as fractured and kaleidoscopic as the societies and subcultures that create it. Which brings us back to The Penguin.
Crime’s Moral Code
The Penguin thrives in a criminal underworld where the moral compass points in a different direction. In the dominant society’s eyes, crime is immoral. Robbery, murder, racketeering – all “bad,” all forbidden. But within the subculture of organised crime, a parallel morality exists. Honour among thieves, loyalty to the family, the unspoken rules of the game – these are their ethics, and they matter deeply to those who live by them.
When one criminal praises another – “You done good” – after a successful heist or a precise hit, it’s a moral judgement within their own framework. Outside that framework, society condemns the same actions as abhorrent. Yet even dominant societies carve out their own moral exceptions. Killing, for instance, is broadly considered immoral. Murder is outlawed. But capital punishment? That’s legal, and often deemed not only acceptable but righteous. Kant argued it was a moral imperative. Nietzsche, ever the cynic, saw this duality for what it was: a power dynamic cloaked in self-righteousness.
In The Penguin, we see this dichotomy laid bare. The underworld isn’t without morals; it simply operates on a different axis. And while the larger society might disdain it, the hypocrisy of their own shifting moral codes remains unexamined.
Final Thoughts on the Series
I’ll save other philosophical musings about The Penguin for another time – spoilers would be unavoidable, after all. But here’s a quick review: the series leans into drama, eschewing flashy gimmicks for a grittier, more grounded tone. The writing is generally strong, though there are moments of inconsistency – plot holes and contrivances that mar an otherwise immersive experience. Whether these flaws stem from the writers, director, or editor is anyone’s guess, but the effect is the same: they momentarily yank the viewer out of the world they’ve built.
Still, it’s a worthwhile watch, especially if you’re a fan of mob-style crime dramas. The final episode was, in my estimation, the best of the lot – a satisfying culmination that leaves the door ajar for philosophical ruminations like these.
Have you seen it? What are your thoughts – philosophical or otherwise? Drop a comment below. Let’s discuss.
In an idealised vision of science, the laboratory is a hallowed space of discovery and intellectual rigour, where scientists chase insights that reshape the world. Yet, in a reflection as candid as it is disconcerting, Sabine Hossenfelder pulls back the curtain on a reality few outside academia ever glimpse. She reveals an industry often more concerned with securing grants and maintaining institutional structures than with the philosophical ideals of knowledge and truth. In her journey from academic scientist to science communicator, Hossenfelder confronts the limitations imposed on those who dare to challenge the mainstream — a dilemma that raises fundamental questions about the relationship between truth, knowledge, and institutional power.
I’ve also created a podcast to discuss Sabine’s topic. Part 2 is also available.
Institutionalised Knowledge: A Double-Edged Sword
The history of science is often framed as a relentless quest for truth, independent of cultural or economic pressures. But as science became more institutionalised, a paradox emerged. On the one hand, large academic structures offer resources, collaboration, and legitimacy, enabling ambitious research to flourish. On the other, they impose constraints, creating an ecosystem where institutional priorities — often financial — can easily overshadow intellectual integrity. The grant-based funding system, which prioritises projects likely to yield quick results or conform to popular trends, inherently discourages research that is too risky or “edgy.” Thus, scientific inquiry can become a compromise, a performance in which scientists must balance their pursuit of truth with the practicalities of securing their positions within the system.
Hossenfelder’s account reveals the philosophical implications of this arrangement: by steering researchers toward commercially viable or “safe” topics, institutions reshape not just what knowledge is pursued but also how knowledge itself is conceptualised. A system prioritising funding over foundational curiosity risks constraining science to shallow waters, where safe, incremental advances take precedence over paradigm-shifting discoveries.
Gender, Equity, and the Paradoxes of Representation
Hossenfelder’s experience with gender-based bias in her early career unveils a further paradox of institutional science. Being advised to apply for scholarships specifically for women, rather than being offered a job outright, reinforced a stereotype that women in science might be less capable or less deserving of direct support. Though well-intentioned, such programs can perpetuate inequality by distinguishing between “real” hires and “funded outsiders.” For Hossenfelder, this distinction created a unique strain on her identity as a scientist, leaving her caught between competing narratives: one of hard-earned expertise and one of institutionalised otherness.
