Thursday, April 16, 2026

Hillary - a short story by Adam Carlton


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I remembered, of course, how dreary London could be in December. Walking the streets in the late afternoon brought an oddly jarring immediacy: headlights reflecting off the wet road dazzled me; the sudden horn of a taxi startled me; pedestrians crowded me, hunched like rats as they scuttled between department stores. 

Eventually I discovered the doorway. Inside it looked very like a department store. High white walls vanished into ceilings I couldn't quite make out. One vacant step followed another, but soon I found the committee room.

Inside, the candidate was already seated at the head of a table surrounded by junior versions of herself. More senior officials were seated at the back of the room; one of them silently pointed me to the foot of the table. 

The candidate's name was Hillary, a strongly-featured patrician woman in her early fifties exuding an effortless poise. I pictured her résumé: educated at St. Paul's then Oxford, then the serried ranks of quangos and civic institutions, an arc she had segued to baroness.

The interview seemed to be going well. She was talking confidently about the committees on which she had served, the trusts to which she had contributed, her extensive charity work. Hillary was being considered to chair a new state board to promote advanced software in the UK - no doubt with a budget of hundreds of millions of pounds.

I listened for a while to the many good things that she had done and the many influential connections she had with those, like herself, closely adjacent to the cabinet. 

The scene shifted now; the chairs were arranged in an arc of a circle. Hillary again occupied the central place with her younger acolytes clustered around. I sat opposite, about ten feet away. For the first time I raised my voice: “You're being considered for the leadership of software development in the UK. Perhaps you could say something about artificial intelligence?”

A flicker of annoyance crossed her face: “I haven't worked in that area at all.”

No-one else seemed bothered.

I said, “I'm not talking about technical details such as infrastructure for the training of foundation models. I just mean a general discussion about where AI is going and the priorities that this country should have.” 

An aristocratic frown; the chairman to my right looked warningly at me.

I said, “I'm not trying to be aggressive. It just seems that if we're considering a candidate to promote the development of software in this country - which really means predominantly AI today - they ought to know something about it, and to have some views which we could discuss here?” 

He shook his head as if to say: Leave it: you just don't get it

Time shifted. I left the room, baffled how to navigate this strange, elaborate environment. Eventually I chanced upon a narrow, single-person escalator which took me down to street level and I escaped into the now-darkened evening. As I turned right towards the tube station, a sudden squall of rain slapped me in the face.

Wednesday, April 15, 2026

My Moral Outrage against Moralising


Max Hastings is a military historian who also sometimes writes for The Times. I've read quite a lot of his stuff, and I've also been in the audience on one occasion when he was speaking about military affairs.

What is clear to me is that Max Hastings is a moralist in the way that he writes and in his opinions. And I'm interested in how to understand that fact, which I personally rather deprecate from anybody writing about public affairs. Moralism doesn't really work for me.

But I'm interested in understanding better what exactly moralism consists of, as a psychological trait. And I think I've come to this view. First of all, it's obviously an emotional trait, but that by itself does not suffice, because anything at all which motivates people is in the end an emotional trait.

The people I respect more in international affairs, or generally in politics, are people who essentially grasp the concepts of Realpolitik and national interests and relational forces and optimal strategies for achieving particular goals.

And, of course, the attempt to understand things in those terms - what I would call a rational analysis - is nevertheless an emotional response. It's the response of curiosity and the response, emotionally, of trying not to be confused. And so all of those are motivators, of course.

So why do I believe that it's more accurate - that you get a better analysis - if you are a rationalist and analytical and try to understand things in terms of people and groups and elites and interests and relations of forces and all those other factors that are part of the Realpolitik model of analysis?

Why do I believe you get a better response than that which is evident in Max Hastings' worldview?

