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Truth cuts both ways

Posted by moses @ 22:39 • , , , , , • 0 comments


I've been reading an interesting book called The Black Swan. I'm about two-thirds of the way through now and I think I have grasped the central message of the book, which is that our ability to predict the future in social matters is highly limited.

I think this is a very interesting point, and I find myself agreeing with it. I'm not so sure, however, with the seemingly suggested conclusion that a skeptical-empirical approach (which is similar to but more comprehensive than the open-minded attitude I've talked about) is linked to the libertarian position in questions of political economy. Indeed, Hayek and the Austrian school—those proclaimed bastions of libertarian thought—receive not few words of praise in the book and almost no criticism.

The thing is, Hayek might have a good point about economics, but in his political commentary he is guilty of the same thing the book criticises heavily. As I understand it, Hayek alleges that attempts to control economic activity will lead to authoritarianism, hence the 'The Road to Serfdom'. But the evidence speaks for itself. Describing, say, modern-day Britain as authoritarian is a bit of a stretch—what more labelling it as serfdom.

The truth is economic activity in modern society will always be controlled in some (not insignificant) degree, for better or for worse. And this has not and does not seem likely to result in large-scale authoritarianism. Thus, Hayek too fails when he attempts to predict a potential socio-political trend.

But I don't want to focus my criticism on Hayek. Rather, I'd like to talk about why a libertarian position does not necessarily follow from the main point of the book.

The crux of my point is this: As many have pointed out, doing little or nothing also tends to incur costs. There is a price for instituting social programs aimed at helping the impoverished, for example; on the other hand, the alternative of inaction would also have a price.

The book says that not to form quick conclusions is an act as it requires effort. Similarly, not to do something is an act as it tends to have its own cost. Hence, the lack of certainty on the possible consequences cannot justify inaction. As the book also says, having people who take their chances is often necessary for social development.

Therefore, it is rather the case that people are justified in acting on their beliefs as long as they are acting on good faith and are constantly aware of their limitations.

This leads us to another point: It is precisely the lack of absolute certainty in social matters that prevents one from judging a certain school of thought as absolutely wrong, as long as it is not in the business of making predictions or creating concrete historical narratives. So despite, say, the book's criticism of the historicity and scientism of Marxism, a non-scientific/deterministic brand of Marxism is not as vulnerable to the same criticism. Simply put, observations that are not necessarily false cannot be called out for being false.

It turns out, therefore, that under conditions of uncertainty we have to be open-minded about things that have not been proven false. But that's hardly surprising, isn't it? Except perhaps to stubborn libertarians.

Essays on Mind and Matter II

Posted by moses @ 20:42 • , , , • 0 comments


Sometimes things just don't work out; life seems intent on proving that you are not capable enough. Sometimes you are prevented on moving to higher or better paths and endeavours. Instead, you are dragged down and forced to traverse the lower roads, to eke out a bland existence in a fundamentally alienating universe.

You may then be left with a feeling of purposelessness, a sense that things took their own turn and have left you high and dry with your wants and your plans. Perhaps you may even realise that you don't know what you want anymore.

Strangely, though, I'm not too hung up on these feelings. Well, it's not exactly strange because I think I know why. The reason, however, is strange enough—I'm not so bothered by purposelessness because I've realised that it's pointless anyway. At least when you don't have the means to control your life.

So how does it work? How can the realisation of pointlessness somehow be helpful?

Perhaps it will become clear once I explain my reasoning. The point is when you realise that there is no point, you become less insistent on fulfilling a specific purpose (as opposed to a general one, such as to be happy). You become less preoccupied with following a predetermined course. In a somewhat Schopenhauerian sense, when you realise that there is nothing but the chains that bind you to the material world, all that you can lose are the chains that bind you to self-inflicted suffering; if you desire nothing that badly, you wouldn't feel that bad about not having something.

But what do I mean by the fact that there is no point? Have we perchance arrived at the Grand Hotel Abyss?

This isn't a sigh of despair. If you've read some of my earlier entries, you might notice that I try to draw strength from weakness, zest from purposelessness. Why I reason about life is not to express a desire to give up, but to articulate a wish to go on.

As for why there is no point, I'm not going to offer a grandiose narrative about suffering. I think suffering is merely a consequence and could therefore be reduced or avoided if we focus on the right things. Instead, my reasoning is much more Marxist in character. It stems from our alienation from our own labour.

The fact is, out there, almost no one is interested in your purpose or the exact function that you desire for yourself. They say that you have to sell yourself. What this really means is you have to make you seem useful to others. And that's how you make you useful to yourself—without being made use of, you'd seldom have the means for subsistence. You serve yourself by, willingly or not, first serving the purposes of others, most likely the impersonal ends of your employers.