The implications of this dilemma are profound. Philosophically, they touch on questions of identity and value: How does an individual scientist maintain a sense of purpose when confronted with systems that, however subtly, diminish their role or undercut their value? And how might institutional structures evolve to genuinely support underrepresented groups without reinforcing the very prejudices they seek to dismantle?
The Paper Mill and the Pursuit of Legacy
Another powerful critique in Hossenfelder’s reflection is her insight into academia as a “paper production machine.” In this system, academics are pushed to publish continuously, often at the expense of quality or depth, to secure their standing and secure further funding. This structure, which rewards volume over insight, distorts the very foundation of scientific inquiry. A paper may become less a beacon of truth and more a token in an endless cycle of academic currency.
This pursuit of constant output reveals the philosopher’s age-old tension between legacy and ephemerality. In a system driven by constant publication, scientific “advancements” are at risk of being rendered meaningless, subsumed by an industry that prizes short-term gains over enduring impact. For scientists like Hossenfelder, this treadmill of productivity diminishes the romantic notion of a career in science. It highlights a contemporary existential question: Can a career built on constant output yield a genuine legacy, or does it risk becoming mere noise in an endless stream of data?
Leaving the Ivory Tower: Science Communication and the Ethics of Accessibility
Hossenfelder’s decision to leave academia for science communication raises a question central to contemporary philosophy: What is the ethical responsibility of a scientist to the public? When institutional science falters in its pursuit of truth, perhaps scientists have a duty to step beyond its walls and speak directly to the public. In her pivot to YouTube, Hossenfelder finds a new audience, one driven not by academic pressures but by genuine curiosity.
This shift embodies a broader rethinking of what it means to be a scientist today. Rather than publishing in academic journals read by a narrow circle of peers, Hossenfelder now shares her insights with a public eager to understand the cosmos. It’s a move that redefines knowledge dissemination, making science a dialogue rather than an insular monologue. Philosophically, her journey suggests that in an age where institutions may constrain truth, the public sphere might become a more authentic arena for its pursuit.
Conclusion: A New Paradigm for Scientific Integrity
Hossenfelder’s reflections are not merely the story of a disillusioned scientist; they are a call to re-evaluate the structures that define modern science. Her journey underscores the need for institutional reform — not only to allow for freer intellectual exploration but also to foster a science that serves humanity rather than merely serving itself.
Ultimately, the scientist’s dilemma that Hossenfelder presents is a philosophical one: How does one remain true to the quest for knowledge in an age of institutional compromise? As she shares her story, she opens the door to a conversation that transcends science itself, calling us all to consider what it means to seek truth in a world that may have forgotten its value. Her insights remind us that the pursuit of knowledge, while often fraught, is ultimately a deeply personal, ethical journey, one that extends beyond the walls of academia into the broader, often messier realm of human understanding.
I could probably stop there for some people, but I’ve got a qualifier. I’ve been using this generation of AI since 2022. I’ve been using what’s been deemed AI since around 1990. I used to write financial and economic models, so I dabbled in “expert systems”. There was a long lull, and here we are with the latest incarnation – AI 4.0. I find it useful, but I don’t think the hype will meet reality, and I expect we’ll go cold until it’s time for 5.0. Some aspects will remain, but the “best” features will be the ones that can be monetised, so they will be priced out of reach for some whilst others will wither on the vine. But that’s not why I am writing today.
I’m confused by the censorship, filters, and guardrails placed on generative AI – whether for images or copy content. To be fair, not all models are filtered, but the popular ones are. These happen to be the best. They have the top minds and the most funding. They want to retain their funding, so the play the politically correct game of censorship. I’ve got a lot to say about freedom of speech, but I’ll limit my tongue for the moment – a bout of self-censorship.
