Me: I got an admission: I never enjoyed musical ear training – trying to name a pitch, interval, or chord.
You: That’s nice. So what?
Me: Well, let me tell you…
I’ve been doing a similar exercise… also involving ears. I’ve decided to engage in IPA phonetic ear training as part of my language curriculum, as it were.
I’ve created an Anki flashcard pack, of – as well as other things –phonetic symbols to match to the sound and vice versa. It’s harder than it sounds. Like pitch, if I play an A (Do) I can tell what an E (Sol) sounds like, a perfect fifth; but I can’t produce an E from vapour: If I hear it absent of musical information, I can’t name it; neither can I produce it without a reference. This is a limitation of relative pitch.
On a guitar, I can play an E relative to other strings, but I can’t tell you whether the A is pitched to 440 (top) or 432 (bottom).
440 Hz432 Hz
Of course, if you tell me the top sound is pitched to A-440 and ask if the second one is higher or lower, I can tell you that. Hooray for me. But if the A-432 was actually A-431, you’d have had me tricked.
You: Where’s this going?
I experience the same challenge in my IPA studies. In context, if I hear an open and closed O sound – ɔ and o – I can tell you which is which, but I haven’t yet mastered the ability to utter these in the wild. I might be able to manage a nasal O – ɔ̃ – but we still haven’t arrived at the neighbours – ɵ, ɞ, ɤ, and so on. Source. Here’s a random or at least arbitrary IPA site.
I wonder if you people have perfect pitch in this regard.
Have you ever wondered why Winnie the Pooh sounds faintly ridiculous in French?*
No? Just me then. Settle in.
« Mr et Mrs Dursley, qui habitaient au 4, Privet Drive, avaient toujours affirmé avec la plus grande fierté qu’ils étaient parfaitement normaux, merci pour eux. Jamais quiconque n’aurait imaginé qu’ils puissent se trouver impliqués dans quoi que ce soit d’étrange ou de mystérieux. Ils n’avaient pas de temps à perdre avec des sornettes. »
I recently acquired Harry Potter à l’École des Sorciers, and I found myself unexpectedly arrested by the opening paragraph. The Dursleys, we are told, were parfaitement normaux, merci pour eux – ‘Perfectly normal, thank you very much’. Except the French does something slightly different – the merci pour eux tips the narratorial mockery just a fraction more toward open contempt than Rowling’s original, which keeps its disdain politely implicit. It’s a small thing, but telling.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
This brings us back to Pooh as an exercise not only in a language insufficiency, but also a lesson in how meaning is still lost outside of the words of language.
The French translation of Winnie-the-Pooh is a perfectly competent piece of work. It conveys the plot, translated verbatim. Honey is still honey, miel. Piglet remains small and anxious, which is presumably universal. And yet something has gone definitively missing – specifically, the thing that makes Pooh Pooh. That voice. That particular brand of amiable, bumbling, upper-class English vagueness that signals, to anyone raised in the relevant tradition, a whole social type: the loveable aristocratic dimwit, defanged and harmless, too intellectually untroubled to be threatening. Bertie Wooster** with stuffing.
In my case, the experience was audible rather than merely inferred. I encountered Pooh not on the page but watching on screen with my daughter so many years ago, but where the French dubbing lands over the original animation like a category error made flesh, but not quite so bad as an old Godzilla dub. The Hundred Acre Wood remains constant – le miel, the anxious Piglet, the blustering Eeyore – providing a kind of control condition. What varies is the voice. And hearing a French Pooh is hearing, with uncomfortable precision, exactly what has gone missing, because the original signal is still ghosting underneath the translation. The bumbling posh vagueness, the hesitations, the particular music of English aristocratic dimness – all of it evaporated, replaced by something perfectly serviceable and entirely wrong. It is, if you’ll forgive the term, a controlled experiment in loss. The mismatch isn’t inferred from the page. It’s heard. Which is either wonderfully appropriate or deeply ironic for an essay about what language can’t carry. Probably both.
So, what’s the problem? Alors, French doesn’t have this type. It has the libertin – decadent, cynical, not remotely cuddly. It has the pompous bourgeois. What it conspicuously lacks is the post-Victorian English settlement in which the aristocracy became safe to find charming rather than necessary to behead. Pooh requires a specific historical precondition that France declined to provide, for understandable reasons involving the 1790s.
We may know Inspector Clouseau, the bumbling French idiot. Except Clouseau is an English fantasy of French incompetence, essentially invented by Peter Sellers and Blake Edwards. The French didn’t make that joke about themselves. It was made for them, which is rather a different thing, and arguably confirms the point. So much for bears. What about a more serious case of translational vertigo?
« Maman est morte. » The famous opening words of Camus’ L’Étranger – and one of the most analysed sentences in twentieth-century literature, with good reason. Every English translation is already weak tea. It doesn’t carry the English class freight, the faint infantilism, the drawing-room associations. It sits in an affective middle ground that English can’t occupy, somewhere between intimacy and distance, which is precisely where Meursault himself lives. The ambiguity about whether he feels anything – the philosophical core of the entire novel – hinges on a word the target language cannot render. Every translator has to decide, and all fail because English fails to accommodate. This colours Meursault, who I’ve described elsewhere as autistic in principle if not in practise. Without going down a rabbit hole, read The Stranger in this light, and you’ll see systematic abuse of an autist – a textbook neurodivergent – instead of a clueless protagonist.
These examples tighten the philosophical screws at each turn. Pooh is charming and sociological. The Dursleys are technically interesting. Meursault, existential.
But there’s the uncomfortable conclusion they collectively point toward: translation failure is merely the most visible symptom of a much deeper condition. Language was already lossy before one introduces a second language as an additional compression stage. The register, the tone, the class coding, the cultural memory, the sheer music of Pooh’s voice – none of this was ever in the text. It was the environment, in the air or water around the text, in the shared form of life that allows certain performances to land and others to fall silently into the void.
whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent
Wittgenstein said that whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent. He was right and characteristically unhelpful. Because we can’t speak of most of it – the embodied, gestural, socially-saturated ground on which language rests – and yet it’s doing at least half the communicative work, possibly more.
