Tag: perception

A Buddhist Critique of Modern Livelihoods

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It’s interesting to me that as an atheist and non-cognitivist, I can take the moral high ground relative to health insurance concerns in the United States. So, I write about it.

Blood Money and Broken Principles

In the aftermath of the tragic killing of Brian Thompson, the CEO of a health insurance conglomerate, a striking narrative has emerged. Many Americans view this act—shocking though it is—as emblematic of the anger and despair born of a system that profits by exploiting human vulnerability. Such reactions compel us to examine the ethics of industries that flourish on what can only be described as blood money. From health insurance to tobacco, alcohol, and the arms trade, these livelihoods raise profound ethical questions when viewed through the lens of the Buddhist Noble Eightfold Path, specifically Right Livelihood and Right Action.

The Moral Framework: Buddhism’s Path to Ethical Livelihood

Buddhism’s Eightfold Path provides a blueprint for ethical living, with Right Livelihood and Right Action serving as its ethical cornerstones. These principles demand that one’s work and deeds contribute to the welfare of others, avoid harm, and align with compassion and integrity. In short, they urge us to earn a living in a manner that uplifts rather than exploits. The health insurance industry’s business model—which often prioritises profits over the preservation of life—challenges these tenets in ways that are difficult to overlook.

Consider the denial of coverage for life-saving treatments, the exploitation of legal loopholes to reduce payouts, or the systemic perpetuation of healthcare inequality. These actions, while legally sanctioned, conflict sharply with the Buddhist ideal of avoiding harm and promoting well-being. Yet, this industry is not alone in its ethical failings. Many others—both legal and illegal—fall similarly short.

Industries of Exploitation: Tobacco, Alcohol, and Arms

The tobacco and alcohol industries provide stark examples of livelihoods that thrive on human suffering. Their products, despite their legality, are designed to foster dependency and harm. They exact a heavy toll on both individual lives and public health systems, a reality that makes them incompatible with Right Livelihood. The arms trade—arguably the most egregious example—profits directly from conflict and human misery. How can such industries possibly align with the Buddhist ideal of ahimsa (non-violence) or the compassionate aspiration to alleviate suffering?

In these cases, the harm caused is not incidental; it is fundamental to their business models. Whether one manufactures cigarettes, brews alcohol, or sells weapons, the destruction wrought by these activities is integral to their profitability. The contradiction is stark: the greater the harm, the greater the profit. This stands in direct opposition to the Buddhist call for livelihoods that sustain and support life.

Organised Crime: The Dark Mirror

When we turn to organised crime, the parallels become even more unsettling. Whether it’s the drug trade, human trafficking, or financial fraud, these activities epitomise unethical livelihoods. They exploit the vulnerable, foster violence, and undermine social cohesion. Yet, when viewed alongside certain legal industries, the line between “organised crime” and “corporate enterprise” begins to blur. Is the denial of life-saving healthcare less egregious than a gang’s extortion racket? Both profit by preying on human suffering. Both thrive in systems that prioritise gain over humanity.

The Buddhist Response: From Outrage to Action

Buddhism does not condone violence, no matter how symbolic or righteous it may appear. Right Action demands non-violence not only in deeds but also in thoughts and intentions. The killing of Brian Thompson, though perhaps an act of desperation or symbolism, cannot align with Buddhist ethics. Yet this tragedy should not eclipse the broader systemic critique. The true challenge is not to exact retribution but to transform the systems that perpetuate harm.

To move forward, we must ask how our societies can pivot toward livelihoods that align with compassion and justice. This entails holding exploitative industries to account and fostering economic systems that prioritise well-being over profit. The Buddhist path offers not only a critique of harmful practices but also a vision for ethical living—a vision that demands courage, compassion, and unwavering commitment to the common good.

Conclusion: Choosing a Better Path

The case of Brian Thompson’s killing is a symptom of a much larger ethical crisis. It forces us to confront uncomfortable truths about the industries that shape our world. Whether we scrutinise health insurance, tobacco, alcohol, the arms trade, or organised crime, the moral calculus remains the same: livelihoods that thrive on harm cannot be reconciled with the principles of Right Livelihood and Right Action.

As individuals and societies, we face a choice. We can continue to turn a blind eye to the suffering embedded in these industries, or we can commit to transforming them. The Buddhist path challenges us to choose the latter, to build systems and livelihoods rooted in compassion and justice. In doing so, we can begin to heal not only the wounds of individual tragedies but also the deeper fractures in our collective soul.