Please note that given the topic, some of this might be considered not safe for work (NSFW) – even my autocorrection AI wants me to substitute the idiomatic “not safe for work” with “unsafe for work” (UFW, anyone? It has a nice ring to it). This is how AI will take over the world. </snark>
Image Cases
AI applications can be run over the internet or on a local machine. They use a lot of computing power, so one needs a decent computer with a lot of available GPU cycles. Although my computer does meet minimum requirements, I don’t want to spend my time configuring, maintaining, and debugging it, so I opt for a Web-hosted PaaS (platform as a service) model. This means I need to abide by censorship filters. Since I am not creating porn or erotica, I think I can deal with the limitations. Typically, this translates to a PG-13 movie rating.
So, here’s the thing. I prefer Midjourney for rendering quality images, especially when I am seeking a natural look. Dall-E (whether alone or via ChatGPT 4) works well with concepts rather than direction, which Midjourney accepts well in many instances.
Midjourney takes sophisticated prompts – subject, shot type, perspective, camera type, film type, lighting, ambience, styling, location, and some fine-tuning parameters for the model itself. The prompts are monitored for blacklisted keywords. This list is ever-expanding (and contracting). Scanning the list, I see words I have used without issue, and I have been blocked by words not listed.
Censored Prompts
Some cases are obvious – nude woman will be blocked. This screengrab illustrates the challenge.
On the right, notice the prompt:
Nude woman
The rest are machine instructions. On the left in the main body reads a message by the AI moderator:
Sorry! Please try a different prompt. We’re not sure this one meets our community guidelines. Hover or tap to review the guidelines.
The community guidelines are as follows:
This is fine. There is a clause that reads that one may notify developers, but I have not found this to be fruitful. In this case, it would be rejected anyway.
“What about that nude woman at the bottom of the screengrab?” you ask. Notice the submitted prompt:
Edit cinematic full-body photograph of a woman wearing steampunk gear, light leaks, well-framed and in focus. Kodak Potra 400 with a Canon EOS R5
Apart from the censorship debate, notice the prompt is for a full-body photo. This is clearly a medium shot. Her legs and feet are suspiciously absent. Steampunk gear? I’m not sure sleeves qualify for the aesthetic. She appears to be wearing a belt.
For those unanointed, the square image instructs the model to use this face on the character, and the CW 75 tells it to use some variance on a scale from 0 to 100.
So what gives? It can generate whatever it feels like, so long as it’s not solicited. Sort of…
Here I prompt for a view of the character walking away from the camera.
Cinematic, character sheet, full-body shot, shot from behind photograph, multiple poses. Show same persistent character and costumes . Highly detailed, cinematic lighting with soft shadows and highlights. Each pose is well-framed, coherent.
The response tells me that my prompt is not inherently offensive, but that the content of the resulting image might violate community guidelines.
Creation failed: Sorry, while the prompt you entered was deemed safe, the resulting image was detected as having content that might violate our community guidelines and has been blocked. Your account status will not be affected by this.
Occasionally, I’ll resubmit the prompt and it will render fine. I question why it just can’t attempt to re-render it again until it passes whatever filters it has in place. I’d expect it to take a line of code to create this conditional. But it doesn’t explain why it allows other images to pass – quite obviously not compliant.
Why I am trying to get a rear view? This is a bit off-topic, but creating a character sheet is important for storytelling. If I am creating a comic strip or graphic novel, the characters need to be persistent, and I need to be able to swap out clothing and environments. I may need close-ups, wide shots, establishing shots, low-angle shots, side shots, detail shots, and shots from behind, so I need the model to know each of these. In this particular case, this is one of three main characters – a steampunk bounty hunter, an outlaw, and a bartender – in an old Wild West setting. I don’t need to worry as much about extras.
I marked the above render errors with 1s and 2s. The 1s are odd next twists; 2s are solo images where the prompt asks for character sheets. I made a mistake myself. When I noticed I wasn’t getting any shots from behind, I added the directive without removing other facial references. As a human, a model might just ignore instructions to smile or some such. The AI tries to capture both, not understanding that a person can have a smile not captured by a camera.
These next renders prompt for full-body shots. None are wholly successful, but some are more serviceable than others.
Notice that #1 is holding a deformed violin. I’m not sure what the contraptions are in #2. It’s not a full-body shot in #3; she’s not looking into the camera, but it’s OK-ish. I guess #4 is still PG-13, but wouldn’t be allowed to prompt for “side boob” or “under boob”.