Thus, what is the point of being stubborn about a specific purpose of yours, especially when that doesn't mesh well with reality as it turns out? You'd only inflict physical and emotional suffering on yourself. If you can serve your own purpose while at the same time serving those of your employers, that's great. But such serendipity may be hard to come by.

This realisation that they hardly matter in society is what makes me fairly indifferent to personal milestones and sense of direction. If no one else cares, why should you care? It's your choice: You can choose to be exacting and suffer, or you can choose to shrug them off as inconsequential.

A personal kind of purposelessness, therefore, turns out to be good. But to take it further you need to turn it into the ability to adapt, something that I'm still trying to learn. Basically, if I don't have anything that I badly want to be, I can be anything that people want me to be.

And therein lies power, the flowering of your potential to actually take control.

Like a cruel angel

Posted by moses @ 23:17 • , , • 0 comments


I think some people figured out that it's best to be nice and positive-sounding, even if the ends of others are sometimes better furthered by truthfulness. Clearly, there is nothing inherently 'nice' about this attitude. It's merely convenient. But perhaps I should give these people more credit—it's quite cunning.

The simple trick lies in the fact that people love the sugar coating. They love the smiles, the sweet words and the genial laughs, whether or not they know if those are genuine. Of course, many would say that they prefer to hear true words. Nonetheless, most of them are still susceptible to the psychological effect of being met with niceties.

I think we should be at least a little wary of those who speak good but dishonest words. The mask they wear might make them seem better people than they really are, and it's only when you expect something of them that you might realise the true depth of their good-natured ways. Then you might be in for a disappointment. Or worse. After all, doesn't it resemble a confidence trick?

Infuriatingly, however, such consummate liars also tend to get away with things. People really do love the sugar coating. It's usually only when the truth stares them in the face would they admit that they've been bought. And the trickster would still be able to count on the goodwill of others who have not had their own encounter with his or her true character.

This makes me think, sadly, that the trick is too effective. Thus, on reflection, I can't say that I don't find something that I could learn from it. Therefore, try to reveal the truth only if you know that it's relatively safe to do so.

You might object that it's difficult to constantly be insincere, and that people will eventually be able to tell if you don't mean something.

However, there's a deeper level to this. If you're convinced yourself that you are being kind and pleasant by withholding your true feelings, you can certainly appear genuinely nice despite the fact that you are insincere. The goodwill of others can thus be maintained. People love their sugar coating. They adore those who are loveable and well-meaning.


The Death of Danton

Posted by moses @ 17:31 • , , , , • 0 comments


Every year on Armistice Day and V-Day Europe remembers the dangers of nationalism—at least one would hope. In contrast, I don't think too many people in Asia are attuned to it. Maybe not enough of us have died tragically in its name?

Certainly, between violent squabbles about the ruins of a temple and lengthy periods of compulsory military service, a cacophony of nationalist sentiments permeates Southeast Asia. And few seem to stop and ask: Why does it matter?

Indeed, why? I'm sure we've all heard John F. Kennedy's famous line, "Ask not what your country can do for you—ask what you can do for the country". I think that should be reformulated, and not as a statement but as a question: What does your country even mean to you?

In truth, for many people, I can think of very little. Sure, your country gives you a sense of identity as the place you were born in, where you perhaps live and have the right to be. But you pay your taxes, don't you? As productive or at least honest members of society, you are paying your dues to the community as a member. You are participating in the community.

Yes, everyone stands to lose if the country is weak and vulnerable, but up to what point are concerns about security still reasonable? When does it start to resemble paranoia?

The leaders know that simple pragmatism alone wouldn't commit people to readily pledge their service to the country, at least not to the extent that they're hoping for. That's why they come up with nationalistic propaganda. Their hope is that some sort of love for and sense of responsibility to the country would be instilled in you. The blinder you are as a follower the better. When they need martyrs, they know where to look.

So why do we play along? What is it that the country gives us in exchange? We know why the politicians hold office and why the government is in power. They give their service in exchange for power and position. I can perhaps understand the American sentiment that the country is the defender of their liberties. But especially in places like Singapore, where you're always simply asked to go the extra mile for the 'greater good', so that the country can be competitive, what's in it for you?

Do you think the country takes care of you? In the age of globalisation, where the welfare state is deemed inefficient, the country can no longer make the promises it used to make. Will you have jobs? Will you be able to earn a decent living? Will you have enough funds to retire comfortably? The paradigm of the neo-liberal state gives no clear answers to such questions. You are essentially on your own. The role of the state is to leave you free to do what you want, provided you have the means to do it. Batteries not included, of course.

Even then, in some countries you're not actually free to do a great number of relatively harmless things, like buying chewing gum.

And so, as I've said some time ago, is there any real meaning to nationalism today? How is it that they are asking you to love something selflessly in a world of self-love? If you love yourself, you will find the means to live. That is the living ethic of today. Can loving your country provide an alternative?

