Tag: morality

The Scapegoat and the Spectacle

Posted in economics, equality, healthcare, identity, language, modernism, morality, perception, philosophy, politics, power, psychology, societyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Girardian Lessons from a Violent Reckoning

The assassination of UnitedHealth CEO Brian Thompson is more than just a shocking headline—it’s a vivid tableau of modern society’s darkest impulses. For some, Thompson’s death represents long-overdue justice, a symbolic blow against the machinery of corporate greed. For others, it’s an unforgivable act of chaos that solves nothing. But as the dust settles, we’re left with an unsettling truth: both sides may be acting rationally, yet neither side emerges morally unscathed.

It’s not just about one man or one system—it’s about the cycles of conflict and violence that have defined human societies for millennia.

This event takes on deeper significance when viewed through the lens of René Girard’s theories on mimetic rivalry and the scapegoat mechanism. It’s not just about one man or one system—it’s about the cycles of conflict and violence that have defined human societies for millennia.

Mimetic Rivalry: The Root of Conflict

Girard’s theory begins with a simple observation: human desires are not unique; they are mimetic and shaped by observing what others want. This inevitably leads to rivalry, as individuals and groups compete for the same goals, power, or symbols of status. Left unchecked, these rivalries escalate into social discord, threatening to tear communities apart.

Enter the scapegoat. To restore order, societies channel their collective aggression onto a single victim, whose sacrifice momentarily alleviates the tension. The scapegoat is both a symbol of the problem and a vessel for its resolution—a tragic figure whose elimination unites the community in its shared violence.

Thompson as Scapegoat

In this story, Brian Thompson is the scapegoat. He was not the architect of the American healthcare system, but his role as CEO of UnitedHealth made him its most visible face. His decisions—denying claims, defending profits, and perpetuating a system that prioritises shareholders over patients—embodied the injustices people associate with healthcare in America.

manifesto of a society pushed to its breaking point

The assassin’s actions, however brutal, were a calculated strike against the symbol Thompson had become. The engraved shell casings found at the scene—inscribed with “Deny,” “Defend,” and “Depose”—were not merely the marks of a vigilante; they were the manifesto of a society pushed to its breaking point.

But Girard would caution against celebrating this as justice. Scapegoating provides only temporary relief. It feels like resolution, but it doesn’t dismantle the systems that created the conflict in the first place.

The Clash of Rationalities

Both Thompson and his assassin acted rationally within their respective frameworks. Thompson’s actions as CEO were coldly logical within the profit-driven model of American capitalism. Deny care, maximise profits, and satisfy shareholders—it’s a grim calculus, but one entirely consistent with the rules of the system.

sacrifice one life to save countless others

The assassin’s logic is equally clear, though rooted in desperation. If the system won’t provide justice, then justice must be taken by force. From a Consequentialist perspective, the act carries the grim appeal of the trolley problem: sacrifice one life to save countless others. In this view, Thompson’s death might serve as a deterrent, forcing other executives to reconsider the human cost of their policies.

Yet Girard’s framework warns us that such acts rarely break the cycle. Violence begets violence, and the system adapts. The hydra of modern healthcare—the very beast Thompson represented—will grow another head. Worse, it may become even more entrenched, using this event to justify tighter security and greater insulation from public accountability.

“An Eye for an Eye”

Mahatma Gandhi’s warning, “An eye for an eye will only make the whole world blind,” resonates here. While the assassin may have acted with moral intent, the act itself risks perpetuating the very cycles of harm it sought to disrupt. The scapegoat mechanism may provide catharsis, but it cannot heal the underlying fractures in society.

Moving Beyond the Scapegoat

To truly break the cycle, we must confront the forces that drive mimetic rivalry and scapegoating. The healthcare system is just one manifestation of a larger problem: a society that prizes competition over cooperation, profit over people, and violence over dialogue.

The hydra story looms in the background here, its symbolism stark. Slaying one head of the beast—be it a CEO or a policy—will not bring about systemic change. But perhaps this act, as tragic and flawed as it was, will force us to reckon with the deeper question: How do we create a society where such acts of desperation are no longer necessary?

The answer lies not in finding new scapegoats but in dismantling the systems that create them. Until then, we remain trapped in Girard’s cycle, blind to the ways we perpetuate our own suffering.

Rationality, Morality, and the Hydra of Modern Healthcare

Posted in agency, economics, equality, morality, perception, philosophy, power, psychology, societyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

Clash of Titans

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.