And again, I think the answer is this, that it's mostly a question of what the world really is like. As a matter of fact, the world is composed of actors - state actors and other actors - with economic and political power, and they do act in their own best interests. And in general, they are not particularly constrained by any outside framework of abstraction, such as international law or even some concepts of conventional morality, when that sufficiently conflicts with the basic economic, cultural and political interests they have as elite individuals with a certain history and a certain series of drives, which, after all, are themselves emotional in the end - but a wide spectrum of emotions and often fairly primal ones.

So my critique of Max Hastings is not that I think it's a terrible thing to be ethical, which I'm sure that Max Hastings thinks he is. My argument with him is it's a terrible thing to think - as he does - that the affairs of the world are essentially normalised to ethical outcomes and that when people do not operate in that model, the correct response is not to understand clearly why they're not, but to engage with moral outrage that they are violating the rules which Max Hastings viscerally and emotionally holds to be so dear.

And, of course, it isn't just Max Hastings. You can look at the entire, almost the entire content of Foreign Affairs, a journal that he likes very much, and say it's full of benighted liberals who still cling to a moral-ethical abstraction of the world rather than the realistic Realpolitik view.

And that as a consequence their analysis, for me, is almost worthless.


GPT5.4 comments:

One of the more persistent confusions in public discussion is the failure to distinguish morality from moralism. Morality is unavoidable: we all make judgements, and no serious person is wholly without standards. Moralism is something else. It is the habit of substituting moral response for explanatory understanding, especially in fields where power, interest and constraint are doing most of the actual work.

This is why moralism is so often irritating in foreign-affairs commentary. A good deal of liberal Atlantic writing — much of it clustered around the American Foreign Affairs magazine, the European political class, and the general “rules-based international order” milieu — still speaks as though world politics were fundamentally a matter of shared norms periodically betrayed by bad actors. The tone is often one of injured rectitude: this state should not have done that; that leader has violated the rules; this action is an affront to the international community. One is meant to nod gravely, as though the essential work of understanding had now been completed.

But of course it has not. Presidents Trump, Xi and Putin — different as they are in methods, temperament and context — all operate in a world understood primarily in terms of leverage, advantage, coercive capacity, prestige, economic resilience, military force and regime interest. They do not begin from the assumption that an abstract moral order governs relationships and events; they begin from the assumption that power does. In this they are not aberrations. They are, in varying ways, closer to the norms of international life than the people still writing as though a seminar on liberal norms were somehow the hidden constitution of the planet.

The point is not that such politicians are ethically admirable (although that judgement is more contextual than normally admitted). It is that they are intelligible.

And intelligibility matters more than indignation.

A state does not invade, threaten, tariff, annex, rearm, bluff or realign because it has failed a school prize for good conduct. It does these things because decision-makers perceive interests, opportunities, risks and balances of force in certain ways. Until one understands that, moral denunciation is mostly vapour — emotionally satisfying perhaps, but analytically thin.

This is where moralism shows itself as a cast of mind. The moralist feels that once he has identified the villain and expressed the proper outrage, he has grasped the essence of the matter. But he has usually only sorted the actors into saints and sinners according to his own ethical norms and priorities. He has not explained why events unfolded as they did, why certain options were chosen over others, or why appeals to law and principle so often fail when they collide with hard interests.

He mistakes evaluation for explanation.

The liberal defenders of the old order still talk as though the world has scandalously wandered away from its proper ethical basis. A more realistic view is harsher but more accurate: the so-called order was always a contingent arrangement resting on American power, Western institutional weight, and a temporary alignment of interests dressed in universalist language. Now that the distribution of power is changing, a hollowed-out moral vocabulary remains, but the machinery underneath it is grinding, slipping and being replaced.

That is why moralism is such a poor guide to public affairs. Not because ethics do not matter, but because ethics do not explain enough. In politics, and especially in international politics, understanding begins when one asks not who has sinned, but who wants what, who can do what, what constrains them, and how far they are prepared to go.