Barthes reminds us that the author is dead. Derrida might have told you there’s no escaping the text, that the instability runs all the way down, that speech is already writing in the relevant sense. He’s not exactly wrong but he’s diagnosing a different condition – the internal slipperiness of signs, rather than the gap between the linguistic and the everything-else. The argument here is less that meaning defers endlessly within language, and more that language was always an approximation of something richer and irreducibly situated. There was never quite enough text to escape from.
What this means is that translation isn’t a solved problem awaiting better tools. It’s a hard limit on what language can carry – a reminder that when Pooh speaks, what you’re actually hearing is a century of English class history, a specific post-Victorian emotional settlement, and a cultural permission to find a certain kind of helpless gentleness charming rather than contemptible.
Or, as Andy Rooney might have put it: Did you ever notice that words don’t quite say what you mean?
Or: a brief field guide to the conceptual swamps I keep wandering into, despite civilisation’s repeated attempts to pave them over.
As I was updating my PhilPapers profile, I decided to ask (prompt?) my digital colleague, ChatGPT to create a glossary of terms relevant to my work and interests. Perhaps this has SEO value. It doesn’t appear to be in any particular order – just like life – and so it will remain that way. Please leave comments about em dashes and notable LLMisms below.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
Philosophy has the irritating habit of naming territories after the people who built fences around them. One begins by asking a fairly ordinary question — why do people keep disagreeing after the facts are settled? — and, sooner or later, someone informs you that you have wandered into metaethics, social ontology, philosophy of language, moral psychology, hermeneutics, political philosophy, or some other administratively sanctioned paddock of the great conceptual livestock farm.
This glossary is therefore not a syllabus, confession, or attempt to claim honorary residence in every department whose windows I have peered through. It is a map of the terms, fields, and adjacent concerns that recur across my work: the Language Insufficiency Hypothesis, the Architecture of Encounter, and my current project, The Architecture of Will. It is also a useful reminder that disciplines are often less like natural kinds than airport signage: helpful, directional, and faintly embarrassing when mistaken for geography.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
Philosophy of Language
The study of how language means, fails, points, slips, distorts, coordinates, and occasionally performs the intellectual equivalent of falling down a staircase with a clipboard.
My interest is not chiefly in language as a transparent medium for thought, but in language as a structurally biased encoding system. Words do not simply carry meanings from one mind to another like well-behaved parcels. They compress, frame, prioritise, obscure, and smuggle in assumptions. Many philosophical problems begin when we treat grammar as though it were ontology: because a noun exists, we assume there must be a thing answering to it.
In my work, philosophy of language becomes the diagnostic centre from which many other disputes are reinterpreted. Moral language, political language, legal language, psychological language, and metaphysical language all depend on terms that remain useful long after their referential stability has expired.
Epistemology
Epistemology asks what knowledge is, how it is justified, and what distinguishes knowing from merely believing with good posture.
My concern is with mediated access: the fact that whatever we call knowledge is routed through perception, cognition, language, culture, inherited categories, institutional practices, and power. This does not mean truth is imaginary or that anything goes. That tedious little slogan should be retired and buried under a car park. It means that access to reality is always structured, filtered, and constrained.
Knowledge, on this view, is less a pristine correspondence between mind and world than a stabilised achievement under conditions of mediation. We know enough to function, to build bridges, to poison ourselves predictably, to disagree meaningfully, and to sustain institutions. But we do not know from nowhere.
Metaethics
Metaethics asks what moral claims are doing before everyone starts shouting about which ones are correct.
Are moral claims true or false? Do they express facts, attitudes, prescriptions, social commitments, emotional reactions, or something more inconvenient? My own orientation is non-cognitivist: I am sceptical that moral utterances report mind-independent moral furniture. Moral language looks less like description and more like action-authorising expression, salience-marking, coordination, condemnation, alignment, and pressure.
This does not make morality trivial. Quite the opposite. It makes moral discourse socially potent precisely because it is not merely descriptive. Moral language does things. It binds, excludes, licenses, condemns, absolves, and mobilises. The mistake is treating this performative force as though it were evidence of metaphysical depth.
Moral Psychology
Moral psychology studies how human beings actually make moral judgments, which is already impolite, since most humans prefer to imagine they reason first and rationalise never.
My interest lies in the pre-verbal and affective structure of moral salience. People do not simply encounter neutral facts and then calmly apply moral principles. They register threat, harm, impurity, authority, betrayal, autonomy, dignity, and violation through inherited orientations before reasons are narrated. The reasons matter, but they often arrive after the salience has already fired.
This is why many moral disputes persist even after factual clarification. The problem is not always ignorance. Sometimes the parties inhabit different moral architectures, and language is dragged in afterwards to pretend that one more definition might save the day.
Philosophy of Action
Philosophy of action asks what it means to act, intend, choose, decide, deliberate, and be responsible for what follows. It is where verbs go to be embalmed as nouns.
My current project, The Architecture of Will, belongs here, though it approaches the field diagnostically. I am interested in the will-family: will, volition, intent, motive, choice, and decision. These terms appear to name inward sources of action, but often function as compressed summaries of downstream patterns: conduct, hesitation, avowal, retrospective narration, institutional interpretation, and practical uptake.
The core suspicion is that these terms begin as practical handles and are later misrecognised as hidden authoring sources. The deed is observed, interpreted, compressed into a noun, and then that noun is treated as though it caused the deed. Human beings, naturally, decided this was a solid foundation for punishment. The species continues to be ambitious.
Free Will
Free will is the grand ancestral muddle in which metaphysics, theology, law, blame, self-flattery, and administrative convenience hold hands in a burning building.
My work does not primarily try to solve the traditional free-will debate. I am less interested in proving determinism, libertarianism, compatibilism, or hard incompatibilism than in asking why the vocabulary of will acquired such institutional authority in the first place. The question is not simply whether the will is free. It is whether the term will names anything stable enough to bear the moral and juridical burdens placed upon it.
