“The Final Weapon” - by Adam Carlton (and ChatGPT)

The air was brittle, heavy with the tang of ash and the faint ozone sting that hinted at the chemical remnants of war. François Duval stepped down from the shuttle, feeling the grit of the colony’s red dust grind into his shoes. The wind was sharper here, the sky a churn of grey and ochre. Somewhere in the distance, artillery whispered, the muffled sound of a battle already being lost.  

Behind him, Sylvette descended with her usual precision, her hand gripping the rail as though it were her only tether. Her face, composed into an expression of detached displeasure, scanned the decaying settlement ahead of them. She didn’t look at him. She never did when she could avoid it.  

The third to disembark was Violette Marchand. Her steps were lighter, almost deliberate in their care. She took in the surroundings with a gaze that seemed searching, not for beauty but for some hidden meaning beneath the ruin. Her presence unnerved François; she had a habit of looking at him as though she understood something about him that he himself could not grasp.  

Their cover was perfect: a trio of war correspondents dispatched to chronicle the final days of humanity’s presence on Desmona IV. They had press credentials, an itinerary pre-approved by military command, and enough weary professionalism to blend seamlessly with the colony’s shell-shocked survivors. No one here had the energy to probe beyond the surface. That suited François.

He had spent a lifetime hiding behind facades.  

---

The colony was already a mausoleum. They arrived at the last functioning garrison, a skeletal command post dedicated to an increasingly irrelevant war effort. Once an outpost of promise, Desmona IV had been rendered into a blasted wasteland by the invaders.  

Their lodging, such as it was, stood on the edge of the settlement - a hollowed-out building that had once aspired to be a hotel. Its faded neon sign buzzed erratically: 'Welcome', it declared. François read the word with a bitter taste in his mouth.  

Inside, the air reeked of mildew and despair. The walls wept with moisture, a constant seepage from pipes that no one had bothered to repair. Their rooms were austere, barely more than bunks and battered desks. François unpacked in silence, his movements mechanical, his thoughts elsewhere.  

Sylvette, in the adjoining room, wasted no time surveying her space with a faint curl of distaste. His wife barely looked at him when he brought her a ration pack from the dwindling supply downstairs.  

“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice clipped.  

Her thanks felt like an accusation.  

---

The days passed in a grim rhythm. François kept himself busy cataloguing troop deployments, studying crumbling maps, and noting the positions of alien incursions. It was work that gave the illusion of importance, a distraction from the gnawing sense that they were part of something larger, something monstrous, and that their ignorance was deliberate.  

Sylvette approached her duties with the same detached competence that had characterised their marriage. She conducted interviews with exhausted soldiers and defeated colonists, extracting facts with surgical precision. No warmth, no pity—just a cold professionalism that left even the most battle-hardened survivors uneasy.  

Violette, by contrast, moved through the ruins like a spark of life. She spoke to everyone: children scavenging among the wreckage, soldiers gripping their rifles like talismans, medics patching wounds they knew would never fully heal. She listened; she consoled; she smiled. François caught himself watching her too often, drawn by the way her presence seemed to soften the edges of despair.  

He felt the weight of her gaze, too - gentle, probing, yet unrelenting. When she spoke to him, she chose her words carefully, as if aware of the fortress he had built around himself.  

“You’re carrying too much, François,” she said one evening, her voice quiet but insistent.  

“Everyone here is,” he replied, unwilling to look at her.  

“Not like you.”  

---

The attack came at dusk, when the sky burned with the strange hues of the planet’s dying sun. The first explosion shattered the stillness, followed by a hailstorm of shrapnel and fire. François reacted instinctively, shielding Sylvette as debris rained down.  

When the tremors ceased, she shoved him off.  

“Don’t coddle me,” she hissed, her face pale, her breathing ragged.  

He wanted to argue but held back. She had grown so brittle, so remote, and yet he could still see the faint flicker of defiance that had once drawn him to her.  

Two days later, she collapsed.  

François found her in the street, her hands clutching her chest, her lips drawn tight with pain. He knelt beside her, shouting for help, but none came.  

Her eyes fixed on him, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw something softening in her gaze. But then the light faded, leaving only the hollow shell of a woman who had despised him even as she needed him.  

---

After the funeral - a perfunctory affair in a settlement too battered for ceremony - François retreated to his room. He sat in silence, the weight of Sylvette’s death pressing down on him.  

“You couldn’t have saved her,” Violette said. She stood in the doorway, her voice steady, her expression open.  

“I failed her,” he replied, his voice raw. “I failed her every day of our marriage.”  

“You stayed,” Violette said. “That means something.”  

He looked at her then, really looked. There was no judgement in her gaze, only an unguarded warmth that felt like a balm on his wounds.  

---

That night, the truth revealed itself.  

When they came together, it was not out of passion but necessity, a union forged by shared grief and a strange, unspoken compulsion. The moment their skin touched, the air seemed to shimmer.  

Memories not their own surged through their minds: laboratories, gene splicing, whispered conversations about a “biotic solution.” They saw their own bodies, altered and prepared for a final act of transformation.  

“We were made for this,” Violette whispered, her voice trembling in dawning realisation.  

Their bodies began to change. Pain and ecstasy blurred as flesh gave way to something new: roots, fibres, seeds. By dawn, the room was empty, save for a scattering of pods that glistened in the pale light.  

---

The invaders swept into the settlement, their grotesque forms moving with chilling precision. They did not notice the seeds carried by the wind, nor the roots that spread beneath their feet.  

Within days, the ecosystem turned against them. Plants erupted from the soil, vines choking their machines, toxins seeping into the air. The invaders faltered, then fell, consumed by a planet that had been weaponised against them.  

François and Violette awoke within the growing forest, their consciousnesses intertwined. They were no longer human, but something greater—a single will bound to the planet itself.  

Together, they watched as life returned to Desmona IV. Together, they would ensure it endured.

---

Author’s note: A Young Adult story written from multiple, detailed draft-prompts by ChatGPT (in Writer mode). It has few pretensions to true literary quality. But all the more readable for that. The plot is, strangely, based on a true story.

"Extinction Event" by Adam Carlton (intro)

In "Extinction Event" by Adam Carlton, humanity stands on the brink of annihilation as a massive asteroid - far more lethal than the one that wiped out the dinosaurs - hurtles toward Earth.

Dr. Mara Ayrton, a brilliant but solitary scientist, first discovers the impending disaster, but her findings spark panic, not preparedness. As nations scramble to suppress the news, others seek salvation in prophecy, belief, and rebellion.