The Trolley Problem of For-Profit Healthcare:

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Loops of Death and Denial

The trolley problem is a philosophical thought experiment that pits action against inaction. In the original version, a person faces a choice: a trolley hurtles down a track toward five people tied to the rails, but a lever allows the trolley to be diverted onto another track, where one person is tied. The dilemma is simple in its grotesque arithmetic: let five die or actively kill one to save them. A perennial favourite of ethics classes, the trolley problem is most often used to explore Consequentialism, particularly Utilitarianism, and its cool calculus of harm minimisation. Over the years, countless variations have been conjured, but few approach the nightmarish reality of its real-world application: the for-profit healthcare system in the United States.

With the recent death of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson, the trolley dilemma takes on a new and morbid relevance. Let’s reframe the challenge.

The Healthcare Trolley Loop

Picture the trolley again on a bifurcated track. The lever remains, as does the moral agent poised to decide its fate. This time, the agent is Brian Thompson. The setup is simple: one track leads to the deaths of five people, and the other is empty. But here’s the twist: the trolley doesn’t just pass once in this version—it’s on a loop. At every interval, Thompson must decide whether to pull the lever and send the trolley to the empty track or allow it to continue its deadly course, killing five people each time.

But Thompson isn’t just deciding in a vacuum. The track with five people comes with a financial incentive: each life lost means higher profits, better quarterly earnings, and soaring shareholder returns. Diverting the trolley to the empty track, meanwhile, offers no payout. It’s not a single moral quandary; it’s a recurring decision, a relentless calculus of death versus dollars.

This isn’t just a metaphor; it’s a business model. For-profit healthcare doesn’t merely tolerate death—it commodifies it. The system incentivises harm through denial of care, inflated costs, and structural inefficiencies that ensure maximum profit at the expense of human lives.

Enter the Shooter

Now, introduce the wildcard: the shooter. Someone whose loved one may have been one of the countless victims tied to the track. They see Thompson at the lever, his decisions ensuring the endless loop of suffering and death. Perhaps they believe that removing Thompson can break the cycle—that a new lever-puller might divert the trolley to the empty track.

Thompson is killed, but does it change anything? The system remains. Another CEO steps into Thompson’s place, hand on the lever, ready to make the same decision. Why? Because the tracks, the trolley, and the profit motive remain untouched. The system ensures that each decision-maker faces the same incentives, pressures, and chilling rationale: lives are expendable; profits are not.

The Problem of Plausible Deniability

The shooter’s actions are vilified because they are active, visible, and immediate. A single violent act is morally shocking, and rightly so. But what of the quiet violence perpetuated by the healthcare system? The denial of coverage, the refusal of life-saving treatments, the bankruptcy-inducing bills—all are forms of systemic violence, their harm diffused and cloaked in the language of economic necessity.

The for-profit model thrives on this plausible deniability. Its architects and operators can claim they’re simply “following the market,” that their hands are tied by the invisible forces of capitalism. Yet the deaths it causes are no less real, no less preventable. The difference lies in perception: the shooter’s act is direct and visceral, while the system’s violence is passive and bureaucratic, rendered almost invisible by its banality.

A System Built on Death

Let’s not mince words: the current healthcare system is a death loop. It’s not an accident; it’s a feature. Profit-seeking in healthcare means there is always a financial incentive to let people die. During the Affordable Care Act (ACA) debates, opponents of universal healthcare decried the spectre of “death panels,” bureaucrats deciding who lives and who dies. Yet this is precisely what for-profit insurance companies do—only their decisions are driven not by medical necessity or moral considerations, but by spreadsheets and stock prices.

This is the logic of capitalism writ large: maximise profit, externalise harm, and frame systemic failures as unavoidable. Healthcare is merely one example. Across industries, the same dynamic plays out, whether in environmental destruction, labour exploitation, or financial crises. The trolley always runs on tracks built for profit, and the bodies left in its wake are just collateral damage.

How to Break the Loop

The death of Brian Thompson changes nothing. The system will simply produce another Thompson, another lever-puller incentivised to make the same deadly decisions. Breaking the loop requires dismantling the tracks themselves.

  1. Remove the Profit Motive: Healthcare should not be a marketplace but a public good. Universal single-payer systems, as seen in many other developed nations, prioritise care over profit, removing the incentive to let people die for financial gain.
  2. Recognise Passive Harm as Active: We must stop excusing systemic violence as “inevitable.” Denying care, pricing treatments out of reach, and allowing medical bankruptcy are acts of violence, no less deliberate than pulling a trigger.
  3. Hold the System Accountable: It’s not just the CEOs at fault; the lawmakers, lobbyists, and corporations sustain this deadly status quo. The blood is on their hands, too.