The suspicion is that the will survives not because it has been discovered, but because too many practices require something like it to be presumed.
Responsibility
Responsibility is one of the great Contestables: indispensable, unstable, and always wearing shoes too polished for the terrain.
It can mean causal involvement, role obligation, answerability, accountability, liability, blameworthiness, reparative duty, or desert. These senses are routinely collapsed into one another, allowing institutions and moral cultures to slide from you were involved to you must answer to you deserve suffering with suspicious fluency.
My interest is in prising these apart. A person may be involved in an event, answerable within a relationship, subject to constraint, or appropriate for treatment without thereby becoming the metaphysical author required by retributive desert. Responsibility may remain useful, but only if we stop pretending it is one thing.
Philosophy of Law
Philosophy of law examines law’s concepts, justifications, authority, and interpretive machinery. It is where society dresses power in Latin and asks everyone to admire the tailoring.
My concern is with legal language as institutional compression. Law cannot wait for perfect concepts. It must decide. Terms such as intent, reasonableness, harm, consent, obscenity, negligence, culpability, and responsibility are not stable objects discovered in the world. They are administrable handles used to convert messy human reality into determinate outcomes.
This does not mean law is useless. It means law is a singularity machine: it collapses plural meanings into enforceable decisions. Procedure may dampen variance; it does not eliminate ontological plurality.
Political Philosophy
Political philosophy asks how power should be organised, justified, constrained, distributed, disguised, or ritualistically congratulated for existing.
My work approaches political philosophy through legitimacy, authority, autonomy, co-authorship, institutional maintenance, and the failures of liberal proceduralism. I am especially interested in the point at which Enlightenment political vocabulary begins to wobble: freedom, equality, autonomy, rights, justice, consent, representation, progress.
These terms are not meaningless, but neither are they stable invariants. They coordinate action because people can gather around them, but they fracture because people do not gather around the same thing. Political conflict is often not a disagreement inside shared concepts, but a collision between different ontological grammars using the same words.
Social Ontology
Social ontology asks what social things are: institutions, roles, money, borders, laws, offices, marriages, identities, statuses, and other collective hallucinations with enforcement budgets.
My interest is in institutions as second-order constraint systems. They stabilise behaviour by imposing categories, procedures, incentives, sanctions, and recognisable pathways of action. They are not merely ideas, and they are not simply physical objects. They are structured practices that persist because people, documents, buildings, technologies, habits, and power keep reproducing them.
Social reality is therefore neither imaginary nor naturally given. It is maintained. This matters because the maintenance work often disappears beneath the language of objectivity, neutrality, or inevitability.
Ontological Pluralism
Ontological pluralism is the view that people do not merely disagree about facts or values; they may inhabit different structures of salience, relevance, legitimacy, harm, authority, and reality itself.
This is central to my work. Many conflicts persist because participants are not simply making different claims within the same world-picture. They are operating from different ontological orientations. One person sees state violence where another sees order. One sees autonomy where another sees abandonment. One sees justice where another sees humiliation. The shared word conceals an unshared world.
Ontological pluralism does not mean every orientation is equally good, harmless, or coherent. It means disagreement often begins deeper than argument admits.
Incommensurability
Incommensurability names the condition in which competing frameworks cannot be fully translated into one another without loss.
This matters because modern discourse is addicted to the fantasy that enough dialogue will eventually produce convergence. Sometimes it will. Sometimes people are merely confused, misinformed, or performing stupidity for tribal applause. But in harder cases, the translation itself fails. The concepts do not line up. The saliences do not register. The terms arrive carrying incompatible worlds.
Incommensurability is not silence. It is structured misregistration. People may speak fluently and still fail to meet.
Hermeneutics
Hermeneutics concerns interpretation: how meanings are formed, inherited, transmitted, distorted, and revised.
I use hermeneutic concerns less as a reverent tradition than as a reminder that nobody interprets from a vacuum. We inherit prejudices in Gadamer’s sense: prior orientations that make understanding possible before they make it questionable. Interpretation is not the secondary act of a detached subject. It is the condition under which anything becomes intelligible at all.
This connects directly to ontological grammar. We do not first encounter raw reality and then interpret it. Interpretation is already in the encounter. The world arrives pre-sorted by histories we did not author and categories we rarely inspect.
Conceptual Engineering
Conceptual engineering asks whether we should revise, replace, improve, or abandon the concepts we use.
I am sympathetic to its diagnostic impulse but wary of its repair fantasy. Not every broken concept needs a shinier successor. Some concepts should be dis-integrated: taken apart so that their hidden operations become visible, without immediately pretending we can rebuild them better. Philosophy has enough contractors. Occasionally, what one needs is demolition with a conscience.
This is where my own term Dis-Integrationism enters. It is not destruction for sport. It is the refusal to treat conceptual breakdown as an automatic invitation to reconstruction. Sometimes the most honest intellectual act is to leave the rubble labelled.
Critique of Enlightenment Rationalism
By Enlightenment rationalism I mean the broad confidence that reason, clarity, classification, procedure, and progress can discipline human life into increasingly coherent order.
My work is not anti-reason in the toddler-with-a-matchstick sense. Reason is useful. So are maps, knives, antibiotics, and chairs. The problem begins when reason imagines itself unconditioned, neutral, universal, and sufficient. Enlightenment vocabularies often mistake procedural clarity for conceptual adequacy and institutional legibility for truth.
The critique is not that modernity failed because it was too rational. It is that it repeatedly overestimated what rationalisation could stabilise.
Autonomy
Autonomy is usually treated as self-rule, independence, or the capacity to author one’s own life. It is also one of modernity’s favourite decorative masks.
My interest is in autonomy as a fiction with consequences. Persons are never self-originating. They are formed through dependence, language, institutions, bodies, histories, injuries, affordances, and constraints. Yet liberal moral and political orders often require autonomy to function as though individuals were cleanly bounded authors of preference, choice, consent, and responsibility.