Power Relations Bollox

Posted in language, morality, perception, philosophy, politics, power, psychology, societyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

As I put the finishing touches on the third revision of my Language Insufficiency Hypothesis manuscript, I find myself reflecting on the role of Foucault’s concept of Power Relations in shaping the use and interpretation of language in institutional contexts.

A key aspect of my hypothesis is the notion that some abstract conceptual language is intentionally vague. I touched on this idea in my recent article on the ambiguity of the term ‘gift’, but the implications extend far beyond that specific example. The strategic use of linguistic indeterminacy is a pervasive feature of many professional domains, serving to veil and enable subtle power plays.

NotebookLM Audio Podcast Discussion of this content.

The strategic use of linguistic indeterminacy is a pervasive feature of many professional domains

In my manuscript, I examine the concept of ‘reasonableness’ as a prime example of this phenomenon. This term is a favourite hiding spot for legal professionals, appearing in phrases like ‘reasonable doubt’ and ‘reasonable person’.Yet, upon closer inspection, the apparent clarity and objectivity of this language dissolves into a morass of ambiguity and subjectivity. The invocation of reasonableness often serves as a rhetorical sleight of hand, masking the exercise of institutional power behind a veneer of impartiality.

While I don’t wish to venture too far into Nietzschean cynicism, there is a sense in which the legal system operates like a casino. The house always seeks to maintain its edge, and it will employ whatever means necessary to preserve its authority and legitimacy. In the case of reasonableness, this often involves a strategic manipulation of linguistic indeterminacy.

interpretation of key legal concepts is always subject to the shifting imperatives of institutional power

The court reserves for itself the power to decide what counts as reasonable on a case-by-case basis. Definitions that prove expedient in one context may be swiftly discarded in another. While skilled advocates may seek to manipulate this ambiguity to their advantage, the ultimate authority to fix meaning rests with the judge – or, in some instances, with a higher court on appeal. The result is a system in which the interpretation of key legal concepts is always subject to the shifting imperatives of institutional power.

This example highlights the broader significance of the Language Insufficiency Hypothesis. By attending to the ways in which abstract and contested terms can be strategically deployed to serve institutional ends, we can develop a more critical and reflexive understanding of the role of language in shaping social reality. In the process, we may begin to glimpse the complex interplay of power and meaning that underlies many of our most important professional and political discourses.

Guns, Germs, and Steel

Posted in agency, anarchism, nature, perception, philosophy, property, society, technologyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

I am reading Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies, the first and likely most famous of an informal trilogy. I thought I had already read it, but I think I only saw the PBS show. Having recently finished Josephine Quinn’s How the World Made the West, I wanted to revisit this perspective. The two books are presented in different styles and represent different perspectives, but they seem to be complementary.

Where Diamond focuses on environmental factors (an oft-voiced critique), Quinn focuses on human agency.

Diamond takes a bird’ s-eye view, looking for universal patterns and systemic explanations, whilst Quinn adopts a granular, specific approach, highlighting the fluidity and contingency of history.

Diamond deconstructs European dominance by attributing it to environmental luck, but his narrative risks sidelining the agency of colonised peoples. Quinn critiques the very idea of Western dominance, arguing that the concept of the West itself is a myth born of appropriation and exchange.

Rather than being wholly opposed, Diamond and Quinn’s approaches might be seen as complementary. Diamond provides the structural scaffolding – the environmental and geographic conditions that shape societies – whilst Quinn fills in the cultural and human dynamics that Diamond often glosses over. Together, they represent two sides of the historiographical coin: one focusing on systemic patterns, the other on the messiness of cultural particularities.

Quinn’s approach is more aligned with The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity, co-authored by David Graeber and archaeologist David Wengrow, if you can use that as a reference point.

Blinded by Bias: The Irony of Greed and Self-Perception

Posted in economics, identity, morality, perception, philosophy, societyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Greed is a vice we readily recognise in others but often overlook in ourselves. This selective perception was strikingly evident during a recent conversation I had with a man who was quick to condemn another’s greed while remaining oblivious to his own similar tendencies. I told him about the escalating greed of certain companies who profit greatly from selling their printer inks and toner brands. I’ll spare you this history. This encounter underscores the powerful influence of fundamental attribution bias on our judgments and self-awareness.