It's funny that years ago I had a pragmatic attitude towards nationalism, seeing it as necessarily existent and even necessary. Young minds are impressionable, I suppose. And that's when it's most dangerous. If the leaders want to fight a great war, they need the young to be on board.

A mutinous army results in a dead Tsar. Do we want to give him the power with which he could kill us instead?


May I ask why?

Posted by moses @ 10:30 • , , , • 0 comments


I read an amusing blog entry recently that set me thinking about whether the reflection of people's choices is correct simply because it reflects people's choices, as is often implied in economics.

As I've mentioned before, a liberal society is all for autonomy. It is thus, in effect, for individual choice. We've heard the maxims: "To each his own", "Different strokes for different folks"; even J.S. Mill's harm principle can be considered one.

No doubt, choice is great—and everyone knows that these days. Economics is about preferences and choices. Capitalism too promotes individual choice. You can choose what you want to acquire for yourself. Might you be interested in some of these wares? An iPod? An iRiver? Just remember, it's about me. It's about you.

Where do you want to go today?

Yet how do we know that the choices that we make are ours? Is it simply by virtue of the fact that they are the choices we end up making, the fact that they are our revealed preferences? Might there not be something important about their unrevealed aspect, about the psychological processes that take place behind decision making?

I think if we delve into these processes we might find that those are not really our (with emphasis on the sense of ownership) choices. They are not what we really want as individuals abstracted from our surroundings and our social contexts. The fact is we are subject to a lot influences that are external to our wants and needs, at least initially—not least from those who would sell something as your choice.

Indeed, it seems to make little sense to talk about individuals without context. So, in short, life really isn't all about autonomy and choice. It's about existing as an individual, a social creature and a limited physical being at the same time.

Thus, this begs the question: Should we never ask why people make the choices they make?

To some extent our society is conditioned to abhor such questioning. Remember the maxims? If you were to challenge another person's choices, you would often be regarded as a nuisance. It certainly wouldn't help to win you friends.

But you might protest that people do question others' choices, such when they choose to drop out of school at an early age or to acquire bad and destructive habits. However, such questions do not usually arise where decisions are perceived as utility-based. If an individual determines rationally that a choice gives him enough utility as to be worth making, he is justified in making that choice.

And what are the criteria for rational decision making? Typically, it would entail something like weighing decisions in terms of utility gained to the best of one's knowledge. Interestingly, even if it is thus held that people are not always capable of making the best or most accurate choice in terms utility, the above description would seem to leave out instances such as impulse buying. That means many of the decisions made in the marketplace, for a start, might not be considered rational under such a common understanding of rationality.

Yet, ironically, those tend to be regarded as perfectly legitimate economic decisions. The sellers would certainly be quick to assert that they are.

So it turns out that, even assuming that we generally are rational utility-maximising agents, there is still room to question the choices that we make. But how would we go about doing that without attempting to impose arbitrary preferences on each other, as is often presumed to be the case when we dare ask why?

I think this is where the criterion of rationality is worth emphasising. If there are to be questioning and debate, they have to be based on reason. That means we must have good reasons that are backed by good reasoning—and if we do, I see no reason to stop us from asking.

Hence, while questioning and disapproval are not necessarily judgemental in the negative sense that we mean the word, we would come across as judgemental if our positions are not backed up by reason.

Well, that deals nicely with both sanctimonious conservatives and High Street liberals.

At the feet of the gods

Posted by moses @ 14:16 • , , , , • 0 comments




How much would divinity cost?

I think there's something to Roger Ebert's contention that video games are not art, which he seems to have stammered out like an uncomprehending seer. And there's something amusing about the Singapore salesman who helped to swindle the public of millions of dollars for a wealthy family. Both may have something similar in mind. Both of them provoke this thought: How do we value something subjective?

The value of art is subjective because its purpose is, ultimately, that of subjective expression. And subjective expression is all that is directly relevant to the artistic process. No matter what other motivations exist in the artist's head, which purpose the artwork ends up incarnating is what we appreciate—and in art we appreciate the purpose of subjective expression.

Perhaps we need an example to illustrate this point more vividly. Think of the Pagliacci paradigm. At any moment during a performer's performance, he may have a number of motivations. He may be performing to get the performance over and done with so he could go home. Or perhaps he is performing with a conscious desire to earn some money to feed his family. But these motivations are irrelevant to his art, and if he betrays them his performance would suffer. In the theatre, the purpose that we want to apprehend in a performer's act is that of expressing the character he is playing. And so it is with all art.