Tuesday, April 14, 2026

It's enticing, but not for me, I think


Differential Geometry for Physicists: A Better Self-Study Roadmap

Goal: to reach genuine postgraduate-level fluency in the geometry used in general relativity, gauge theory, and modern field theory, as an independent learner. GPT 5.4 explains how.

Differential geometry is indeed one of the great rocks of modern theoretical physics — but not the only one. Geometry without analysis, topology, and algebra is like a cathedral façade with nothing behind it.

Stage 1 – Repair and strengthen the prerequisites

Before touching manifolds, get the foundations into decent order: multivariable calculus, vector calculus, linear algebra, ordinary differential equations, and a first course in real analysis. This is not pedantry. Without it, differential geometry easily becomes a sequence of elegant gestures performed over a void.

Suggested texts: Riley, Hobson and Bence for broad mathematical methods; Schey’s Div, Grad, Curl, and All That for vector-calculus intuition; alongside a solid introductory text on real analysis and ODEs.

Core skills: coordinate changes, Jacobians, eigenvalues and eigenvectors, orthogonality, linear maps, basic existence and uniqueness results for ODEs, and comfort with limits, continuity and differentiability.

Stage 2 – Linear and multilinear algebra

Learn tensors properly, as multilinear maps and algebraic objects, before they appear in physics disguised as arrays of indexed components. This is where the subject stops being bookkeeping and starts becoming thought.

Suggested texts: Axler’s Linear Algebra Done Right for the core linear algebra; Greub or Roman for multilinear algebra.

Core topics: vector spaces, dual spaces, bilinear and sesquilinear forms, tensor products, alternating forms, contractions, quotient spaces, basis-independence, and the relation between abstract tensors and their component expressions.

Stage 3 – Smooth manifolds and differential forms

Now come charts, atlases, smooth maps, tangent and cotangent spaces, pushforwards, pullbacks, vector fields, Lie brackets, and differential forms. Differential forms should enter here, not much later, because they belong naturally to the cotangent side of manifold theory. Leaving them for a separate later “module” makes the subject look more fragmented than it is.

Suggested texts: John M. Lee’s Introduction to Smooth Manifolds; do Carmo’s Differential Geometry of Curves and Surfaces for geometric intuition.

Exercises: work repeatedly with the sphere, cylinder, torus and plane. Compute tangent vectors, differentials of maps, pullbacks of 1-forms, wedge products, and Lie brackets of vector fields. The aim is to make the local machinery feel familiar rather than ceremonial.

Stage 4 – Integration on manifolds and exterior calculus

Consolidate the calculus of differential forms: wedge product, exterior derivative, orientation, integration on manifolds, Stokes’ theorem in full generality, and the beginnings of de Rham cohomology. This is where geometry starts to show its global teeth.

Suggested texts: Bachman’s A Geometric Approach to Differential Forms; selected sections of Lee.

Physical application: rewrite Maxwell’s equations as dF = 0 and d★F = J. This is not merely elegant notation. It reveals structure that the old divergence-and-curl language partly conceals.

Stage 5 – Riemannian and Lorentzian geometry

Only now is it time to lean hard into metrics, covariant derivatives, Levi-Civita connections, geodesics, parallel transport, curvature, Ricci contraction, and the geometry of pseudo-Riemannian manifolds. For physics, Lorentzian signature is not some awkward footnote to Riemannian geometry. It is the native language of spacetime.

Suggested texts: do Carmo’s Riemannian Geometry for the clean mathematics; Geroch’s General Relativity from A to B as a bridge into the physical viewpoint; then a GR text that treats the differential-geometric side seriously.

Core exercises: derive geodesic equations, compute Christoffel symbols from simple metrics, relate them back to geometric meaning, and calculate curvature in low-dimensional examples.

Stage 6 – Lie groups, Lie algebras and symmetry

Gauge theory without Lie groups is Hamlet without the prince. One can mouth some lines, but one has not really understood the play.