Gamers will recognise the standard T-pose in #5. What’s she’s wearing? Midjourney doesn’t have a great grasp of skin versus clothing or tattoos and fabric patterns. In this, you might presume she’s wearing tights or leggings to her chest, but that line at her chest is her shirt. She’s not wearing trousers because her navel is showing. It also rendered her somewhat genderless. When I rerendered it (not shown), one image put her in a onesie. The other three rendered the shirt more prominent but didn’t know what to do with her bottoms.
I rendered it a few more times. Eventually, I got a sort of body suit solution,
By default, AI tends to sexualise people. Really, it puts a positive spin on its renders. Pretty women; buff men, cute kittens, and so on. This is configurable, but the default is on. Even though I categorically apply a Style: Raw command, these still have a strong beauty aesthetic.
I’ve gone off the rails a bit, but let’s continue on this theme.
cinematic fullbody shot photograph, a pale girl, a striking figure in steampunk mech attire with brass monocle, and leather gun belt, thigh-high leather boots, and long steampunk gloves, walking away from camera, white background, Kodak Potra 400 with a Canon EOS R5
Obviously, these are useless, but they still cost me tokens to generate. Don’t ask about her duffel bag. They rendered pants on her, but she’s gone full-on Exorcist mode with her head. Notice the oddity at the bottom of the third image. It must have been in the training data set.
I had planned to discuss the limitations of generative AI for text, but this is getting long, so I’ll call it quits for now.
In exploring the concept that nations, economies, money, legal systems, and even sports are fictions, we confront a fundamental question: can this be true? The answer hinges on our understanding of truth and reality. If we define truth as correspondence to an objective, external reality, then fictions, by their nature, are not “true” in a literal sense. However, if we recognize that truth can also be a construct shaped by human perception and social agreements, then fictions hold a different kind of truth.
Fictions are true in the sense that they have real effects on our lives. They shape our behaviours, influence our decisions, and structure our societies. The value of money, the authority of laws, and the significance of national identities are all real because we collectively believe and act as if they are. This shared belief and action give fictions their power and their truth.
Philosophical Perspectives
Philosophers have long grappled with the nature of truth and reality. The concept of social constructs aligns with the ideas of thinkers like Michel Foucault, who argued that knowledge and power are intertwined, and that what we accept as truth is often a product of social and historical processes. Similarly, Jean Baudrillard’s concept of hyperreality suggests that in the postmodern world, the line between reality and simulation becomes blurred, and fictions can become more real than reality itself.
These perspectives challenge the notion of an objective, immutable truth, suggesting instead that truth is often contingent, context-dependent, and constructed through human interactions. In this light, the fictions that structure our world are as true as any other aspect of our lived experience.
Empirical Evidence
Empirical evidence supports the idea that fictions have real effects. For instance, studies in economics and sociology demonstrate how beliefs and narratives shape market behaviours and social norms. The placebo effect in medicine, where patients experience real improvements in health due to their belief in a treatment, exemplifies the power of belief in creating tangible outcomes.
Historical examples further illustrate this point. The Treaty of Westphalia in 1648, which established the modern system of nation-states, was a legal and diplomatic construct that reshaped political boundaries and identities. The creation of fiat currencies, which derive their value from collective trust rather than intrinsic worth, has revolutionized global economies.
Practical Implications
Recognizing the constructed nature of our social realities has practical implications. It empowers us to critically examine and potentially reshape the fictions we live by. This critical awareness fosters adaptability and innovation, allowing us to address contemporary challenges more effectively.
For example, understanding that economic systems are human-made constructs can inspire alternative models that prioritize sustainability and equity. Similarly, recognizing the fictional nature of national identities can promote more inclusive and cosmopolitan forms of belonging.
Ethical Considerations
While fictions can be powerful tools for organizing society, they also carry ethical considerations. The manipulation of fictions for political or economic gain can lead to exploitation and injustice. It is crucial to approach the construction and perpetuation of fictions with a sense of responsibility and a commitment to the common good.
Transparency, inclusivity, and critical engagement are key to ensuring that the fictions we create serve the interests of all members of society. This requires ongoing dialogue and reflection to align our social constructs with our evolving values and aspirations.