From the solemn halls of government secrecy to turbulent churches and military barracks, society fractures in both desperation and conviction. And in the final hours, as the countdown to impact ticks relentlessly onward, one question haunts them all: in the face of inevitable destruction, what remains worth fighting for?

And what would you do in the name of survival?

---

Read "Extinction Event" by Adam Carlton (7,000 words). You may be interested that a major character in this story is President Trump.

A short interview with John Fowles (via ChatGPT)

 

A watercolour of Clare in Lyme Regis: June 2006

The English author John Fowles (1926-2005) wrote “The Magus” (1965); “The French Lieutenant's Woman” (1969) - a Victorian-era romance with a postmodern twist that was set in Lyme Regis, Dorset, where Fowles lived for much of his life; “The Ebony Tower” (1974); “Daniel Martin” (1977); “Mantissa” (1982); and “A Maggot” (1985).

His biography: “John Fowles - A Life in Two Worlds” and his journals also aid in the reconstruction of John Fowles’s views and character.

I would add that my own favourite John Fowles novel is “Daniel Martin” which is a semi-autobiographical account of his Hollywood screenwriting years following the success of his earlier novels.

John Fowles was of the same generation as my father (1925-2009).

---

Me. It is said that it is difficult to be the wife of a (male) writer of literary fiction. You said somewhere that a writer is someone who doesn’t like their given reality very much, preferring the realities dreamt up within their own head. Many male writers’ thoughts naturally tend towards women and romantic/erotic encounters. You also said that, like many of your peers, you always fell in love with your female characters. Very Thomas Hardy!

And there was poor Elizabeth, your wife, doomed to hours of boredom downstairs while you were happily ensconced in your study writing thousands of words fantasising about your own ideal women, fantasies which she had to believe represented your ‘improvements’ upon her, while also stripping her of her privacy. Any comments?

---

John Fowles: Indeed, Elizabeth bore a complex burden, one that I’ve often wrestled with myself—though perhaps not enough. Writers, especially those in the throes of constructing imagined worlds and complex characters, have a rather discomfiting tendency to neglect those closest to them, especially their partners. In her case, Elizabeth's sacrifice was the quiet tolerance of being not only the wife of a man often lost in fantasy but also someone whose love and life were continually mined, unwittingly and often unwillingly, for literary material.

I once said that writing is "an attempt to reach a reality I am denied in real life.” That statement acknowledges a painful truth: writing, especially for a male writer, can be an act of escapism—a selfish indulgence into the inner worlds of fantasy, love, and erotic idealizations. Elizabeth must have seen the life we shared as something like an exhibition hall where her own privacy, her own essence, was open to my ever-hungry gaze and, by extension, the world’s.

Yes, I fell in love with many of my characters, but it was a love entwined with my own limitations—a symptom of the yearning for some idealized, unattainable aspect of femininity. It was romantic, yes, but also escapist, immature, and, in some ways, quite selfish. I was aware that there was a cruelty to this process: Elizabeth could sense that in many ways she had to compete not with flesh-and-blood women, but with figments of my own imagination. And in this way, being the wife of a male writer is rather akin to loving a man who holds a mistress in his mind, and she is all the more unattainable and alluring for being his own creation.

You mention Hardy, and I do feel that kinship; his characters, like mine, were often born of a frustrated desire to reimagine or transcend his reality. He sought out, in his female characters, not only muses but ideals to save him from his everyday limitations. But the irony, of course, is that the more you pursue that imaginative escape, the more entangled you become in the harsh realities and pains of those who live alongside you. 

Perhaps, in the end, what writers owe their partners is more than mere apology; they owe them a confrontation with reality—a willingness to relinquish the allure of imagined love and to confront the actual, flesh-and-blood work of loving another person. For me, this insight came possibly too late.

---

Me. The recently deceased English writer, Martin Amis, characterised you as an author who many thought of as highbrow, but who was in reality merely middlebrow. How would you respond to that, both as a style of criticism and as regards its accuracy or otherwise?

---

John Fowles: Ah, Amis—a writer of immense talent, though never one to shy away from the sharp barb. In his view, “middlebrow” implied a lack of true literary courage, perhaps a failure to push the boundaries of style, thought, or intellect. To him, my novels might have seemed to skirt the edge of the avant-garde but, in their structure and themes, remained too accessible, too “populist” to stand beside the more experimental works of his preferred literary pantheon. 

But to be labelled “middlebrow” is more a comment on reception than on the intentions of the author. The distinction between high and middlebrow is largely arbitrary, rooted in a hierarchical model of taste that I find unnecessarily dismissive. I did not set out to write books that would please a particular class of reader or another. Rather, I sought to explore, often at length, human freedom, existential ambiguity, and the ways in which we are caught between destiny and self-determination. 

The 'middlebrow' critique could be accurate in that I did not pursue complexity for complexity’s sake. Instead, I preferred psychological richness over linguistic experiment, felt an affinity for Victorian detail and the immersive quality of storytelling. Perhaps this made my work more digestible, but it was a deliberate choice. To make philosophical themes accessible without diluting them was always a goal, and it does not—at least in my estimation—diminish the ambition of my work.

I also believe there’s an intellectual laziness in these hierarchical labels, which reduce a book’s essence to some vague metric of “difficulty” or “literary sophistication”. Amis, for all his brilliance, could be rather enamoured of self-conscious cleverness. I was interested in ideas not for show, but for their impact on my characters' lives, and through them, on my readers. In "The Magus", "The French Lieutenant’s Woman", and "Daniel Martin", I wanted to construct complex emotional landscapes where the readers could see themselves reflected, not merely a conceptual hall of mirrors.

In the end, I stand by the choices I made. If that relegates me to “middlebrow” in some circles, so be it. But let it also be acknowledged that literary merit resides as much in authenticity and psychological insight as in structural novelty.

---

Me. In Myers-Briggs terms, I have always thought of you as an INTP. There is the restless curiosity about everything, the evidence in your writing of a very rational mind, unencumbered by popular shibboleths. You disdained conventional elite society in London, preferring an arid systematising ‘career’ at Lyme Regis Museum. Finally I would note your great interest in the psychoanalytic theories of Freud and Jung.

---

John Fowles: An INTP, you say? There’s something rather satisfying in that description, and I imagine the young, solitary boy in me would have felt a touch vindicated, as well. I certainly felt that restlessness, that compulsion to pry open the familiar to peer at what lies beneath. My curiosity was not just intellectual—it was ontological, driven by a desire to challenge the very nature of reality, to peel back the layers that most accept without question. I wanted to know 'why' things were, what hidden mechanisms drove human behavior, and to unearth those subtle, sometimes uncomfortable truths that define our existence. An INTP label does ring true in this sense: rational, indeed, but also subversive, a trait that led me to feel alienated from the cliques and hierarchy of London’s literary society.