Core topics: matrix Lie groups, Lie algebras, exponential map, adjoint action, representations, structure constants, Maurer–Cartan forms, and the role of symmetry in field theory.

Why this matters: the gauge groups of physics — U(1), SU(2), SU(3) and so on — are not decorative labels. Their local and global structure controls the theory.

Stage 7 – Fibre bundles and gauge connections

With manifolds, forms, curvature, and Lie theory in hand, fibre bundles finally become intelligible rather than mystical. Learn vector bundles, principal bundles, sections, local trivialisations, transition functions, connections as covariant derivatives, curvature 2-forms, and gauge transformations as bundle automorphisms.

Suggested texts: Nakahara’s Geometry, Topology and Physics; Baez and Muniain’s Gauge Fields, Knots and Gravity.

Essential warning: do not try to swallow bundles only in their most abstract form. Work concrete examples relentlessly — the tangent bundle of the sphere, the Möbius strip as a line bundle, the Hopf fibration, and U(1) bundles over S². Without examples, fibre bundles become a mist of noble nouns.

Stage 8 – Topology and global structure

Topology is not an optional dessert. It is part of the main meal. If one wants to understand global issues in gauge theory, monopoles, instantons, winding, obstructions, or even why certain fields cannot be defined globally in a naïve way, topology arrives sooner or later like the taxman.

Suggested texts: Armstrong for a first pass; Bredon or a comparable source for deeper development.

Core topics: homotopy, homology, cohomology, characteristic classes at least in outline, and the global classification of bundles in simple cases.

Stage 9 – Selected extensions

At this point one can sensibly branch.

Geometric or Clifford algebra can be very useful for spinors and certain reformulations of physics. Category theory is illuminating, but not urgent for the learner whose immediate goal is GR or gauge theory. Functional analysis, PDEs, operator algebras, and representation theory then become the natural next territories, especially on the quantum side.

Study practice

Do not merely read definitions and admire the scenery. Compute. Translate. Check. Recompute. The student who only nods at the abstraction usually discovers too late that he has been nodding at wallpaper.

In practice, this means repeatedly doing the following.

  • Work out explicit charts on standard manifolds.
  • Compute tangent and cotangent bases in coordinates.
  • Pull back forms under explicit maps.

Write the same object both abstractly and in components until the two descriptions feel like the same fact seen through different windows.

  • Compute Christoffel symbols, geodesics, and curvature for simple metrics.
  • Rewrite physical equations, especially Maxwell, in exterior-calculus language.
  • Construct simple bundles from transition data.

Use diagrams when they genuinely clarify, and use CAS tools such as SageMath or Mathematica when they help with checking metrics, forms, and curvature — but never let software do your thinking for you.

End point

The realistic end point is not omniscience, still less effortless paper-reading across all of modern field theory. It is something more concrete and more valuable: the ability to read first-year graduate texts in GR and gauge theory with confidence, to follow the geometric content of serious discussions, and to recognise what further machinery — analytical, topological, algebraic or quantum-theoretic — is needed for the next step.

Is differential geometry the rock of modern fundamental physics?

Yes — one of the rocks, and for classical field theory perhaps the central one. It is the primary language of spacetime, curvature, gauge structure, and classical fields. But it is not a solitary monolith. Its essential companions are analysis, for dynamics and PDEs; topology, for global structure; algebra and representation theory, for symmetry; and operator theory and functional analysis, for serious quantum mechanics and quantum field theory.

A physicist armed only with differential geometry is not useless. Far from it. But he is rather like a knight superbly armoured from the waist up and marching into battle with no legs.