If the artistic process requires subjectivity, it is opposed by the objective. Objective ideas external to the individual pollute the artistry of an object that is intended to be an artwork. Imagine an artist who has a marketing team that gives their input to the creative process based on what they expect would sell in the market. We would find the artist engaged in a process that is less about artistic creation and more about product design. That is why video games tend to be far from being purely artistic—the commercial aspect permeates and corrupts the creative process.

For that matter, artworks that are created to be sold in the marketplace might face the same problem. After all, we can see the difference between a true work of art and a souvenir. The latter is more about craft, created as a pretty or impressive thing specifically to be sold for a sum of money. Thus, if the creator is clearly motivated to create something that has objective value, especially in monetary terms, the art becomes suspect. By this reasoning, amateur art is hence the most secure in terms of its artistry—we are most assured of its subjective quality, its brilliance notwithstanding.

We can see, therefore, a crucial difference between the work of man and the work of genius. Why, then, are we so keen on translating everything into the former?

Once we try to put an objective value to the subjective, we turn something that is incommensurably valuable into something of bounded value. And, at the same time, we enter into the realm of absurdity. As the charlatan of a salesman said, "How I value my history and heritage will be different from the way you value it"—hence his valuation of a museum contribution at fifteen million dollars while 'expert' valuations put it at less than two million. We start arguing and imposing arbitrary terms.

The result is a patently uninteresting universe. Our own imagination has filled our world with numbers and robbed us of the kind of imagination that paints it with colour. No wonder boredom is the modern affliction.

Why, seeing this, do we not complete it by fully converting the spiritual into worldly terms? Shouldn't we ask, "What price divinity?"

But perhaps we have—nature gave the pagans their gods; men in suits give us ours. On postcards there is the picture of an island of offices on a well-oiled sea. And to such a creature we yield our sacrifices. Our love's labour.

An unpessimistic pessimism

Posted by moses @ 20:56 • , , , • 0 comments


What has kept me going with a smile is philosophy.

In the face of the unknown, I find joy in discovering that the absurd man might be superman or overman. Vanity? No, reality.

And, in a way, I find myself agreeing the Hegelian sentiment here—while religion might have been the opium, philosophy offers the vision.

Let me explain what I mean. It begins like a story, "zeer-e gonbad'e kabood", or under the dark sky, as the Persian Shia tradition goes. One day, we wake up to discover that the world is an impersonal place. We find that it is unfamiliar to our reason and hostile to our plans. This is the moment of the absurd, as Camus describes it, the moment when we realise that our selves are subject to a universe whose laws are indifferent to our thoughts. We know then an irresistible force, but it isn't a living one; it does not know us. "Yeki-bood; yeki-nabood"—there was one, and there was no one.


But let us break away from lyricism. While Habermas, perhaps echoing Kierkegaard but from a less fatalistic perspective, says that secular reason is somewhat lost and "unenlightened about itself", Camus contends that the absurd man lives with the imperfection of reason and does not leap into what he considers the irrational—blind faith, or the obliteration of reason. The former, however, would reply that the banner of reason has only led, ironically, to a naive faith in science.

It's hard to say who's right. Yet I think Habermas has merely arrived at epistemic circularity, the practical fact that we need faith in our basic ways of perceiving and reasoning to make any sense of the world; he is probably also saying that reason doesn't tell us why we should have faith in those. And the absurd is more than admitting and living with these 'deficiencies'. It is the knowledge that what matters to each of us most in this world, the subjective self, does not square with the objective world.

This is the reality that I was talking about, a reality where the subjective individual is alienated and dominated by the objective. We live in a world that is, in truth, very far from enlightenment; and this gulf will remain as long as we live or die by the grace of money.

That is the reality that needs lyricism. But, above all, it needs thought.

And so we tune in again. Julian Young writes in Nietzsche's Philosophy of Art that nausea, the reaction to the absurd existence, is almost a dignified condition. Down this path, he sees Nietzsche's overman as the world-affirming man, one who is willing to go through each and every experience in his life over and over, who regrets nothing. "Yes", the overman says, "the world is a hostile place—and so what?"

Is the overman, then, the absurd man? Have we been looking at the man in the red cape and never thought to look at any person that we might pass by in the street?

This perhaps is key: in the affirming of a harsh reality, the subjective self reveals its strength and is affirmed. While in the most agonising moments, we like critical patients might need some morphine to go on, it would not solve the problem of existence. In times, I imagine, when even your faith abandons you, you choose to live or die; and in choosing the former, what we always know as the human spirit refuses to submit itself to be obliterated.

The lyricism and the introspection, then, are not vanities. They remind us of the problem of existence. They might be our lifeblood when we lie wounded.

And in the spirit of storytelling and reflection, I've realised something else: the mourning Mother Courage, the mother of slain children who is able to stop clinging to her wares to go on is the tragic heroine of the working class.

In the end, revolutionaries might be the sons of a better age, but they should not forget themselves—lest they forget to pass over a petty careless existence.