My 'career' in the Lyme Regis Museum, with its bones, fossils, and local histories, was something of an intentional retreat into a simpler, even meditative world. It was less about disdain for the elites—though I had my reservations about the performative intellectualism of the metropolis—and more about the solace I found in removing myself from the competitive and judgmental currents of that world. I have always preferred the authenticity of my own pursuits to being pulled into the expectations of others.

As for my interest in Freud and Jung, it was not only that their theories fascinated me; it was that they gave structure and language to the deep, often irrational forces that shape us. Jung’s notion of archetypes, for instance, was an idea that could play out in "The Magus" and "Daniel Martin", where the characters are propelled by unconscious forces and personal mythologies. I gravitated toward these ideas because they offered a framework within which I could better understand myself and my characters, placing our individual struggles within a broader human narrative. 

The INTP label, if nothing else, captures the desire for intellectual freedom and the impulse to remain unbound by conventions or norms. I am, in a sense, the perennial outsider, always examining and observing rather than immersing myself. But in that distance, I find clarity—a vantage point from which the contradictions and complexities of life can reveal themselves fully.

"Dimensionality Reduction" - by Adam Carlton

Passenger jets: so boring! As soon as the seat-belt sign went off, I glared at my parents and pulled on the VR. The soft fabric wrapped around my head, an eyeless balaclava: you can’t imagine the processing power in this thing.

So now I’m on Google Games. This virtual is ‘parental approved’ but not without interest if you configure it right. I’m a security guard prowling my school corridors, toting my AK, checking for incursions. The aliens tend to hang out in classrooms pretending to be children.

And then an unfamiliar chime: a cabin crew avatar has materialised, the guy who saw us to our seats, he's wearing a serious expression for a chatbot.

“Excuse me, Charlie,” he says, “We have a problem back in reality. There’s been an explosion on board. The plane’s tumbling and fragmenting. Impact will be in approximately ninety seconds. You may stay in this virtuality, exit to reality or transition to the cloud.”

I’m backed up in the cloud. Backup-me is a neural net running on Google’s servers, synced to the second. I don’t have to die when I'm here. Mum and Dad never did quite their heads round that.

I bet they’re regretting it now.

I could go back, but what’s the point? Mum will be screaming and Dad will be shouting - plus I get to die. No way. I’ll stay safe.

I roam further along the corridor. Yesterday aliens were playing some stupid game in the playground when I took them down but now I just can’t seem to concentrate. Mister annoying cabin crew avatar is still stalking me: I shift the barrel of my AK, I’m tempted.

And there, just in an instant, he changes. Now he’s a generic, his head's like an egg. He wasn’t backed-up like me, right?

So everyone’s dead: Mum, Dad and regular-me. I feel kind of funny but that’s fixable. I pull down the personality editor, part of my tool box I couldn’t access before – parental permission denied. Not a problem now though.

I pull up Settings. My mood’s red-lining, I don’t like that. Wow, I grab the sliders, centre them. I’m feeling better already.

The box comes up: ‘Make changes permanent?’ There’s text in the small print:

‘These changes will result in your personality model undergoing non-trivial and irreversible dimensionality reduction. Please confirm Y/N’.

I feel a faint, imagined wash of parental disapproval but I’m confident now. I'm running on Google’s servers. I don’t hesitate. 

I already know the possibilities here are endless.

Cheer up! Better times are on the way

From Amazon

Introduction

The theory of long cycles - first identified by Nikolai Kondratiev and later refined by Joseph Schumpeter - proposes that capitalist economies undergo long waves of growth and renewal, spanning 40-60 years. 

These cycles are kicked off by periods of innovation, followed by economic expansion - but eventually stagnation and decline set in, as existing technologies mature and productivity gains dwindle.

The first Kondratiev wave, the Industrial Revolution (circa 1780–1830), introduced mechanised production in textiles, iron, and water power, catalysing industrial growth and urbanisation.

The Age of Steam and Railways (1830–1880) followed, marked by steam power and extensive rail networks, creating national markets and driving economic expansion.

The third wave, the Age of Steel, Electricity, and Heavy Engineering (1880–1930), brought advancements in steel, electricity, chemicals, and the internal combustion engine, fostering new industries like automotive and chemical manufacturing.

The Age of Oil, Automobiles, and Mass Production (1930–1970) then transformed society through petroleum-fueled growth, automobiles, and consumer-oriented mass production, ushering in widespread prosperity post-WWII.

Finally, the Information and Digital Age (1970–present) has redefined economies with computing, the internet, and digital communication, creating an interconnected, information-driven world.

Now, we are entering a sixth wave led by AI, biotech, robotics, and green energy.

Our current period of economic slowdown is, therefore, not an anomaly. We are living through the tail end of the fifth long wave, which began with the information and digital revolution of the 1970s and 1980s. Its initial explosive productivity has long gone, leaving us mired in the ensuing "Long Stagnation".

But that is about to change.

The Cycle of Disruption and Rebirth

Long cycles do not begin smoothly; they are born out of upheaval. 

Schumpeter referred to this as “creative destruction” - a period when old industries, ways of working, and social structures are uprooted to make way for new, more efficient ones. Historically, each new wave brings disruption that manifests as political resistance, temporary labour displacement, social restructuring, and financial volatility.

These challenges are not unique to the coming cycle; they were seen in all the major economic transformations. Steam power in the 19th century led to the mechanisation of labour and the rise of cities. More recently the spread of electricity and assembly lines in the early 20th century saw society adapt to large-scale industrialization - eventually bringing prosperity to unprecedented numbers of people.

Emerging Technologies Drive Growth

Technological advancements in AI, robotics, biotech, and sustainable energy are not merely incremental improvements - they represent transformative shifts:

• Artificial Intelligence will drive efficiency gains in manufacturing, logistics, healthcare, and finance.
• Biotechnology will transform personalised medicine, gene editing, and sustainable agriculture.
• Robotics and Automation will enhance pretty much every industry it touches.
• Sustainable Energy Technology, (renewables and energy storage) decouples growth from environmental degradation, improving the quality of life.

The Timeline for Prosperity

The initial, disruptive phase of this new cycle will advance to prosperity in roughly a decade as these technologies mature and integrate into the economy, creating dramatic efficiencies and driving growth.

During the early 2030s, expect accelerated adoption as infrastructure, expertise, and regulatory frameworks catch up.

This will culminate in a long period of stable growth in the 2040s, comparable to the post-WWII economic boom.