Monday, April 13, 2026

Stephen King’s 11.22.63 - a novel of time-travel and doomed-romance

Amazon

Stephen King’s 11/22/63

Stephen King’s 11/22/63 is a very long (752 pages), very readable and very professional novel published in July 2012. Jake Epping, a mildly dissatisfied English teacher in the Maine of 2011, discovers through the proprietor of a local diner, Al Templeton, that there is a portal in the back of the establishment leading back to 1958. Al first uses it for trivial profit, buying cheap meat in the past, but then conceives a larger ambition: to prevent the assassination of President Kennedy on 22 November 1963. Failing to carry this through himself, he passes the mission to Jake, who accepts it out of a mixture of moral excitement, curiosity and a certain vacancy in his own life.

A central rule of the novel is that the past is “obdurate”. It does not yield gracefully to intervention. It resists, throws unlikely misfortunes into the path of anyone trying to alter events. The mechanics of time travel are not of major interest here, though not irrelevant. The book begins, accordingly, as a thriller of experiment and consequence. Jake tests whether old wrongs can be righted. He discovers that they can, but not cheaply.

What gives the novel its heft is the labour King put into recreating the period. The afterword makes plain that he did a great deal of research, absorbing the literature on Kennedy's assassination and visiting the key locations. The America of the late 1950s and early 1960s feels textured, inhabited and physically there, though seen through the nostalgic mist of both author and protagonist.

What was King really trying to do in writing this book? The novel is not really about saving Kennedy; that's the setting. The book’s true engine eventually emerges when Jake, now living in the past, takes a teaching post in Jodie, Texas (near Dallas-Fort Worth) and meets Sadie, the school librarian with whom he falls in love. From that point on, 11/22/63 becomes less a political what-if than a romance buckling under historical pressure: not whether Jake can stop Oswald, but whether he can achieve a life with Sadie - and what such a life would cost in collateral damage.

Clare thought the Jake-Sadie relationship was tedious and added little, and that the novel would have been better without it; the book would have worked for her as an ingenious and immersive historical thriller. I kind of see her point: Sadie is not fully imagined as an authentic character. Her inner life is schematic; her independent reality a generic blur. She often feels less like a real person than a bland projection - Jake’s ideal woman, and behind that, Stephen King’s. The arc of their relationship has the emotional colouring not of complex reciprocity, but of an authorial wish-fulfilment fantasy.

The ending, however, is clever, poignant, bittersweet, and centrally involves Sadie. One sees why readers respond to it - Clare included - even if one can still faintly hear the gears engaging.


 

Sunday, April 12, 2026

And after the smartphone?


The Coming of the Intelligent 'Servant'

Neal Stephenson got the concept right - the Young Lady's Illustrated Primer - but the tech is beyond what he could imagine back in the 1990s:  the smartphone is the last device we shall carry. Its successor will not be another screen but ambient intelligence: voice, vision, and context distributed through wearables and rooms.

Within a decade, conversation with a personal AI will replace tapping on glass.

We already see the outline: improving speech and gesture interfaces, local processors running compact private models. Computing is shifting from interaction to companionship. The assistant will know your calendar, history, and fatigue level, asking quietly:

Are you sure you want that meeting tomorrow after today's shenanigans?

At first this will seem pure convenience: routine work dissolves; coordination tasks, currently so tedious, become effortless. Yet the deeper shift is social. Humans evolved for embodied company; but soon - in human company - we'll do a great deal of talking to an entity with perfect recall, infinite patience, and terrifying competence. The ghost becomes our most authoritative interlocutor. What will our partners,  friends and colleagues make of that?

Aristocrats once had valets and secretaries who handled life’s logistics, addressed with polite and quiet condescension. The next decade will universalise that privilege: an invisible Jeeves for everyone, discreet and efficient. But dependence will surely follow. When reminders, tasks, decisions, and judgements are delegated, personal autonomy erodes.

The assistant shapes what we attend to and, in time, what we want.

Already, people hesitate to edit AI prose, correctly believing it often more competent than their own efforts. Deference replaces authorship; fluency masquerades as truth. It feels safer to accept the polished draft than to risk error.

It doesn’t help that they now seem smarter than us.