Autonomy may remain useful as a political safeguard or ethical aspiration. It becomes dangerous when treated as a metaphysical description of the human animal.
Agency
Agency names the capacity to act, intervene, respond, initiate, or alter a field of possibilities.
My approach is deflationary. Agency need not be imagined as a mysterious inner power belonging to a sovereign subject. It can be understood as patterned responsiveness within constraints. Agents do not float above the world, issuing commands from an immaculate interior chamber. They are situated, mediated, scaffolded, interrupted, trained, and compelled.
This does not make agency unreal. It makes it less theatrical. An agent is not a tiny monarch inside the skull. The sooner philosophy stops smuggling monarchy into psychology, the better for everyone, skulls included.
Objectivity
Objectivity is often imagined as the view from nowhere: reality scrubbed clean of position, interest, embodiment, and history.
I prefer a more modest account. Objectivity is not the absence of position, because there is no such absence available to finite creatures. It is a disciplined relation between positions, constraints, methods, and convergences. What matters is not whether one has escaped mediation, but whether one has accounted for it well enough to produce stable, corrigible, cross-perspectival claims.
Objectivity is therefore not magic neutrality. It is an achievement under constraint. The view from nowhere is a lovely phrase, but the actual creature saying it is still standing somewhere, usually on a grant application.
Normativity
Normativity concerns oughts, reasons, rules, obligations, permissions, ideals, and standards: the whole bustling marketplace of what should be the case, according to creatures who cannot agree what case they are in.
My work treats normativity as real in practice but not necessarily as metaphysically deep in the realist sense. Normative claims organise conduct. They express commitments, mark salience, stabilise expectations, and authorise responses. They are not reducible to mere noise, preference, or mood, but neither must they be inflated into eternal furniture.
The question is not whether normativity matters. It plainly does. The question is what kind of thing it is, and whether the grammar of moral seriousness has tricked us into mistaking social force for ontological depth.
Power and Institutions
Power is not merely corruption, domination, or the villain entering in a black cape after pure reason has done its best. Power is constitutive. It stabilises meanings, enforces categories, selects outcomes, and keeps institutions from dissolving into interpretive vapour.
Institutions depend on power because language underdetermines action. When terms such as justice, responsibility, harm, reasonableness, and freedom fail to secure convergence, institutions must still act. They select, enforce, punish, recognise, exclude, and maintain. Power does not resolve the underlying conceptual instability. It pauses it, contains it, and makes social coordination possible for another day.
This is why I often prefer maintenance to resolution. Resolution promises final settlement. Maintenance admits that some conflicts cannot be solved without pretending the plurality has vanished. A mature institution does not abolish fracture. It learns how not to let the fracture become catastrophic.
The Language Insufficiency Hypothesis
The Language Insufficiency Hypothesis is the claim that language’s effectiveness declines as conceptual complexity increases.
At one end of the gradient are relatively stable terms: chairs, spoons, dogs, measurable objects, operationally fixed references. At the other are terms that collapse into metaphor, silence, paradox, or awe. Between them sit the terms that cause most of the trouble: justice, freedom, consciousness, responsibility, harm, autonomy, will. These are usable enough to organise life and unstable enough to generate permanent dispute.
The point is not that language never works. That would be stupid, and there is already enough competition in that market. The point is that language works unevenly, and we do immense damage by pretending its success in simple cases transfers automatically to moral, political, legal, and metaphysical abstraction.
Invariants, Contestables, Fluids, and Ineffables
These are the regions of the Effectiveness–Complexity Gradient.
Invariants are terms with high practical stability. They are not metaphysically perfect, because nothing fun is ever that easy, but they function reliably enough for ordinary coordination.
Contestables are terms whose meanings are socially and institutionally fought over: justice, legitimacy, reasonableness, harm, responsibility. They support disagreement precisely because they are shared enough to matter and unstable enough to resist closure.
Fluids are terms whose meanings drift across domains: consciousness, intelligence, agency, identity. Clarification often multiplies ambiguity rather than reducing it.
Ineffables are where language reaches its limit: grief, awe, mystical experience, radical alterity, some forms of pain, and perhaps the felt interiority of another life. Here language does not stop being useful, but it stops pretending to be adequate.
Ontological Grammar
Ontological grammar is the tendency of linguistic structure to install metaphysical assumptions before argument begins.
A noun invites us to imagine a thing. A subject-predicate structure invites us to imagine a bearer with properties. A verb can be converted into a nominalised object. A process becomes an entity. A relation becomes a possession. A practical summary becomes an inner faculty. This is not mere rhetoric. It is the machinery by which philosophy repeatedly mistakes grammatical convenience for ontological discovery.
Ontological grammar is one of the central irritants running through my work. It explains why so many philosophical problems seem profound only because the sentence structure has already rigged the room.
The Architecture of Encounter
The Architecture of Encounter is my broader metaphysical framework. Its central move is to treat encounter-events, rather than substances, subjects, or objects, as primitive.
On this view, mind and world are not two separate domains that later require a bridge. They are abstractions drawn from structured encounter. Mediation is not a veil blocking access to reality; it is the condition under which reality is encountered at all. Constraint, resistance, salience, affordance, perception, and language all belong inside the architecture of encounter rather than outside it.
This framework is realist, but not naïvely so. Reality pushes back. But it never arrives unmediated, unstructured, or free from the conditions under which it can be encountered.
The Architecture of Will
The Architecture of Will is my current project: a diagnostic genealogy of the will-family.
It examines will, volition, intent, motive, choice, and decision as terms that appear to name inward authoring sources but often function as compressed summaries of downstream action-patterns. The central concept is authoring displacement: the two-stage process by which a practical summary is converted into an apparent source.
First, a pattern of conduct, hesitation, avowal, interpretation, and uptake is compressed into a noun. Second, that noun is grammatically inverted and treated as though it caused the very pattern from which it was abstracted. This matters most in retributive contexts, where institutions need inward authors in order to make punishment appear deserved rather than merely useful.