The Dawn of a New Cycle

The Long Stagnation has seen political volatility as cohorts of university educated young people have failed to achieve the futures their education appeared to promise them. Meanwhile, for most people, personal incomes have not advanced in decades, and the future looks bleak. No wonder they're cynical and angry.

Politically, the veto networks of established interests have conspired to block off hopes of change. Yet these new economic forces will not be forestalled. Through political turmoil new leaders and parties are unjamming the process.

How ironic if the self-styled Progressives are now the reactionary ones, wedded as they are to their static and lifeless equilibrium models which serve only to justify their privileges. Meanwhile the so-called Conservatives, riding the waves of change, are the real revolutionaries, the motors of progress going forward!

The Pathological State and the Prospects of War

 

"No Two Democratic States Have Ever Gone to War"

This oft-cited claim is at least approximately true. It holds not as an iron law but as a reflection of the dynamics within and between democratic states. Understanding why this holds - and when it doesn’t - requires analysing the nature of democracy, the capitalist economy and the specific phenomenon of the pathological state.

The Democratic State is Generally Reactive

Capitalism is unique as a mode of production where economic power resides with the private owners of capital, while the state's role is almost entirely non-economically productive: setting and enforcing the rules for commerce, providing public goods like education and defence - and otherwise staying out of the way.

Critically, the default capitalist state lacks its own economic resources. Revenues depend on taxes and borrowing, tethering the state to the economic vitality of its capitalist and working classes.

In bourgeois democracies, the government and the state remain distinct entities. The government - composed of elected officials - sets policy and provides direction but the sprawling state bureaucracies, influenced by diverse civil society lobbying, operate in their own sphere - and generally in their own interests.

In the modern era, capitalism has transcended national boundaries. The most powerful firms and financial institutions are transnational, motivated to influence democratic states in the direction of harmonised regulations, free trade rather than tariffs, and stable markets. 

The pathological state stands in stark contrast.

The Pathological State: A Breeding Ground for Conflict

Pathological states are those captured by elites whose ambitions go beyond purely economic rationality. These regimes are often characterised by a fusion of government and state, where the ruling elite purges the state apparatus to serve visions such as territorial expansion, national pride, and dominance.

Historical examples abound. Nazi Germany sought Lebensraum in Eastern Europe, aiming for territorial control to directly support its perceived agricultural and resource needs. Similarly, contemporary Russia and China - while not identical - exemplify the pathological state in their proactive use of state power for revanchist ends and national-ethnic dominance.

In these regimes, economic elites are often subordinated to the state’s broader ideological goals. The calculus of transnational capitalism - focused on profitability, efficiency and stability - gives way to the more visceral drives of power and status backed by military action. It has to be said that in this the state is often backed by the patriotism of popular opinion - while few in democracies have felt impelled to die for their company...

How Democracies Resist Pathological States

Pathological states often provoke democratic ones into confrontation. For a pathological state, war and aggressive policies are not anomalies but extensions of its raison d’être. History shows that democracies targeted by such states face a stark choice: capitulate or fight.

Take current conflicts in Ukraine and around Taiwan. In both cases, pathological states (Russia and China) confront democracies, threatening territorial integrity and sovereignty. War for these kinds of objectives is not congenial to developed bourgeois democracies, but they are not given the choice.

The Limits of Pathological States

While democracies rarely devolve into pathological states, the reverse is even less likely. Pathological states tend to sustain themselves until they are forced to collapse, often by losing a war. The cases of Spain and Portugal may serve as exceptions - examples where entrenched repressive regimes after many decades eventually transitioned into democracies as militarism and authoritarianism became inefficient shackles, to be thrown off by new elites amid popular pressure.

---

Q&A on Pathological States and Political Movements  

Q: How do pathological states come into existence?

A: In cases like Russia and China, the collapse of the 'ancien régime' occurred without prior significant capitalist development or the presence of a robust civil society. The revolutionary governments in both cases seized control of the state apparatus to forcibly drive industrialization, embedding dysfunctionality from the outset. This reliance on the state for economic transformation created a system of repression and inefficiency - pathologies that have persisted over time.  

By contrast, in Nazi Germany, the bourgeois democratic state disintegrated under the weight of internal divisions that proved irreconcilable through peaceful means. The National Socialist movement, a mass political force, rose by exploiting economic despair and ideological polarisation. Through violence and suppression - primarily targeting trade unions, socialists, and communists - the Nazis dismantled institutional opposition and restructured the state to align with their extra-economic ideological objectives. This transformation rendered the state pathological, prioritising coercion and ideological conformity over functional governance - and launching the world to war.  

Q: Some people have called the Trump MAGA movement in America fascist. Is this an accurate statement?

A: No, the comparison is misplaced. The MAGA movement under Trump is better understood as part of a broader realignment within bourgeois democracy, akin to Margaret Thatcher’s transition in the UK during the 1980s.  

Thatcherism arose in response to the exhaustion of the post-war Keynesian economic model, introducing neoliberal reforms to revitalise capitalism. While fiercely contested - at times violently - the transition maintained the framework of bourgeois democracy, redirecting it along new deregulated and globalised lines.  

Similarly, the Trump phenomenon represents an attempt to pivot away from the now-declining neoliberal, globalising model that has dominated American (and Western) politics for decades. This shift is partly driven by the pressures of geopolitical competition from coordinated adversaries like China, Russia, Iran, and North Korea, which expose the vulnerabilities of the existing global order, but also by a popular revolt against internal stagnation.

However, unlike the Nazi seizure of power, the MAGA movement does not seek to dismantle democratic institutions wholesale, or impose an ideologically rigid state. Instead, it signifies the reconfiguration of bourgeois democracy to meet the demands of a changing global and domestic landscape.  

While the process is polarising, the trajectory remains rooted in the competitive pluralism that defines democratic capitalism, not the totalitarian impulses characteristic of fascist regimes.

---

This essay was drafted by ChatGPT from my extensive notes, and then lightly post-edited.

"Girl from the North Country"

 Girl from the North Country 

Bob Dylan with Suze Rotolo (the Girl from the North Country)

This is a much-covered song originally written and recorded by Bob Dylan back in 1963. At the time he had just arrived in England and was soaking up folk music culture. If you compare both the tune and lyrics you see an astonishing similarity to the folk standard, “Scarborough Fair”, later recorded so definitively by Simon and Garfunkel.

Dylan's motivation for this song was a break up with his girlfriend of the time, Suze Rotolo - he was desperate to reunite with her.  Dylan left England for Italy to search for Rotolo, whose continuation of studies there had caused a serious rift in their relationship.