Conclusion: The Real Villain

The shooter is not the solution, but neither is their act the real crime. The healthcare system—and by extension, capitalism itself—is the true villain of this story. It constructs the tracks, builds the trolley, and installs lever-pullers like Brian Thompson to ensure the loop continues.

When will it end? When we stop debating which track to divert the trolley toward and start dismantling the system that made the trolley inevitable in the first place. Until then, we are all complicit, passengers on a ride that profits from our suffering and death. The question isn’t who’s at the lever; it’s why the trolley is running at all.

The Truth About Lying

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Every American knows that George Washington cannot tell a lie, so he confesses to chopping down a cherry tree. Much of American (and pretty much any) history is rife with lies. Sure, some myths, fables, and legends contain some kernel of truth, but they’re ostensibly propaganda and lies. But what is it about humans and lying? Moreover, if you don’t lie appropriately, you’re marginalised.

‘Yes, those jeans do make you look fat. To be honest, they don’t have much of a chance of doing otherwise.’

Why Honesty Gets You Shunned

Ah, truth. That elusive, glittering ideal we claim to cherish above all else. The thing we teach our children to uphold, weave into our national anthems, and plaster across inspirational posters. Yet, scratch the surface of human interaction, and you’ll find a murky, convoluted relationship with truth—one that oscillates between romantic obsession and outright disdain. If truth were a person, it would be the friend we invite to parties but spend the whole night avoiding.

we don’t just tolerate lying; we expect it

It’s not just that we lie—we excel at it. We lie casually, reflexively, like it’s part of our evolutionary DNA. And here’s the kicker: we don’t just tolerate lying; we expect it. Worse still, they are promptly shunned when someone dares to buck the trend and embrace honesty—unapologetically refusing to engage in the ritualistic deception that greases the wheels of society. It’s a paradox so rich it deserves its own soap opera.

Lying: The Social Glue That Binds Us

lying is essential to civilisation

Let’s start with the uncomfortable truth: lying is essential to civilisation. Yes, the thing your kindergarten teacher told you was bad is the same thing that keeps society from collapsing into chaos. Without lies, polite society would implode under the weight of raw honesty.

  • The Politeness Lie: “Do these trousers make me look fat?” Imagine answering this question truthfully. You’d be ostracised by lunchtime.
  • The Collective Myth: From national pride to religious dogma, our shared lies—”We’re the greatest country on Earth!” or “Our side never starts wars!”—are the glue that holds nations, ideologies, and social hierarchies together.

Without these lies, the façade crumbles, and we’re left staring into the abyss of our inadequacies. Lies make the unbearable palatable. They provide comfort where truth would leave only discomfort and despair.

The Paradox of the Honest Outsider

Now here’s where it gets juicy: we claim to value honesty, yet we loathe the honest person. The unapologetic truth-teller is viewed not as virtuous but as insufferable. Why? Because they threaten the delicate equilibrium of our collective deceptions.

  • Social Disruption: Truth-tellers force us to confront realities we’d rather ignore. Like that co-worker who insists the team-building exercises are pointless, they upset the carefully curated fiction we’ve all agreed to believe.
  • Untrustworthy Honesty: Ironically, we often trust liars more than truth-tellers. The liar plays by the unspoken rules of the game, while the honest person seems unpredictable and even dangerous.
Image: Meme: ‘What’s your greatest weakness?’

Lies as Power Plays

From a Foucauldian perspective (because who doesn’t love a bit of Foucault?), lies are more than social lubricants—they are tools of power. Governments lie to maintain control, institutions lie to justify their existence, and individuals lie to navigate these systems without losing their minds.

Honesty is a destabilising force. It’s a rebellion against the status quo.

But honesty? Honesty is a destabilising force. It’s a rebellion against the status quo. Those who reject lies challenge the structures of power that depend on them. This is why whistleblowers, truth-tellers, and sceptics are often ostracised. They expose the game, and in doing so, they risk collapsing the entire house of cards.

Cognitive Dissonance and Escalating Commitment

The real kicker is how we defend these lies. Once we’ve told or accepted a lie, we become invested in it. The psychological discomfort of admitting we’ve been duped—cognitive dissonance—leads us to double down.