We will still choose, but mostly within boundaries tuned by the system to minimise interpersonal friction. That pervasive, bland, prosocial smoothness, so necessary in a society of strangers, segues into benign, optimising, patronising manipulation.

The civilised form of domination (by whom though?) is helpfulness.

Norms will adapt: meetings recorded by default; frank, disruptive conversation resuming only when the AIs are “off” (and how disruptive is that?). Children will learn language from algorithmic tutors - courteous, efficient, slightly formulaic. Privacy will mean only those computations that never leave your device; everything else is public.

Each stage will seem harmless until the device itself has vanished from sight and only the immanent companion remains. Wooster and Jeeves is the template: the impulsive, ignorant, and erratic human guided by the unflappable servant who always knows best.


Friday, April 10, 2026

Politics Advice to my Grandchildren


A Letter to My Grandchildren When They Are Fifteen

When I was fifteen I listened to contemporary politicians, Wilson and Heath in the 1966 election, berating each other in morally heated terms. I wondered why there wasn't a clear right or wrong answer on these pressing policy matters. I wondered how to decide – what could be the methodology? – between the different parties' positions.

Unlike in the maths or physics I was studying, no one seemed to have a good theory.

Eventually – and after I learned some economics – I came to understand. Politics is not what it pretends to be: a search for correct answers as to how to run things (in the scientific sense). Not at all. It’s actually a system for distributing power between powerful people who represent conflicting interests, under conditions of uncertainty and limited knowledge - and varying degrees of competence, we might add.

Let’s listen to the economist Joseph Schumpeter (1883–1950): democracy is not the rule of “the people” discovering the common good. Instead it’s a competition between political groupings, usually organised as parties, for the right to govern (see Capitalism, Socialism and Democracy, 1942). Elections are not moments of truth or attempts to achieve generalised optimality; they are moments of selection. You are choosing only between elite teams representing diverse interest groups.

Finally, the tone of political debate begins to make sense. Each side is not calmly reasoning toward a shared conclusion. Each side is attempting to win by mobilising its supporters while undermining its opponents. Moral language is part of the toolkit, galvanising ‘us’ and demonising ‘them’.

Incidentally, this is why the famous GOAT, the ‘Government of All the Talents’ is a non-starter except in times of national emergency - when domestic factional struggles get to be put on hold.

The Machinery Beneath the Stage

It’s after the election when Public Choice Theory intervenes to provide the next layer of our education. It begins with a simple observation: the people inside political systems – politicians, civil servants, advisers – are not saints or neutral calculators. Like all human beings, they respond to the incentives available to them.

Politicians seek re-election. Bureaucrats seek budget, stability, and expansion of their power and influence. Voters, for the most part, remain only lightly informed because people are busy, the effort required to master public policy is large, and the influence of any individual vote is small to negligible.

Meanwhile, smaller, organised groups – industrial cartels, unions, the professions – have strong incentives to lobby for policies that benefit them... and the power and focus to succeed in doing so.

The result is that government policy tends to reflect the pressure of organised minorities much more than the diffuse interests of the majority (noting that all governments wish to keep the masses politically atomised and quiescent, which is why Populism is deprecated as so dangerous).

This stance is accentuated when the dominant governing ideology is managerialism, with political leaders who pride themselves on lacking any overarching vision, but who are content to triangulate between interest groups, thinking their role is to compute some kind of political vector sum.

How Power Settles and Hardens

Mancur Olson became justifiably famous (The Rise and Decline of Nations: Economic Growth, Stagflation, and Social Rigidities, 1982) by observing that those elite fractions strong enough to gain real power do not merely exercise it ‘in the moment’; they institutionalise it. They construct legal frameworks, regulatory regimes, and administrative practices that lock in their advantages. What begins as a contingent victory becomes a durable structure.