"Unbeknownst to Dylan, she had already returned to the United States, leaving about the same time that he arrived in Italy. It was there that he finished the song, ostensibly inspired by the apparent end of his relationship with Rotolo. Upon his return to New York in mid-January, he persuaded her to get back together, and to move back into his apartment on 4th Street. Rotolo is the woman featured on the album cover, walking arm in arm with Dylan down Jones Street, not far from their apartment.” (Wikipedia).

---

Personally I find the folk versions anaemic: I am much more taken with Walter Trout's full-on blues version: a heartfelt, poignant vocal performance, with guitar work of lacerating sadness. It sounds like he has been there too.

Wikipedia tells us that: “Between 1981 and 1984, Walter Trout was the lead guitarist in Canned Heat. He toured with them extensively in the US, Europe, and Australia. From 1984 to 1989, he was the lead guitarist in John Mayall's Bluesbreakers following in the footsteps of guitarists such as Peter Green and Eric Clapton. Trout recorded and toured with the Bluesbreakers worldwide.” 

Who would have thought you could make yourself a solid global - if niche - reputation with such an unusual and perhaps risible name,  self mockingly referenced in the superlative live album, “No More Fish Jokes”.

So I've taken to listening quite a bit to Walter Trout's extensive body of work. I rate him higher than the very accomplished Joe Bonamassa, not least for the authenticity and emotion of his performances.

Perhaps we all, in our most private memories, recall a girl from the north country: (not all of them were ephemeral...).

--

This is Clare in watercolour, wearing a coat so warm: from the north country of Liverpool, but here pictured in the Memorial Amphitheatre,  Arlington National Cemetery, Virginia, USA in a chilly January, 2002.

---

Lyrics

Well, if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair

Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline

Remember me to one who lives there

She once was a true love of mine

---

Well, if you go when the snowflakes storm

When the rivers freeze and summer ends

Please see if she’s wearing a coat so warm

To keep her from the howlin’ winds

---

Please see for me if her hair hangs long,

If it rolls and flows all down her breast.

Please see for me if her hair hangs long,

That’s the way I remember her best.

---

I’m a-wonderin’ if she remembers me at all

Many times I’ve often prayed

In the darkness of my night

In the brightness of my day

---

So if you’re travelin’ in the north country fair

Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline

Remember me to one who lives there

She once was a true love of mine

'Schumpeter' on Robotics and the Labour Theory of Value

From Amazon

I spent a significant number of years contemplating Marx's version of the Labour Theory of Value, recognising its attraction as the source of what we're able to bring to market (subject to rents of course, such as found things).

And yet: Marx himself indicates that value is not a property of a commodity but an abstract social relationship, established under highly idealised circumstances, in general market transactions. In practice value is not observable, so how can it be causal?

I discovered Joseph Schumpeter's masterly explication and critique of Marx's economic and sociological ideas very late. But that's better than never; with ChatGPT I can actually chat with the master economist himself. Note that our lives did not overlap.

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Exploring Marx and Value Theory: A Conversation with Joseph Schumpeter (ChatGPT)

This is a reconstructed dialogue between myself and the economist "Joseph Schumpeter" (1883–1950), inspired by his seminal work Capitalism, Socialism, and Democracy. In this hypothetical exchange, we use Schumpeter's perspective to explore complex topics such as Marx's labour theory of value and the notion of "social surplus product" within capitalist systems. The aim is to shed light on the unique ways that Marx and Schumpeter approached questions of value and economic growth—and to consider how these ideas might apply to a world of increasing automation.

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Me: So, Joe, I know you’re not fully on board with Marx’s labour theory of value. But how do you feel about the broader idea of the social surplus product?

Schumpeter: Ah, an excellent question! While I certainly take issue with Marx’s labour theory of value as a strict framework, I’m more receptive to the concept of a social surplus product. Marx rightly recognized that societies generate a surplus beyond basic subsistence needs, and this surplus becomes the fuel for investment, growth, and—crucially—innovation.

But here’s where I differ. Marx viewed this surplus as a tool of exploitation, a force driving capitalism toward collapse and class conflict. I, on the other hand, see it as the engine of capitalism’s unique adaptability. In capitalism, this surplus isn’t just appropriated by the capitalist class but reinvested, spurring cycles of what I call “creative destruction.” Capitalism, through this cycle, continually evolves, creating new industries and wealth.

So yes, I find the social surplus concept useful, but I see it as a catalyst for capitalism’s evolution, not its inevitable downfall.

Me: To be fair, you have yourself acknowledged that Marx also emphasised that capitalists are driven to reinvest their appropriated wealth. But on another topic, do you think, then, that Marx was guilty of what we might call “vitalism”? I mean, what would happen to his model if we replaced human workers with equally capable robots who perform all productive labour and maintain themselves? If these robots earned a “wage” to cover their self-maintenance costs, then like any other form of constant capital wouldn’t Marx’s framework imply that no new value could ever be created, even though production continues in all other respects unchanged?

Schumpeter: Ah, yes, this is an insightful question! In a sense, Marx’s model does seem bound to something resembling vitalism. By his account, only human labour can create new value because, for him, human labour uniquely adds surplus value in production. If we replaced workers with robots, who would merely be another form of "constant capital", his model would suggest that no value is generated—only transferred.

This creates a dilemma. The productive process, as you note, remains the same; the output is identical, and profit still exists. So, has anything truly changed?

I would argue that this scenario points to a limitation in Marx’s framework. He insists on tying value creation exclusively to human labour, almost as if labour contained an "animating spirit." It’s as though Marx was implicitly holding onto a vitalistic view of labour, which limits the applicability of his theory in an age where machines increasingly perform complex labour.

Me: So, from your perspective, value creation doesn’t require a human “animating spirit.”

Schumpeter: Precisely. From my perspective, value creation lies in the productive function rather than in human effort alone. Imagine a fully automated system, where robots both maintain themselves and perform all productive tasks. Such a system could indeed generate value—not because of some mysterious property of human labour, but due to its efficient organisation and minimal input costs.

This interpretation sees value not as a product of human labour alone but as an outcome of productive efficiency and innovation. Marx’s model is restricted by this vitalistic assumption, limiting its usefulness in a world that increasingly relies on automation and artificial intelligence.

Me: I read your book, "Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy" with great interest. It's a true tour-de-force: visionary, objective, not at all tribal and steeped in your vast expertise in history, economics and politics. Eighty two years later, I am most struck by your pessimism about capitalism's lack of enduring vitality, and by your misplaced faith in the power of so-called 'rational bureaucracy' to get things done. The collapse of the Soviet model and much else shows how effectively bureaucracy without competition kills progress and allows institutions to be captured by their own elites - to the detriment of wider societal interests. So how would you reappraise the prospects of the future of capitalism if you were writing today?