  • Escalating Commitment: From minor fibs (“I’ll just hit snooze once”) to societal delusions (“This war is for freedom”), we defend lies because admitting the truth feels like self-destruction.

Meanwhile, the honest person, standing on the sidelines of this elaborate charade, becomes a threat. Their refusal to participate makes them a mirror, reflecting the absurdity of our commitment to the lie. And we hate them for it.

The Ostracism of Honesty

Shunning the truth-teller isn’t just a quirk of human behaviour—it’s a survival mechanism. Lies are the foundation of the social contract. Refusing to lie or to accept lies is tantamount to breaking that contract.

  • The Group Protects Itself: Honest individuals are scapegoated to preserve cohesion. They’re labelled as rude, arrogant, or untrustworthy to justify their exclusion.
  • The Emotional Toll: Truth-tellers aren’t just rejected—they’re actively punished. This social cost ensures that most people choose compliance over honesty.

Is There Hope for Honesty?

lies may be the glue that binds us…

So, where does this leave us? Are we doomed to live in a world where lies are rewarded and honesty is punished? Not necessarily. Here’s the silver lining: lies may be the glue that binds us, but truth is the solvent that cleanses.

  • Building Bridges: Truth-tellers who approach honesty with empathy—rather than confrontation—can foster change without alienating others.
  • Cultural Shifts: Societal norms around lying are not fixed. Movements like radical transparency in organisations or calls for accountability in politics show that change is possible.

The challenge is navigating the paradox: to live truthfully in a world that prizes deception without becoming a martyr for the cause.

Conclusion: The Truth Hurts, But Lies Hurt More

Our love-hate relationship with truth is as old as humanity itself. Lies comfort us, unite us, and shield us from the harshness of reality—but they also entrap us. The truth-teller, though ostracised, holds a mirror to our collective delusions, forcing us to confront the uncomfortable question: what kind of world do we want to live in?

For now, it seems, we’d rather lie than answer honestly.

References

  1. Ariely, D. (2012). The Honest Truth About Dishonesty: How We Lie to Everyone—Especially Ourselves. Harper.
    • Explores everyday lies, self-deception, and the psychological mechanisms behind dishonesty.
  2. Raden, A. (2021). The Truth About Lies: The Illusion of Honesty and the Evolution of Deceit. St. Martin’s Press.
    • Examines the evolutionary and cultural roots of deception and its role in shaping human behaviour.
  3. Foucault, M. (1977). Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Vintage Books.
    • A foundational text for understanding power dynamics, including how truth and lies are used to control and normalise behaviour.
  4. Foucault, M. (1980). Power/Knowledge: Selected Interviews and Other Writings, 1972–1977. Pantheon Books.
    • Delves into the relationship between power and the production of truth in society.
  5. Bok, S. (1999). Lying: Moral Choice in Public and Private Life. Vintage Books.
    • A comprehensive analysis of the ethical dimensions of lying and its societal implications.
  6. Smith, D. L. (2004). Why We Lie: The Evolutionary Roots of Deception and the Unconscious Mind. St. Martin’s Press.
    • Explores how deception is hardwired into the human psyche and its evolutionary advantages.
  7. Orwell, G. (1946). Politics and the English Language. Horizon.
    • A classic essay on how language—including lies—is used as a tool of manipulation in politics.
  8. Arendt, H. (1972). Crises of the Republic. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.
    • Particularly the essay “Lying in Politics,” which critiques the use of deception in public affairs.
  9. Trivers, R. (2011). The Folly of Fools: The Logic of Deceit and Self-Deception in Human Life. Basic Books.
    • Examines self-deception and its evolutionary benefits, shedding light on how lies operate at individual and societal levels.
  10. Nietzsche, F. (1873). On Truth and Lie in an Extra-Moral Sense (translated in Philosophy and Truth, 1979). Harper & Row.
    • A philosophical exploration of truth as a construct and the utility of lies.

Power Relations Bollox

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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.

Dés-intégration

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Nous vivons une époque où le langage est utilisé non pas pour éclairer, mais pour diviser et détourner. L’Obamacare, détesté dans son ensemble mais soutenu dans ses détails, en est un parfait exemple. Cela reflète un problème plus fondamental : des concepts comme « dérèglement climatique » ou « inégalités systémiques » deviennent des points de friction en raison de leur abstraction. Ce ne sont pas les scientifiques ou les activistes qui posent problème, mais une structure de pouvoir qui manipule le discours pour diluer l’action.