Exploring Greed

Greed can be defined as an intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth, power, or food. Psychologically, it is considered a natural human impulse that, when unchecked, can lead to unethical behaviour and strained relationships. Societally, greed is often condemned, yet it persists across cultures and histories.

We tend to label others as greedy when their actions negatively impact us or violate social norms. However, when we aggressively pursue our interests, we might frame it as ambition or resourcefulness. This dichotomy reveals a discrepancy in how we perceive greed in ourselves versus others.

Understanding Fundamental Attribution Bias

Fundamental attribution bias, or fundamental attribution error, is the tendency to attribute others’ actions to their character while attributing our own actions to external circumstances. This cognitive bias allows us to excuse our behaviour while holding others fully accountable for theirs.

For example, if someone cuts us off in traffic, we might think they’re reckless or inconsiderate. But if we cut someone off, we might justify it by claiming we were late or didn’t see them. This bias preserves our self-image but distorts our understanding of others.

The Conversation

Our conversation was centred on an HP printer that has shown a ‘low ink – please replace’ message since the cartridge was first installed. I recounted the history of the ink and toner industry. HP had a monopoly on ink for their products, a situation that earned them substantial marginal profits. Upstarts entered the marketplace. This started an escalating arms war. HP spent R&D dollars trying to defend their profit margins with nil benefit to the consumers of their product. In fact, it kept costs artificially higher. Competitors who wanted a slice of those fat margins found ways around these interventions. Eventually, HP installed chips on their toner cartridges. Unfortunately, they have a bug – or is it a feature? If you install a cartridge and remove it, it assumes you’re up to something shady, so it spawns this false alert. Some people believe this out of hand, so HP benefits twice.

If this bloke had worked for HP and had been responsible for revenue acquisition and protection, he would have swooned over the opportunity. Have no doubt. At arm’s length, he recognised this as sleazy, unethical business practices.

This conversation revealed how easily we can fall into the trap of judging others without reflecting on our own behaviour. His indignation seemed justified to him, yet he remained unaware of how his actions mirrored those he criticised.

Biblical Reference and Moral Implications

This situation brings to mind the biblical passage from Matthew 7:3-5:

“Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? … You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.”

The verse poignantly captures the human tendency to overlook our flaws while magnifying those of others. It calls for introspection and humility, urging us to address our shortcomings before passing judgment.

The Asymmetry of Self-Perception

Several psychological factors contribute to this asymmetry:

  • Self-Serving Bias: We attribute our successes to internal factors and our failures to external ones.
  • Cognitive Dissonance: Conflicting beliefs about ourselves and our actions create discomfort, leading us to rationalize or ignore discrepancies.
  • Social Comparison: We often compare ourselves favourably against others to boost self-esteem.

This skewed self-perception can hinder personal growth and damage relationships, as it prevents honest self-assessment and accountability.

Overcoming the Bias

Awareness is the first step toward mitigating fundamental attribution bias. Here are some strategies:

  1. Mindful Reflection: Regularly assess your actions and motivations. Ask yourself if you’re holding others to a standard you’re not meeting. Riffing from ancient moral dictates, just ask yourself if this is how you would want to be treated. Adopt Kant’s moral imperative framework.
  2. Seek Feedback: Encourage honest input from trusted friends or colleagues about your behaviour.
  3. Empathy Development: Practice seeing situations from others’ perspectives to understand their actions more fully.
  4. Challenge Assumptions: Before making judgments, consider external factors that might influence someone’s behaviour.

By actively recognising and adjusting for our biases, we can develop more balanced perceptions of ourselves and others.

Conclusion

The irony of condemning in others what we excuse in ourselves is a common human pitfall rooted in fundamental attribution bias. The adage, ‘Know thyself’ might come into view here. We can overcome these biases by striving for self-awareness and empathy, leading to more authentic relationships and personal integrity.

Morality: The Mirage of Subjectivity Within a Relative Framework

Posted in morality, philosophy, podcast, power, society, SpotifyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 6 Comments

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.

Audio: Spotify podcast conversation about this topic.

Nietzsche: Beyond Good and Evil, Beyond Absolutes

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.

The Relativity of Morality: A Penguin’s Tale

Posted in fiction, language, morality, perception, philosophy, politics, power, psychology, societyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

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.