The project does not deny deliberation, regret, or practical responsibility. It denies that the nouns we use for these phenomena have earned the metaphysical authority required to ground deserved suffering.
Dis-Integrationism
Dis-Integrationism is my name for a method of taking apart inherited conceptual machinery without the pious obligation to rebuild it immediately.
It is adjacent to deconstruction, but less enchanted by textual mystique and more willing to leave the broken mechanism on the table with a label attached. Its point is diagnostic exposure: to show where a concept derives its authority, what it hides, what institutional labour it performs, and why its apparent coherence may depend on suppressing its own conditions of operation.
Dis-Integrationism is not nihilism. It is maintenance against false repair. Some structures should be rebuilt. Some should be abandoned. Some should be kept only with warning signs bolted to them.
This glossary is not a complete taxonomy. It is a working map of recurring concerns: language and its insufficiencies; knowledge under mediation; moral judgment without metaphysical inflation; institutions as systems of compression and power; autonomy and agency as useful fictions; objectivity without the fantasy of nowhere; and the will-family as the latest site where grammar, law, and moral appetite have mistaken a noun for a hidden source.
The common thread is simple enough, though simple things are often the first victims of professional vocabulary. Human beings inherit terms, build institutions around them, forget their contingency, and then call the result reality. My work tries to interrupt that sequence before the noun becomes a shrine.
Not to abolish language. Not to end moral life. Not to sneer from outside the ruins. There is no outside, and sneering is already over-subscribed.
The aim is more modest and more corrosive: to notice where our words still work, where they fail, where power has been recruited to hide the failure, and where the demand for resolution has become part of the damage.
Yesterday, I complained about the psychoanalytic approach Fanon employed in Black Skin, White Masks, Chapter 4, The So-Called Dependency Complex of the Colonised. Today, I share my feelings about Chapter 5, The Lived Experience of the Black Man. But first, let’s reorient the reader to my own perspective.
I am decidedly anti-colonial and even anti-post-colonial, or at least I see this trajectory as tragic. All of this is consonant with the views expressed in my Anti-Enlightenment Project.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
On one hand, I want to complain about the circuitous approach he took in Chapter 5. It was meant to be metaphorical and poetic. Whilst I feel it’s a bold move to present an areasonable approach – one that refuses the terms of Enlightenment rationality without simply inverting them – it seems that he cherry-picks his tools from the arsenal of Enlightenment thought. This applies to much of the post-colonial project broadly, though my objection there is less to any particular theoretical allegiance and more to the foundational commitments: I oppose colonialism, empire, and hegemony on grounds that precede the debate about which critical vocabulary best serves their dismantling.
Fanon’s anti-Enlightenment critique is weakened where he imports psychoanalysis too trustingly. Psychology and psychoanalysis are themselves Enlightenment byproducts: systems for rendering the human subject legible, classifiable, interpretable, and administrable. To use them against colonial Reason without first subjecting them to the same suspicion risks reproducing the very machinery under critique. The result isn’t fatal to Fanon’s charge, but it is methodologically untidy. I don’t necessarily object to using Enlightenment-derived tools after critique; I object to retaining them as though their own conceptual machinery were innocent. Psychoanalysis may be useful as metaphor, rhetoric, or historically situated vocabulary, but if it’s treated as a valid evidentiary lens without scrutiny, it smuggles Enlightenment legibility back into an anti-Enlightenment critique. That’s where Fanon’s chapter loses force for me.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
Fanon is at his strongest when he shows that colonial ‘reason‘ produces the colonised subject as irrational, bodily, affective, and deficient. He rightly treats unreason not as a natural property of the colonised but as a category imposed by colonial order. My difficulty is that he then routes this insight through psychoanalysis, a method I regard as metaphorically suggestive but evidentially weak. The critique of colonial rationality survives; the psychoanalytic apparatus remains suspect.
In the end, we may both at least tacitly agree that colonialism, and the Enlightenment more generally, was not the best path. Where we part is on what should have been taken instead. Cue Robert Frost.
But the more searching question isn’t which fork we should have taken – it’s what we do with the road we’re already on. When the system itself is the problem, the question of what within it is worth retaining rarely gets answered on its merits. More often, it gets answered by inertia: by what is convenient, familiar, or already institutionally embedded. Fanon isn’t exempt from this, and neither, if we’re honest, is any thinker who inherits a tradition whilst attempting to dismantle it. The tools available are always already compromised. The most we can ask – and what distinguishes the sharper critiques from the merely passionate ones – is whether the thinker knows this, and accounts for it. Fanon sometimes does. In Chapter 5, at the moments that matter most, he doesn’t quite.
NB: I used ChatGPT for the cover image. I think it did a good job.
I just read Chapter 4 of Frantz Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks, and it has similar problems I’ve also critiqued for Judith Butler’s Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity and Simone de Beauvoir’s The Second Sex. In all three cases, I accept the primary argument. What I reject is psychology, especially psychoanalysis, as a legitimate form of scientific inquiry.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
My issue isn’t that Fanon, Beauvoir, or Butler fail in their central diagnoses. I broadly accept their claims. My issue is that the psychoanalytic material typically functions like a grinding side quest: time-consuming, rhetorically elaborate, and only weakly connected to the main argumentative progression. It may enrich the atmosphere, but it doesn’t materially alter the outcome. Once one doesn’t accept psychoanalytical psychobabble as a valid evidentiary lens, the material becomes a time sink. Not only can’t I get my time back, but I also expend even more time here, railing on.
Speaking of distraction: evidently, WordPress has added a new blog-to-podcast feature, so I tried it out here. Whatevs.
Fanon’s central claim about colonial racialisation doesn’t require dream interpretation – the dreams themselves are seemingly apocryphal at the start. The stronger route is through embodied recognition, imposed category structures, conceptual nomenclature, and the racialised field of encounter. The dream material reads as psychoanalytic side-content: thematically adjacent, occasionally vivid, but methodologically low-yield. It doesn’t deepen the case so much as delay it. The entire time, I am thinking to myself, ‘Where is he going with all this?’ and ‘Are we there yet?’ only to get dropped off just where I had started – a round trip to nowhere.