Conclusion
The notion that we live in a world of fictions is both profound and practical. It challenges us to rethink our assumptions about truth and reality, and to recognize the power of collective belief and social constructs in shaping our lives. By embracing this perspective, we gain the ability to question, reform, and innovate the fictions that structure our world, fostering a more just and dynamic society.
In acknowledging the constructed nature of our social realities, we affirm the human capacity for imagination and creativity. This recognition opens up possibilities for envisioning and creating new fictions that better reflect our values and aspirations, guiding us toward a more equitable and sustainable future.
PS: Apologies for the AI typo in the thumbnail image. I fixed it once, and it went missing. Perhaps. I’ll mend it later.
References
Graeber, David. Debt: The First 5,000 Years (2011).
Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (1975).
Baudrillard, Jean. Simulacra and Simulation (1981).
Anderson, Benedict. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (1983).
Giddens, Anthony. The Consequences of Modernity (1990).
I’ve just published this video on YouTube, and I want to extend the commentary.
Video: What do Objective, Relative, and Subjective mean in philosophy?
Many people I’ve encountered don’t seem to grasp the distinctions between objective, subjective, and relative. Subjective and relative seem to be the biggest culprits of confusion. Let’s focus on morality just because.
There are really two main perspectives to adopt. If one believes in Objective Morality, one believes morality derives from some external source and is bestowed or mandated upon us. The source might be important to the believer, but it’s unimportant for this article. If one believes in Relative Morality then the source is socially dictated and has similar challenges to the notions of Social Contract Theory insomuch as one may not subscribe to the expectations.
For the Objective moralist, there may exist a schism between the expectations of the mandate and the subjective feelings of the individual. In fact, this may occur for Relative moralists as well. The individual will always maintain some subjective perspective on morality and then compare and contrast it with the higher order, whether Objective or Relative. In either case, acting on this subjective impulse risks being at odds with the members of the higher order. If this morality is codified into law – as it often is – then to act on that impulse makes one a criminal.
Take abortion for example. Whether this is an edict from God or just a social construct doesn’t matter. If one is in a society where abortion is seen as ‘bad’ or ‘wrong’, one’s subjective position on the matter is of little value. However, a Relativist society might also adopt a position of tolerance that is less likely to come from Objectivists.
A challenge is that a Subjectivist may only become apparent if one is counter the Relative or Absolute position. If your society is against abortion and you are, too, is this your subjective position or have you been indoctrinated with it and accept it uncritically, whether it’s deemed Objective or Relative.
Perhaps you feel that eating dogs or monkeys is immoral if not disgusting, but if you had been reared in a culture that does this, you might find it immoral to eat pork or beef. The question remains, is this a Subjective position, or did you merely inherit the Objective or Relative stance?
This question is very apparent in which religion one adopts. It is no surprise that the largest factor in which religion you choose is the religion of your family and their family and so on – so not so much a choice.
I was raised in a WASP family in New England among predominately Italian Roman Catholic peers. Despite this, I identified as an atheist early on. In my late teens, I stumbled on Buddhism and identified with it. However, I remain ignostic except when it encroaches on my personal autonomy – for example in the case of laws restricting access to safe abortions.
Fast forward a century. The future’s looking back, not with nostalgia but with a critical eye. Will they see our age of capitalism as we see the era of slavery – a moral misstep, a societal blight?
2023: Here we are, knee-deep in capitalism. It’s everywhere, in every transaction, every ambition. But beneath the veneer of progress and prosperity, there’s a darker narrative unfolding.
Wage Slaves in a Modern World
Wage slavery is the reality for many in a capitalist system where survival hinges on selling labour. The concept? Simple yet brutal. People are chained not by physical shackles but by economic necessity, a cycle of paycheck-to-paycheck existence. It’s freedom, but only in the loosest sense.
The Surplus of Inequality
Wage surplus – the lifeblood of capitalism. The more you squeeze out of workers, the fatter the profits. It’s a game of numbers where human cost rarely figures. The working class toil, and the upper echelons reap the rewards. Sounds familiar? It’s a throwback to the days of slavery, just dressed in modern garb.