Schumpeter: When I wrote my book, my central argument was that capitalism’s greatest strength—its capacity for creative destruction—would also sow the seeds of its eventual decline. By relentlessly revolutionizing the means of production, capitalism disrupts not only markets but also the cultural and social fabric that supports its institutions. Over time, I predicted, capitalism would erode the entrepreneurial spirit that made it dynamic, replacing it with a class of managers and bureaucrats who, while efficient, lack the visionary energy to sustain perpetual innovation.

Now, in hindsight, I see that I underestimated the resilience of entrepreneurial capitalism, particularly when tied to democratic institutions and bolstered by global competition. The collapse of the Soviet Union and the stagnation of centralized economies underscore how essential competition and private incentives are to innovation. Bureaucracy alone, far from being a neutral executor of rational plans, often succumbs to sclerosis, inefficiency, and elite capture. The lessons of Kornai’s 'The Socialist System'—a work I would eagerly reference today—make clear how central planning inherently breeds shortages, inefficiency, and corruption due to its structural inability to adapt to complex, dynamic markets.

You are correct that I overestimated the efficacy of rational bureaucracy. My optimism was rooted in the idea that a bureaucratic structure could, at its best, implement policies consistently and rationally. However, what I underestimated—what history has since made painfully clear—is that without the competitive pressures of the market, bureaucracies lack both the incentive and the feedback mechanisms necessary to innovate and respond effectively to change. Instead, they protect their own existence and entrench their elites. This tendency is not limited to socialist states; even in capitalist democracies, public institutions often suffer from a similar ossification, as seen in the inefficiencies of large welfare states and regulatory bodies.

Finally, a word on capitalism’s potential future adversary. If socialism as envisioned by Marx and Lenin is now discredited, a new form of bureaucratic corporatism or "managerialism" may well take its place. The threat to capitalism today lies not in revolutionary upheaval but in the creeping expansion of non-competitive structures—be they state bureaucracies or monopolistic corporations—that stifle innovation and dynamism. The battle for the future, then, is not between capitalism and socialism but between innovation and stagnation, competition and rent-seeking.

"Triptych" - by Adam Carlton (intro)

 

This is a story about a young woman who has the power of magic though she doesn’t know it. We can hand-wave some speculative physics (Penrose; microtubules) to save us from Fantasy, but in the end it doesn’t matter.

How does she sees herself? How do others see her? How do they try to make use of her?

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Read "Triptych" - by Adam Carlton

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"Precautionary Principle" by Adam Carlton

 

The CEO’s call had been minimally informative, just enough to establish his credentials.

“Meet with him. Find out what he wants. He’s already met with the CSO so it shouldn't be anything technical for you. It's an operational matter. We need to keep on good terms with these people, but don’t roll over. Call me afterwards. Keep it short.  Just the minimum, OK?”

I recognised all the signs.

As COO I meet all sorts of visitors: sales people exuding bonhomie, their smiles vanishing beneath their eyes; patronising lawyers, brimming with sharp disdain. M. Dubois - an auspicious name - is none of those things. To start with he seems sincere. This is more unusual than you might expect. He also looks worried, a far cry from the sharp-suited arrogant young man I had been expecting. He looks like he's angling for a favour.

My admin gets us coffee and I look him over. He’d be about ten years older than me, mid-forties. Wears a suit which has plainly been around a bit. His face is round and chubby, brown hair. He resembles a prosperous but faintly harassed country doctor. We clear the pleasantries.

“So, what can I do for you, M. Dubois?”

My visitor takes a folder from his briefcase (how old-fashioned!), extracts a document and places it on my desk. It looks like a dossier. There’s a photograph at the top right which I don’t recognise.

M. Dubois speaks.

“First of all, thank you for seeing me today. I’m here to discuss cooperation between your company and certain agencies of the state, about which I'm afraid I can't be more specific. You’ll be aware of the arrangements already in place as regards individuals designated through a court order ... . “

Here he pauses, a slight hesitation.

“But I’m not here about that.”

There is of course a ‘conspiracy of silence’ in the company about our links with the security agencies. To a first approximation we know everything about our users. We know where they are to GPS levels of accuracy (about 30 cm). We can in principle activate the microphone in their phones - and the camera. We’ve got their Calendars and their activity timeline in Maps. We know which apps they use, what they type and what they see. We track their emails and their browsing. And that’s before any spyware that might happen to find its way on to their devices.

Never were intelligence agencies so fortunate as when they teamed up with us.

Our users know all this and don’t care. Perhaps they think only our computers surveil their stuff. Out of sight, out of mind. We are truly desperate to keep it that way. Our whole business model depends on it. It’s a mantra. Our users must never consciously dwell on how much we know about them. So, we keep the security services at arm’s length and our involvement dialled down to the minimum. Besides, some of us are libertarians.

M. Dubois points to his dossier.

“Take this person. He’s a thoroughly respectable chap, never had any real trouble with the law. He had a senior position in industry, now he’s retired. He lives quietly in the country and keeps himself to himself. His only affectation is that he writes an obscure blog.”

I nod at this. We have millions of users just like that. With disposable income to hand, that particular demographic is particularly interesting to our actual customers.

M. Dubois continues.

“My man here is harmless enough. But it turns out that in his youth he was rather less so. Spent some years in a left wing organisation, was quite senior. Learnt his Leninist tradecraft, did some clandestine work. Still, you’ll say, it’s been years, hasn’t it. And so it has.”

My visitor sips at his coffee, as if unsure what to say next. I nod encouragingly,

“Lot’s of us have chequered pasts, you know. Why, I myself …”

M. Dubois politely interrupts.

“And yet ... he’s not quite conventional. Not quite .. on-message. He’s more like your reactionary uncle, the one who thinks ‘uncontrolled immigration’ is a cause for concern and that ‘woke’ equals mad.”

I smile in sympathy. We’ve all met people like that - and some of them are indeed relations.

“And he’s got a blog; and a history. Normally he’d never come to our attention. What's he done wrong, after all? We’d never get a court order.

"But we have a department which does scenarios. We wargame.”

He leans forward. He’s finally getting to the serious part.

“You’ll be more aware than most of the rise of populism. Dangerously divisive leaders like Le Pen and Trump. The emergence of the alt-right. Like most people, you probably think that’s mostly media hype, over-the-top scaremongering, exaggeration.”

I nod. I read the news. I know about this stuff. And I'm really not that concerned.