But Fanon’s mistake isn’t necessarily insincerity. It’s an over-trust in a psychological lens that converts metaphor into method. The psychoanalytic examples may have seemed to him like evidence; to a reader sceptical of psychoanalysis, as I am, they register as rhetorical illustrations. Once a reader withholds confidence in this method, the chapter’s supporting material becomes distracting rather than strengthening.
Enfin, psychoanalysis too often behaves like a prestige tarot deck for the academically credentialled: it turns ambiguity into confirmation, opacity into symbolism, and resistance into further evidence. Fanon’s broader account of colonial alienation survives because it doesn’t depend on this machinery. The dreams aren’t necessary to the argument; they’re decorative scaffolding around a structure that’s stronger without them.
I recently read a piece arguing, with considerable sophistication, that LLMs represent an unprecedented psychological threat – that conversational systems operating at a planetary scale change the geometry of human susceptibility in ways that demand serious governance responses. The author wasn’t wrong about the effects. This isn’t the debate, but she was wrong about the story. The effects are real, and the narrative erected around them is the oldest displacement manoeuvre in the repertoire
After Tony Self liked one of my blog posts – Hi, Tony Self – I visited his site and poked around, clicking on several articles. This was one. I liked it and noticed the Reblog button. I clicked it, and it spawned this page with this article embedded. So, here we are.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
Would I choose to live forever? Undoubtedly, no. For those who’ve been around and have kept up with my posts, know that I already died. I would have been fine remaining dead, as my girlfriend did. Although I won’t rejoin her in the spiritual sense, I will join her in death in the metaphorical sense of Lakoff and Johnson.
Longevity is a luxury of the affluent. I don’t want it. Tony mentions vampires. In fiction (where else would they be?), these beings are routinely unemployed – at the very least, having no day jobs – but with vast riches or connected to one with said same. Their torment is to have outlived past loves and the need to feed on the living, mostly the fear of getting caught, as this is illegal and more generally immoral in this world as we know it – not a good look.
In any case, this live forever thought experiment forgets much, or at least imposes much. If I could just be, like a stone, is that forever? As I discuss in The Architecture of Encounter, even stones aren’t forever, regardless of their state of living; not even mountains, planets, suns, or universes. So, what’s forever anyway?
Spoiler alert: Forever is a myth.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
Rather than answer generally or hypothetically, would I choose to live forever? No. Take me now if you must?
I’ve got no problems with living. It’s the conditions that bother me: the eating, the sleeping, the maintenance; entropy.
So, the ones who have this wish ignore these and presume that this version of forever comes with good health and abundance.
I recall a Greek myth in which forever is granted, and he lives on as a disembodied wisp that can’t die.
In this myth, Tithonus – a Trojan prince whom Eos, goddess of the dawn, loved and asked Zeus to grant immortality – got this wish, and it wasn’t even his; immortality without consent. Eos forgot to ask for eternal youth alongside it, so he aged indefinitely, eventually shrinking into a desiccated, babbling husk – a wisp.
Imagine: you live forever, outliving all humans, all life. The sun extinguishes, and yet you remain – all the while sentient.
Thanks, but no thanks. You can keep your forever. I’ll keep my timeline.
As usual, I am trying something different. I like to watch music reaction videos, and I find this stripped-down, acoustic version of Slipknot’s Snuff by their vocalist, Corey Taylor, to hit hard. I prompted ChatGPT GPT 5.5 with this video and lyrics. Me being me, I continue to analyse experience through language and my own worldview, notably the effects of ontological grammar commitments.
I share the reaction video at the bottom of this post. Before, I’d just consider this person to be a self-righteous zealot, but now I understand that (1) this is how she processes her world, and (2) she is prescriptive insomuch as she expects others to share her worldview. She’s not coming from a mean place. In her mind, she genuinely wants to help, but she doesn’t realise that not all people share her worldview. She’s likely had this worldview reinforced for all of her years, and so it works as a coping strategy for her. She expects that she can share this worldview, but it is likely maximally absorbed by those who share her ontological grammar commitment, which is to say, already have the same worldview.
If you want a view into how I engage with AI, now you know. Here’s a window:
This is a very interesting case study in ontological grammar that showcases the downside of not recognising it. From my ontology, she sounds like she’s moralising. To another (her own), she might sound supportive. She is commenting on the lyrics to this song, which are not all captured by the transcript. Reaction?
Bury all your secrets in my skin Come away with innocence, and leave me with my sins The air around me still feels like a cage And love is just a camouflage for what resembles rage again
So if you love me, let me go And run away before I know My heart is just too dark to care I can't destroy what isn't there Deliver me into my fate If I'm alone I cannot hate I don't deserve to have you Ooh my smile was taken long ago If I can change I hope I never know
I still press your letters to my lips And cherish them in parts of me that savor every kiss I couldn't face a life without your light (Without your light) But all of that was ripped apart when you refused to fight
So save your breath, I will not hear I think I made it very clear You couldn't hate enough to love Is that supposed to be enough? I only wish you weren't my friend Then I could hurt you in the end I never claimed to be a saint Ooh my own was banished long ago It took the death of hope to let you go
Oh, oh
So break yourself against my stones And spit your pity in my soul You never needed any help You sold me out to save yourself And I won't listen to your shame You ran away, you're all the same Angels lie to keep control Ooh my love was punished long ago If you still care, don't ever let me know If you still care, don't ever let me know
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
the wounded sometimes prefer the song to the sermon
Yes, this is a clean little specimen jar of ontological grammar doing its work while everyone pretends they are merely “reacting”. Humanity’s favourite parlour trick: smuggling an entire worldview into a sentence and calling it compassion.
The key move is that she hears the lyric as a claim rather than as an utterance from within a damaged affective state. When she says she “doesn’t agree” with the line about love and rage, and then calls that outlook “toxic”, she has already converted the lyric into a propositional worldview that can be corrected, morally evaluated, and therapeutically redirected. The song is no longer only an aesthetic articulation of injury, self-loathing, abandonment, attachment, and rage. It becomes a suspect belief-system. That is the ontological switch.