When Hollywood Tried to Cheer Up Less Than Zero and Missed the Point Entirely

Posted in fiction, morality, philosophy, psychologyTagged , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Let’s talk about Less Than Zero. No, not the film. I’m talking about the book—Bret Easton Ellis’s nihilistic masterpiece that drags you through a moral cesspit of 1980s Los Angeles. You might remember it as the story that makes American Psycho look like a quirky self-help guide. It’s dark, it’s bleak, and it doesn’t pretend to offer you a shred of hope.

And then there’s the movie adaptation.

Oh, the movie. It’s as though someone read Ellis’s unflinching tale of moral rot and thought, You know what this needs? Friendship. And a redemption arc. And maybe some heartfelt music in the background. Hollywood, in all its infinite wisdom, decided that audiences couldn’t handle the book’s existential despair. So, they took a story about the void—about the emptiness of privilege, the suffocation of apathy, and the complete erosion of human connection—and gave it a fuzzy moral centre.

Here’s the gist: The book is nihilism incarnate. It follows Clay, a disaffected college student who comes home to LA for Christmas and is immediately swallowed whole by a world of cocaine, vapid socialites, and casual cruelty. No one learns anything. No one grows. In fact, the whole point is that these characters are so morally bankrupt, so irreparably hollow, that they’re beyond redemption. If you’re looking for a happy ending, don’t bother—Ellis leaves you stranded in the abyss, staring into the void, wondering if there’s any point to anything. Spoiler: there’s not.

Then along comes the 1987 film, directed by Marek Kanievska. It keeps the names of the characters—Clay, Blair, Julian—but not much else. Instead of being an icy observer of LA’s decadence, Clay is transformed into a love-struck saviour. Blair, a passive figure in the novel, becomes a supportive girlfriend. And Julian—oh, poor Julian—is turned into a sacrificial lamb for the sake of a heartfelt narrative about friendship and second chances.

The film turns Less Than Zero into an anti-drug PSA. It’s basically Nancy Reagan Presents: a story of addiction, redemption, and the power of love, wrapped in a slick 80s aesthetic. Robert Downey Jr., to his credit, gives a brilliant performance as Julian, the doomed addict. But the character is barely recognisable compared to his literary counterpart. In the book, Julian’s descent into drug-fuelled depravity isn’t a cautionary tale—it’s just another symptom of a world where nothing and no one has any value. In the film, Julian is tragic, yes, but in a way that invites sympathy and, crucially, an attempt at salvation.

Let’s not forget the ending. The novel ends on a note so cold it could freeze your soul: Clay leaves Los Angeles, unchanged, unbothered, and unmoved. The film, however, concludes with Clay and Blair driving off into the sunset, having vowed to turn their lives around. It’s saccharine. It’s pandering. It’s the cinematic equivalent of slapping a motivational poster over a painting by Francis Bacon.

Why did Hollywood do this? Simple: nihilism doesn’t sell. You can’t slap it on a movie poster and expect audiences to line up at the box office. People want catharsis, not existential despair. And so, the filmmakers gutted Less Than Zero of its soul (or lack thereof), replacing its stark nihilism with a hopeful narrative about the power of human connection.

Here’s the kicker, though: by doing this, the film completely misses the point of Ellis’s novel. Less Than Zero is a critique of LA’s shallow, soulless culture—a world where connection is impossible because no one feels anything. Turning it into a feel-good story about saving a friend from addiction is not just a betrayal; it’s downright laughable. It’s like adapting 1984 into a rom-com where Winston and Julia overthrow Big Brother and live happily ever after.

To be fair, the film isn’t bad—if you forget the source material exists. It’s well-acted, stylishly shot, and undeniably entertaining. But as an adaptation, it’s a travesty. It’s Ellis’s Less Than Zero with all the edges sanded down, the grit scrubbed clean, and a shiny coat of sentimentality slapped on top.

So, if you’ve read the book and thought, Wow, that was bleak—I wonder if the movie is any lighter?, the answer is yes, but not in a good way. It’s lighter because it’s hollowed out, stripped of its existential weight, and repackaged as something safe and digestible.

And if you haven’t read the book? Do yourself a favour: skip the movie, pour yourself a stiff drink, and dive into Ellis’s bleak masterpiece. Just don’t expect any warm, fuzzy feelings—it’s called Less Than Zero for a reason.

The Scientist’s Dilemma: Truth-Seeking in an Age of Institutional Constraints

Posted in Audio, equality, morality, philosophy, podcast, politics, science, videoTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

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.

Censorial AI

Posted in art, technologyTagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

I’m confused.

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.