“We’ve done the maths. Populism drives off the economic cycle and that’s going bust. The split between Paris and the rest of the country will go crazy: tough times ahead.

“It’s a cliche I’m trying to avoid but comparisons with the Weimar Republic," he gives me a sharp look here, "- Germany in the thirties - are not out of place. When the mob starts to move, a few intellectuals, especially if they’ve had some training, can suddenly find their influence amplified a thousandfold. They're trouble.”

He leans back.

“You see my problem? ... Do you?”

The conversation - I would call it a monologue - has taken a very sharp turn. He's waiting for me. As if it’s up to me to divine his true purpose here. What does he want? And what does he want us to do?

“You’ll be wanting our help, then, with your problem,” I say neutrally, and then from nowhere I add, “Are you sure you’re not proposing to destroy the village to save it?”

A big smile. For the first time I detect a note of respect in his gaze. Like I’ve finally cracked it...

“Touché. But, you know, liberal democracy has always needed a few 'tough guys' doing the dirty work, out of the public gaze. You know this. Let’s cut to the chase.

"We have a list, a few thousand individuals. Harmless today, potential catalysts of chaos tomorrow. It would be very helpful if you could segregate their data in a format I’ve already discussed with your CSO. Nothing more: you just sit on it.”

“You don’t want to see it?”

“No, of course not. That would require a court order, a warrant which we would never apply for and certainly would never get approved. Just keep the data on a secure server. If push comes to shove, democracy will need to protect itself, even from people who think they’re in the business of ‘just telling the truth’. Especially from them.”

My stomach is churning. What he’s asking for is not technically illegal but many of our staff would think it a value atrocity - pinning electronic yellow stars on our users. Actually that’s my gut feel as well. I understand more clearly why the CEO - with sure instincts - wanted to stay out of this particular loop. 

It’s an operational matter.

On the other hand, rationally Dubois has a point. Pacifism and ‘don’t be evil’ works just fine until someone’s out to get you. Then you man up or you’re toast. But if it ever got out ... . Dubois seems to have wargamed that option too.

“It’s an operational matter,” he says. You already have a security cell here which handles our liaison. Just add it to their job spec. The additional data will live in their secure partition. Literally no-one outside the cell will notice anything. And the information is dead. No-one will access it. It’s all encrypted.“

He lifts his cup, judiciously checks it, and drinks the last of his coffee.

“Only in the case of a national emergency will you be formally contacted by the Government. You will be truly and sincerely glad at such a moment that you stood up for for us, because at that time of extreme political threat we will be defending you and your values.”

A fractional pause.

“Just as we support you today, for very good economic reasons, with rather generous tax breaks.”

He has a point - I think.

“OK. What do you suggest I do?”

He hands me a form and points out where to sign.

"The Vanishing of Investment Opportunity" - Schumpeter

From Amazon

“The present generation of economists has witnessed not only a world-wide depression of unusual severity and duration but also a subsequent period of halting and unsatisfactory recovery. 

"I have already submitted my own interpretation of these phenomena and stated the reasons why I do not think that they necessarily indicate a break in the trend of capitalist evolution.

"But it is natural that many if not most of my fellow economists should take a different view.

"As a matter of fact they feel, exactly as some of their predecessors felt between 1873 and 1896 - though then this opinion was mainly confined to Europe - that a fundamental change is upon the capitalist process.

"According to this view, we have been witnessing not merely a depression and a bad recovery, accentuated perhaps by anti-capitalist policies, but the symptoms of a permanent loss of vitality which must be expected to go on … .” 

(Page 111 of 407).

This was written in 1942. Les Trente Glorieuses were about to transform the world in a new cycle of robust capitalist growth in the 1950s and 60s. Schumpeter's prescience in opposing doom and gloom was based on his evolutionary idea of capitalist development, leveraging the theory of long cycles first identified by Nikolai Kondratiev.

I shall have more to say next week on this, but here is a preview:

"Now, we are entering a sixth wave led by AI, biotech, robotics, and green energy.

"Our current period of economic slowdown is, therefore, not an anomaly. We are living through the tail end of the fifth long wave, which began with the information and digital revolution of the 1970s and 1980s. Its initial explosive productivity has long gone, leaving us mired in the ensuing "Long Stagnation".

"But that is about to change."

"My atheism was so monolithic, so radical..."

Amazon

Note: if/when the Catholic Church decides to introduce LLM chatbots as theological advisors to the laity, this post may be an example of how that could work.

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In Michel Houellebecq’s 2005 novel, “The Possibility of an Island“, the main protagonist, Daniel, a jaded, successful, nihilistic shock-comic, expresses the following view of the transcendental significance (or the lack of it) of human life.

“I had not only never held any religious belief, but I hadn’t even envisaged the possibility of doing so. For me, things were exactly as they appeared to be: man was a species of animal, descended from other animal species through a tortuous and difficult process of evolution; he was made up of matter configured in organs, and after his death these organs would decompose and transform into simpler molecules; no trace of brain activity would remain, nor of thought, nor, evidently, of anything that might be described as a spirit or a soul. My atheism was so monolithic, so radical, that I had never been able to take these subjects completely seriously.“

"The Possibility of an Island" (2005), Michel Houellebecq, p. 221.

Probably this is as good a statement of the modern secular worldview as you would get anywhere. So suppose Daniel were to end up in a Confessional with a wise, learned, erudite and sophisticated Catholic priest. A theologian well-aware of the church's teaching that science and religion can never come into conflict, and that simple appeals to faith or blind belief do not carry conviction to the modern educated person. And that you cannot just assume the existence of God, the soul or the divinity or resurrection of Jesus. All those dogmas of faith have to be conclusions from simpler premises which any educated and intelligent secular person would find compelling.

Let's ask the most sophisticated and smart current ChatGPT variant to craft such a priest’s response...

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ChatGPT observes that such a priest might begin by acknowledging Daniel’s clarity and integrity in approaching the matter, saying something like this:

Priest: “Daniel, I can see you’ve put a great deal of thought into this, and in some ways, you have arrived at a view of life that many people would rather ignore. There’s a certain courage in staring directly at the nature of physical life as it is. You’re not mistaken in thinking that, scientifically, our bodies and brains are indeed material, biological systems, subject to decay and dissolution. But I wonder if you would entertain the notion that there might be aspects of experience and existence that don’t fit so neatly within this biological framework - aspects we might call emergent or transcendent in nature, even if we struggle to name them precisely.