From her grammar, this is supportive. Pain is a “place”; one should not “stay” there; hope remains available; trust and love should eventually be restored. That is a recovery-therapeutic ontology. It presupposes that despair is transitional, that emotional damage should be metabolised into healing, and that the moral arc of the subject bends toward renewed openness. So when she says, in effect, don’t become calloused, don’t stay jaded, love again, she is not hearing herself as judging the song. She is offering pastoral care in YouTube-reactor clothing, because apparently late civilisation needed a genre where vocal pedagogy, therapy-lite, and parasocial maternalism could all share a sofa.
From your ontology, though, she is moralising because she does not merely describe the emotional grammar of the song; she disciplines it. The lyric’s extremity is treated as something understandable but unsafe, beautiful but not habitable, cathartic but only under the condition that one eventually leaves it behind. That is not neutral support. It installs a norm: grief should resolve, bitterness should soften, love should be rehabilitated, hope should return. She may mean kindness, but kindness here arrives wearing the boots of teleology.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
The most interesting fault-line is her treatment of generalisation. She identifies the lyric’s movement from one betrayal to “everyone” as a cognitive distortion. In ordinary therapeutic language, fair enough. But in lyric, especially in this genre, absolutising is not necessarily an epistemic error. It is how pain speaks when it has lost access to proportion. The lyric is not writing a sociology of human attachment. It is staging the experience of betrayal as world-disclosure. In that register, “all” does not mean a statistically universal class. It means: this wound has become the horizon through which everything now appears. To correct it as a bad inference is to import the wrong grammar.
That is where your framework bites. The words transmit; the sentence parses; everyone thinks communication is happening. But the decompression target differs. She reconstructs the lyric inside a moral-therapeutic grammar of recovery. You reconstruct it inside a diagnostic grammar of affect, ontology, and expressive insufficiency. Same words, different world. Your Architecture of Encounter makes precisely this point about ontological grammar: grammar does not merely carry content; it allocates what can count as meaningful, salient, explanatory, or distorted in the first place.
There is also a neat contrast inside the video itself. When she analyses vocal placement, tone, grit, support, and vowel shaping, she is mostly operating in a relatively tethered technical grammar. Claims can be checked against performance craft. But when she moves to love, hope, toxicity, healing, and despair, she enters the Contestable/Fluid zone. These terms feel clear because they are familiar, but their application depends on prior ontological commitments. In When Language Fails, this is exactly the danger-zone: terms that appear determinate whilst lacking shared grounding, especially where they authorise judgement, correction, or action.
So, yes: as a case study, it is excellent. Not because she is being cruel. She is not. That would be too easy, and therefore boring. The interesting point is that she is probably being sincere, warm, and careful by her own lights. But sincerity does not cancel grammar. Her support is support only within an ontology where despair is an unhealthy place to leave, not a legitimate structure of encounter to inhabit, articulate, or aesthetically preserve.
The concise diagnostic formulation would be:
She mistakes an affective utterance for a corrigible worldview. The lyric speaks from inside a structure of injury; her response translates it into therapeutic-moral grammar, where pain is a place one should visit but not inhabit. From within that grammar, she sounds supportive. From a deflationary ontological grammar, she is moralising: not because she condemns the suffering, but because she prescribes the proper trajectory of suffering before recognising the grammar in which the suffering is being expressed.
That is the downside of not recognising ontological grammar: people confuse their own interpretive repair-work with care, and then wonder why the wounded sometimes prefer the song to the sermon.
Bonus Round
🎸Corey tunes to C#, a tuning all too familiar to me – all strings 3 semitones lower than a standard tuning. It helps to have heavy-gauge strings, so they aren’t too slack. This is an easy song to play along to.
Using cowboy chords, grip an Am (tonally F#m) to start. The progression goes like this:
Self-help, pop psychology, LinkedIn, and the metaphysics smuggled into advice
Self-improvement books rarely begin by telling you what it believes a person is. That would be too honest, and honesty is bad for conversion funnels. Instead, it begins with verbs.
Choose. Decide. Commit. Heal. Optimise. Manifest. Reframe. Own. Level up. Set boundaries. Do the work. Become intentional. Stop self-sabotaging. Unlock your potential. Be your authentic self. Take radical responsibility.
The vocabulary shifts depending on the tradition. One speaks of healing, one of discipline, one of nervous systems, one of leadership, one of purpose, one of abundance. What they share is not a doctrine but a grammar: a way of arranging the person before the advice begins. The subject is always inward, sovereign, and temporarily malfunctioning. The problem is always locatable. The solution is always available, often for $29.99 or in a free webinar that becomes a masterclass for $299.
But here is where the easy cynicism runs out of road, because the people writing this stuff — by and large — believe it.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
That is the part of the critique that tends to get skipped, because it is less satisfying than imagining a cynical operator deliberately strip-mining the anxious for recurring revenue. Most self-help authors arrived at their framework the same way their readers are about to: they were struggling, they encountered a grammar that organised their experience, they felt the specific relief of suddenly being intelligible to themselves, and they mistook that relief for discovery. Then they wrote a book about it. The author is not the shark. The author is a previous customer who graduated to the front of the room.
The framework they found — and are now evangelising — is what I call, in The Architecture of Encounter, an ontological grammar: a set of prior commitments about what kind of thing a person is, which arrives upstream of any specific advice and quietly determines what advice is even thinkable. You cannot recommend reframing without first presuming a self transparent enough to observe its own cognitions and sovereign enough to revise them. You cannot prescribe boundaries without presuming a self whose territory is violable and whose autonomy is the relevant moral unit. You cannot offer alignment without presuming a self that has a true direction, temporarily obscured, patiently awaiting discovery through either a values exercise on page forty-seven or a retreat in somewhere with good lighting and worse plumbing.