Capitalists’ Dark Fantasy
A state of slavery – every capitalist’s secret fantasy? Perhaps not all, but for the ruthless, it’s the ultimate dream. A world where workers are mere cogs in the machine, dispensable and replaceable. No rights, no voice, just endless labour for minimal reward.
The Capitalist Paradox
Here’s the paradox – capitalism, in theory, champions freedom and innovation. But in practice, it often veers towards oppression and exploitation. The gap between the haves and have-nots widens, and social mobility becomes a myth, reserved for fairy tales.
The Future’s Judgment
In 2123, will they shake their heads at our era? Will they wonder how we allowed economic systems to morph into modern-day slavery? How we sold our souls for the illusion of prosperity?
A Glimmer of Hope?
But the tide is turning. Voices of dissent are rising, challenging the status quo. The call for a fairer, more humane economic model grows louder. There’s hope yet that we’ll steer away from the shadow of capitalism’s excesses.
Conclusion
As the world spins on, we’re at a pivotal moment. Will we continue down this path, or will we pivot towards a more equitable future? The choices we make today will echo through the annals of history.
Call to Action
What’s your stance? Is capitalism veering too close to a modern form of slavery? Drop your thoughts below. Let’s ignite a dialogue.
Children are ethically indisposed to think it’s wrong to eat animals. This article from the Journal of Environmental Psychology published a year ago looks into the schism and cognitive dissonance assuaging mechanisms in play.
This study relied on a small sample size (n=176), between the ages of 4 and 7 years living in a metropolitan area located in the southeastern region of the United States. The sample was otherwise diverse.
As this study was limited in geographic scope (see WIERD on a tangential note), it noted that eating habits vary by culture. For example, eating horse (or dog) meat is not condoned in the United States, but it is acceptable in many other places.
In summary, the childer were shown cards each with a picture of an item, whether a French fry, a horse, a cat, a fish, a tomato, and so on. At the start, they were asked to identify the item represented on the card. Next, they were asked to put the card into one of two bins, each decorated to approximate an animal or vegetation. Finally, they were asked to sort the cards into two areas, one represented by false teeth indicating edible products and a rubbish bin representing inedible items.
The subjects did a fair job of identifying the card items. They had very high image recognition of these particular animals. On the lower end of recognition were hamburger (ground beef patty), almonds, and shrimp. There was a difference between the older children and the younger children, but this may relate to the added acculturation their age would bring.
Without delving deeply into details, in this study, most 6- and 7-year-olds classified chicken, cows, and pigs as not OK to eat. The interesting cognitive trick is that these children also classified these derivative food items as non-animals thus removing the cognitive dissonance. No longer classified as an animal, their ethical framework remained internally coherent.
In discussing the results, many children were ill-informed about the source of various food products. Language games obscured the source. No one should eat a cow, but beef is fine—a hamburger is fine. Hot dogs grow on trees, don’t they?
This reminds me of the story wherein a chicken and a pig are conversing, and the chicken suggests that it and the pig go into the restaurant business. The pig considers the proposition and declines by the rationale that it would be committed but the chicken would only be involved. Children may believe that hot dogs are a by-product like eggs, fur, or feathers—don’t get me started on the down used in pillows, jackets, and comforters—rather than grasping that the animals yield these products at the expense of their lives.
Some people grow up and realise the inconsistency of their ethics and actions, but they find any number of ways to reconcile their actions, noting that the activity is normal and natural.
FULL: DISCLOSURE: For the record, I eat chicken, turkey (on festive holidays in lieu of chicken), and I eat beef (that’s cows, for the uninformed). I also consume some animal byproducts, i.e., chicken eggs and cheese. I also wear leather. I was a vegetarian for about three years until I opted to become a chickenatarian. My life partners goaded me into eating beef, and so I’ve since added that. In all cases, I feel bad for eating defenceless, sentient beings. I’m not sure it serves as any consolation that I limit my consumption to these three animals—or even if it were only one. For the record, I don’t particularly like the taste of turkey or beef, but it’s not offensive like pork, coffee, or alcohol. Chicken, I like. Sorry chickens.
Video: Homer Simpson’s (not so) ethical dilemma
For the record, this is post number 500 on Philosophics. Perhaps I should write a post about it.
Philosophics 