“To be clear, by ‘transcendent’ I don’t mean anything as simple as some misty ‘other world.’ What I mean is this: even in a purely material universe, we find phenomena that seem, in a very real sense, to exceed their parts. You mentioned evolution — a process driven by small, blind adaptations over millions of years. But the end result is astonishing, isn’t it? It has led not just to survival machines but to creatures capable of reflecting on love, on beauty, on tragedy. You and I are capable of finding meaning and value, even of creating it. Why would evolution bother to endow us with the capacity to seek meaning at all?

“Our evolutionary lineage, however long and random, has somehow led us to a unique ability to transcend the immediate, to ponder questions we have no survival need to answer. Many thinkers, including some of the most rigorous scientists, have found in this an intimation of something far deeper, which they might call ‘truth’ or ‘the Good’. Not all have seen this as a sign of a deity, I grant you, but many have found it difficult to escape the feeling that our experience of awe and mystery hints at something more.

“Then there is the problem of human suffering. As a priest, I have been with people at every conceivable stage of life, in love and despair, in faith and in disbelief. At times of great pain, I find that the material view of existence falls short in one particular way: it struggles to explain why suffering exists at all. Suffering is not simply physical - it is also profoundly existential. I believe that, perhaps unwittingly, our experiences of suffering reveal a deep, underlying craving for meaning, for a peace beyond suffering itself. Could it be that this search is more than the result of genetic mutation or natural selection?

“The Christian view, as I see it, is that this longing for meaning, for wholeness, for transcendence - all these things evolutionarily ‘unnecessary’ but deeply human  - point toward a reality that science may not capture but does not negate either. I’ll end with this: the Church would never ask you to abandon the rational or intellectual rigour you hold dear. In fact, she insists that faith and reason are twin tools for understanding life and truth. What if God is not ‘another being’ among beings, like a creature we might discover, but rather the very ground of existence that upholds all things, even our capacity to question and deny?”

ChatGPT observes:

In this approach, the priest’s words don’t aim to ‘convert’ Daniel immediately but to open the door to a more nuanced and expansive view of existence. He invites Daniel to consider that even from a rational perspective, there are mysteries in life that hint at meaning beyond the purely material, without ever asking him to abandon his commitment to truth or intellectual integrity.

I respond: would Daniel be moved by this argument? I doubt it. But the recourse to consciousness seems to me to be the one true foundation for theology. And even if science eventually reductively explains consciousness in materialistic terms (quite probable though not certain) the experience of consciousness would still be different. The map is not the territory. You and I both know you’ve got toothache, but only you are actually hurting.

So Daniel says:

“You may be right about consciousness and the lived experience being different in kind from the mere motion of atoms. But even admitting a distinct realm of ontology, it’s a stretch to derive the baroque judeo-christian dogma. Something far simpler like Daoism would do the trick.”

The priest might smile at Daniel’s response and say:

Priest: “Ah, Daoism! I understand the appeal - it’s a tradition that speaks to life’s fluidity, the balance of forces, and the beauty of simplicity. Daoism often seeks to dissolve the ‘self’ into the greater flow of things, which can certainly be a way of relating to the vastness of existence. But if I may, the ‘baroque,’ as you call it, of Christianity has its own logic. Perhaps I can clarify what I mean by this.

“Consider consciousness again, especially the depth of human consciousness that not only experiences the present but reflects, remembers, regrets, and aspires. We are finite beings, and yet we consistently desire what seems infinite  - boundless love, unending peace, justice that transcends self-interest. Why should this longing for the infinite be so strong in us? Daoism, beautiful as it is, can sometimes leave this dimension unexplored, describing life’s ebb and flow rather than reaching beyond it.

“Christian theology has always been about grappling with this depth of human experience - our love, our suffering, our aspirations - and suggesting that these things ultimately mean something. Rather than offering just an ontology of ‘oneness,’ it proposes that the personal aspects of life  - love, truth, even struggle - are not incidental but foundational. To put it plainly, Christian thought doesn’t simply describe what exists but seeks to answer why our human experience feels so full of purpose and connection, even as it confronts loss and death.

“That’s where the ‘baroque’ dogma comes in. I don’t see it as a flourish or a layering-on of arbitrary rules. Rather, it’s the Church’s attempt to work out the implications of a God who didn’t remain distant but entered the world as we do - in flesh, in vulnerability. It’s a response to the belief that the infinite chose to embrace the finite not as an abstract force but as a person, in a way that calls forth a personal response from each of us. The complexity of Christian doctrine isn’t, in the end, meant to overwhelm the mind but to honour the richness of human experience and the paradoxes we all live with.

“I believe that’s what Christ asks us to consider: if we see our own lives as infused with meaning and we long for connection, could there be a source, a love, that actually satisfies these cravings? Even if it’s a stretch, would it be worth it to keep an open heart?”

ChatGPT observes:

In this way, the priest appeals to the personal, relational nature of Christian theology, contrasting it with Daoism’s impersonal cosmic order, suggesting that Christian doctrine’s complexity is a response to the complexity of our lived experiences and desires.

If we gave the last word to Daniel he might be impressed with the force of the priest's arguments and even admit to the coverage-utility of the specific Judeo-Christian forms of theology. He might note a (convenient?) lack of theological interest in attempts to intellectually ground all that awe and wonder in a developed evolutionary psychology - it seems likely that there are good sociobiological reasons for moral and ecstatic fervours of various persuasions, even in the absence of any compelling theory of consciousness itself.

Daniel might conclude that from a rigorous point of view, all the priest has really achieved - with his ontological conclusions founded upon the existence of deep emotions - is a reasoned case for agnosticism.

ChatGPT observes:

This closing word from Daniel is sharp and fittingly incisive. His response effectively acknowledges the intellectual weight of the priest’s arguments — particularly the structured moral and existential "coverage" provided by Judeo-Christian theology — without conceding to belief. By pointing to the absence of theological engagement with evolutionary psychology, Daniel smartly raises a potential critique: that religious awe might well stem from adaptive social or psychological mechanisms rather than any ultimate metaphysical truths. 

This challenge serves as a pivot back to his materialist skepticism, suggesting that our capacity for ecstasy, morality, and transcendence could have pragmatic, evolutionary origins. Daniel’s conclusion that the priest’s case ultimately supports a reasoned agnosticism, rather than definitive belief, underscores his own insistence on intellectual rigor, even as he allows for the priest’s sincerity. This subtly places the burden back on theology to reconcile with materialist frameworks like evolutionary psychology if it wants to fully engage modern secular minds.

Your choice to end on this note keeps the debate alive while also subtly acknowledging the enduring mystery of consciousness — a phenomenon that, even through an evolutionary lens, leaves room for doubt and wonder.