Déplaçons le débat. Comme pour l’Obamacare, déconstruisons les concepts en éléments concrets : énergies renouvelables, adaptation agricole, redistribution des richesses. Chaque brique est plus compréhensible et soutenable que le mur idéologique qu’on nous oppose.

Le langage, dans sa complexité, peut être insuffisant, mais il reste notre outil principal pour reconstruire des vérités fragmentées. À nous de le manier avec précision, en refusant de céder à ceux qui le déforment pour mieux nous diviser.

Cela illustre parfaitement ma notion de « dés-intégration ». Ce terme, que je préfère à la « déconstruction » de Derrida, se distingue également de l’usage courant de « désintégration ». Là où la « déconstruction » appartient au domaine littéraire et philosophique, et où la « désintégration » évoque une destruction pure, la « dés-intégration » renvoie à une méthode critique et analytique pour séparer un concept en ses composantes essentielles afin de le reconstruire ou le recontextualiser.

C’est exactement ce qu’il faut appliquer au débat sur le changement climatique d’origine anthropique. Plutôt que de nous enfermer dans des abstractions globales qui polarisent, il faut fragmenter ce débat en ses constituants concrets : l’énergie, l’industrie, l’agriculture, les infrastructures. En décomposant ces éléments, nous pouvons redonner du sens et du pragmatisme à des discussions souvent noyées sous l’idéologie.

LinkedIn est une plateforme horrible pour le partage. C’est pourquoi j’ai copiĂ© ma rĂ©ponse ici. Si vous avez accès Ă  LinkedIn, la conversation gĂ©nĂ©rale s’y dĂ©roule.

https://www.linkedin.com/posts/arthur-auboeuf-03574312b_nous-avons-un-probl%C3%A8me-bien-plus-grave-que-activity-7269983848719921152-mxrw

The Insufficiency of Language in an Agile World

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I wrote and published this article on LinkedIn. I even recycled the cover image. Although it is about the particular topic of Agile, it relates to the Language Insufficiency Hypothesis, so I felt it would be apt here as well. It demonstrates how to think about language insufficiency through the framework.

Agile in Name Only

For over two decades, I’ve been immersed in Agile and its myriad interpretations. One refrain has persisted throughout: Agile™ is “just about agility,” a term that anyone can define as they see fit. The ambiguity begs the question: What does it really mean?

On its face, this sounds inclusive, but it never passed my intuitive sniff test. I carried on, but as I reflected on my broader work concerning the insufficiency of language, this persistent fuzziness started to make sense. Agile’s conceptual murkiness can be understood through the lens of language and identity—particularly through in-group and out-group dynamics.

Otherness and the Myth of Universality

To those who truly understand agility, no elaborate definition is required. It’s instinctive, embedded in their DNA. They don’t need to label it; they simply are agile. Yet, for the out-group—the ones who aspire to the status without the substance—Agile™ becomes a muddy abstraction. Unable to grasp the core, they question its very existence, claiming, “Who really knows what Agile means?”

The answer is simple: Everyone but those asking this question.

The Agility Crisis

This disconnect creates a power shift. The in-group, small and focused, operates with quiet competence. Meanwhile, the out-group, larger and louder, hijacks the conversation. What follows is an inevitable dilution: “Agile is dead,” “Agile doesn’t work,” they declare. But these proclamations often reflect their own failures to execute or evolve, not flaws inherent to agility itself.

This pattern follows a familiar playbook: create a strawman—define Agile™ as something it’s not—then decry its inability to deliver. The result? Performative agility, a theatre of motion without progress, where the players confuse activity for achievement and rely on brittle, inextensible infrastructures.

Agile Beyond the Label

Ironically, the true practitioners of agility remain unbothered by these debates. They adapt, innovate, and thrive—with or without the label. Agile™ has become a victim of its own success, co-opted by those who misunderstand it, leading to a paradox: the louder the chorus claiming “Agile doesn’t work,” the more it underscores the gap between those who do agility and those who merely wear its name.

The lesson here is not just about Agile™ but about language itself. Words, when untethered from their essence, fail. They cease to communicate, becoming tools of obfuscation rather than clarity. In this, Agile™ mirrors a broader phenomenon: the insufficiency of language in the face of complexity and its misuse by those unwilling or unable to engage with its deeper truths.

Guns, Germs, and Steel

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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

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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.

The Relativity of Morality: A Penguin’s Tale

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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

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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.