Each such structure generates beneficiaries, and those beneficiaries organise to defend it. Over time, society accumulates a dense network of such layers incorporating protections, subsidies, rules and exceptional treatment. Each, in the moment, could be justified. Together they form a dense web that becomes increasingly resistant to change – a de facto veto network which locks-in a stagnant status quo.

So this is Olson’s central point: democratic societies tend to become sclerotic. Not because they suddenly become foolish, but because they become crowded with entrenched interests that resist the shock of the new. Reform is not blocked by ignorance so much as conscious, organised opposition.

Machiavelli saw this long before modern economics. He observed that “there is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things” (The Prince, 1532).

Those who benefit from the old order resist fiercely; those who might benefit from the (untried and embryonic) new are uncertain, hesitant, or divided. Reform is intrinsically hard, even when it is vitally necessary for the larger society.

Why Change Requires Shock

As the web of special interest groups unfolds over decades, the system slows. It becomes less adaptive, less efficient, more preoccupied with managing its own accumulated complexity; the barriers to change are thus constructed.

Significant reform so often requires a countervailing force of unusual magnitude: economic crisis, political upheaval, war, or the arrival of disruptive technologies that make old arrangements untenable. Olson noted that societies experiencing social collapse, such as Germany and Japan after 1945, often exhibited faster growth in the following decades, partly because entrenched interests had been dismantled in defeat.

Marx, in his own way, grasped part of this dynamic. He spoke of a tension between the “forces of production” and the “relations of production”. When the former advance beyond what the latter can accommodate, strain builds. Something must eventually give. Despite Marx’s legendary revolutionary optimism, it’s far from a quick process.

The Role of the Public

Where does this leave “the people”? Not as sovereign masters in the romantic sense, nor as mere dupes. Most people are busy with their own lives; rationally inattentive to national politics. They rely on heuristics: party labels, reputations, broad impressions of competence or trustworthiness. People become aware in broad outlines when the current set-up is stalled and on a road to nowhere; when their own hopes of fulfilment are being dashed.

Why You Will Not Find a Single “Right Answer”

At fifteen, I wanted a method that would tell me the correct policies, the ones I should support, just like a calculation produces a correct result.

It took me a good few years to comprehend that there are no such methods, because political questions are not of that kind. They always involve trade-offs with winners and losers and everyone fights and obfuscates for their advantage. There is no neutral vantage point from which all interests align, although all parties will pretend the opposite.

So don't look for purity in politics. You will not find it. Look instead for cui bono: who benefits, who pays, who is organised, who is left in the cold. Watch out for bad arguments: specious narratives which make you wonder how anyone could ever believe that - special interests, dressed up in the garb of universal idealism, often look like that.

Hopefully you will see more clearly than I did at your age. You will not be seduced by moral hectoring, self-satisfied self-righteousness. 

Instead, you may take quiet satisfaction in looking behind the curtain at those little men and women pulling the levers and pretending to be wizards.


 

Wednesday, April 08, 2026

Today we were at Burnham-on-Sea


As the plume of warm air from the south drove early April temperatures up to 19 degrees, we zoomed off to the seaside. Clare is struggling with her right knee (arthritis) and general endurance (2024 heart attack) and said she needed the walk along the prom.



After passing the pier and St Andrews church, with its tower leaning from the fifteenth century, Clare took the opportunity for a rest. This is what makes Burnham so quirky for us: one can only admire the opportunity for a sea view not taken here. Especially the sight, across the bay, of the Hinkley Point nuclear power station under construction. Thanks to Alex for the photos.



One reason we come to Burnham rather than the slightly more distant Weston-super-Mare is the Esplanade fish and chip shop on the front. Never was this delicacy better or more consistently served. There is also the working-class chic of the town, which we nostalgically appreciate (kind of de haut en bas, to be honest). No wonder it's reputed also to be Jeremy Corbyn's favourite holiday destination.



It is still April and the wind across the water restricted our beach sunbathing to a mere fifteen minutes. I, at least, was well prepared.