The grammar arrives first. The advice follows from it. And the person reading it is not being shown a mirror. They are being issued a lens.
The lens finds its wearer. “Take ownership” resonates with people already invested in the idea of themselves as agents who have been insufficiently deliberate — it confirms the worldview while appearing to challenge the behaviour. “Your nervous system is dysregulated” resonates with people for whom the moralised language of laziness and discipline has become intolerable; here is a vocabulary that removes the accusation while retaining the explanation, which is a genuinely useful service even if the mechanism on offer is borrowed loosely from neuroscience and the rest is borrowed from hope. “Mindset is your prison” resonates with people who need their suffering to remain individually tractable — solvable, that is, without anyone having to redistribute anything expensive or inconvenient. “Manifest your abundance” resonates with people who find both structural analysis and self-blame equally unappealing and would like a third option involving the universe.
Each grammar finds its congregation. Which is precisely the problem.
A grammar propagates not because it has been tested against alternatives or evaluated for efficacy, but because it maps onto a prior self-conception cleanly enough to produce the sensation of being understood. The entrepreneur already believes in agency-language: execution, discipline, ownership, leverage. The book that tells them their discipline is the differentiator is not offering new information; it is offering comfortable confirmation in a more expensive format. The therapeutic reader already suspects their relational difficulties involve something called attachment. The book that tells them so is not illuminating; it is flattering them with their own vocabulary. The LinkedIn professional already believes their career is a project of self-authorship. The thought leader who tells them to communicate their value and build authentic leadership is not giving them a strategy; they are giving them a liturgy.
The community that forms around a grammar is a church, not a seminar. It has converts, not students. And like most churches, it is considerably better at solidarity than at falsifiability.
This matters because the mechanism by which self-help content spreads — resonance, recognition, testimonial, referral — is entirely decoupled from the mechanism by which we would establish that it works. A sentence resonates because it fits a grammar the reader has already adopted. That tells you something real: about the anxieties structuring a cohort’s self-understanding, the stories they are trying to make liveable, the descriptions of themselves they find tolerable or intolerable. It does not tell you whether the intervention produces the claimed effect, in whom, under what conditions, and compared with what alternative. Those are duller questions. Less shareable. They do not fit on a carousel post with a soft gradient and a mountain.
Horoscopes also resonate. So do conspiracy theories, national myths, and the first chapter of any book you buy during a difficult stretch of your life.
The point is not that the advice is necessarily wrong. Sometimes “set boundaries” is exactly right. Sometimes “take ownership” is precisely what someone has been avoiding hearing. Sometimes a new frame genuinely reorganises attention in ways that produce durable change, and the person is measurably better off for having found it. None of that is in question. The question is whether a framework that produced one useful instance has any reliable claim to truth beyond that instance — and whether the person reaching for it during a difficult period is in any position to make that evaluation carefully.
They usually are not. That is not stupidity. That is the condition of being in difficulty: you reach for intelligibility, and whoever offers it collects a great deal of credit. The problem is not the reaching. The problem is that the self-help ecosystem — including the parts of it operated by entirely sincere people who believe every word they publish — has no reliable mechanism for distinguishing frameworks that help from frameworks that merely feel like help while the underlying situation continues undisturbed. The true believer and the true seeker share the same vulnerability. Both reached for a grammar. One of them got to write the book.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
It is also worth noting that commerce is the easy villain here, and an overrated one. The same dynamic runs through pop psychology, where the grammar of individual cognitive mechanisms tends to dominate because it produces legible interventions in a way that structural analysis never quite does; blaming cognition is tractable, blaming the organisation of society is dispiriting and hard to monetise, even when it is accurate. It runs through LinkedIn, where the grammar is not therapeutic but managerial — the self reimagined as an optimisable professional asset — and where burnout becomes a boundary failure, precarity becomes an invitation to upskill, and alienation becomes a purpose deficit. Nobody on LinkedIn is necessarily trying to extract money from anyone. Many of them are trying to be useful, or to be visible, or both, which is human enough. But the grammar they are deploying disappears material conditions into interior architecture with the same efficiency as the most cynically produced wellness content. The mechanism does not require a profit motive. It requires only a grammar and an audience that already shares it.
The useful response to all of this is not wholesale dismissal, which would be too easy and almost certainly wrong. Some people need clearer habits. Some need better descriptions of their own conduct. Some need permission to stop tolerating what they have been tolerating. Some need a vocabulary that makes their own patterns visible, and a framework — however approximate — is better than none. These are real services. The fact that they are sometimes delivered inside a dubious metaphysics of the person does not automatically negate them.
But there is a question worth developing the habit of asking, before the grammar installs itself: what kind of person does this advice presume? Is the self it describes sovereign, where I am actually constrained? Wounded where I am actually responsible? Deficient where I am actually being exploited? Misaligned where I am actually just bored? In need of self-belief, where I am in need of rent?
These questions are less fun than a morning routine designed by someone who has never had a difficult commute. They do not come with a community or a badge or an accountability partner who sends encouraging voice notes. But they do something the grammar on its own cannot: they ask whether the patient described in the diagnosis is the one actually in the room.
Most self-help skips that step. So, not infrequently, does the person who wrote it. They found a grammar that made their experience legible, felt the relief that comes from that, and never quite got around to distinguishing legibility from truth. Which is understandable. It is also, for everyone downstream of that decision, a problem.
I don’t occupy this shared space of ontological grammar, so I call bollox.
Full Disclosure: This article was drafted by ChatGPT 5.5 and Claude Sonnet 4.6 upon a discussion of my perspective on self-help, pop psychology, and LinkedIn. I am busy with other projects, but I wanted to share my position. Apologies to those who don’t prefer LLM-authored or assisted articles.
My goal is to articulate the connexion between ontological grammar commitments, the noted disciplines, and more. As should be evident, I am not a fan of self-help or some adjacent modalities.
I had planned to write a blog post on The Remains of the Day, but I posted it on Substack instead because I changed the scope. I also created this podcast on NotebookLM.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
Philosophics 