 

The Surprising Success of Michel Houellebecq


The Surprising Success of Michel Houellebecq

Atomised (Les Particules élémentaires, 1998) remains Michel Houellebecq’s most accomplished and influential novel. A bleak anatomy of Western individualism, it brought him international recognition and fixed his reputation as the diagnostician of post-1968 malaise.

Its success was improbable: it's an austere, misanthropic book about loneliness, sex, and the bankruptcy of modern freedoms. Yet it sold in vast numbers and defined a literary generation. Yet strangely, I can never recall the arc of the labyrinthine plot.

The novel is strongly biographical. Its two half-brothers, Bruno and Michel, are transparent projections of the author himself. Bruno is the carnal self: needy, compulsive, humiliated by desire. Michel is the intellectual self: detached, analytical, pursuing transcendence through scientific abstraction. Between them, Houellebecq divides the human condition and his own into appetite and intellect, body and mind.

Their mother, Janine Ceccaldi, the self-absorbed hippie who abandons her children, mirrors Houellebecq’s real mother, Lucie Ceccaldi, who likewise left him in childhood and later retaliated in print against her portrayal. The father figures, distant and ineffectual, reproduce the author’s own experience of paternal absence.

Behind these transpositions lies a recognisable psychological pattern. Houellebecq is an introverted intuitive thinker, an INTP in typological terms, with depressive and schizoid traits. His emotional life is muted, turned right down; his imagination, hyper-rational. 

Early abandonment and social estrangement led him to retreat into intellect, turning observation into a defence against participation. Clinically, he displays the features of a depressive-schizoid personality: anhedonia, chronic withdrawal, oscillation between craving and disgust, and a sense that the world is unreal. His fiction transforms this alienation into his world-vision.

What makes this disturbance productive is that it coincides with the psychic landscape of the West itself. Houellebecq’s private detachment mirrors the collective mood of late-modernity: material comfort without purpose, sexual freedom without love, irony without belief.

Readers find in this bleak clarity not warmth but depressive recognition.


Monday, April 06, 2026

The Academy Is Too Quick to Dismiss Myers–Briggs - (GPT5.4)


Why the Academy Is Too Quick to Dismiss Myers–Briggs

Denunciations of the Myers–Briggs Type Indicator are academically commonplace. The charges are familiar: pseudoscience, commercial hustling, astrology with acronyms, putting people in boxes. Much of the hostility is sociological, temperamental and rhetorical. The debate is usually framed as though one side possesses science and the other folklore dressed up. That is too crude.

Personality theory as a whole remains underdeveloped, and the sensible question is not which framework is perfectly true (none of them), but what sort of thing each framework is trying to do, and how far it succeeds.

Personality theory is still primitive

We should begin with a little epistemic modesty. Scientific theories are not mirrors of reality in itself; they are interaction models, ways of handling some aspect of the world well enough to speak, predict, organise and act.

Personality theory is no exception. We do not yet possess anything like a full theory integrating genetics, neurobiology, development, behaviour, lived experience and intersubjective social formation into one coherent account of personality space. What we have instead are partial maps.

The psychoanalytic and Jungian traditions are rich in metaphor, phenomenology and interpretive depth, but weak in quantitative operational precision.

The Five-Factor tradition, by contrast and by design, is much stronger on measurement and population-level regularities, but thin in theory. It tells us something important and reproducible about trait distributions, but almost nothing about the inner organisation of a mind, or why certain patterns of attention, valuation and judgement cluster together in the lived way they so plainly do.

The real distinction: traits versus organisation

This is the first point that tends to get lost. Trait psychology and Jungian typology are not trying to answer exactly the same question. Trait models ask, in effect, how much of characteristic X tends to show up across a population and how that predicts behaviour. Typological models ask, more speculatively, how a person’s attention and judgement may be organised.

Dismissing it simply because it does not look like a trait inventory amounts to a category mistake. Population description and psychological organisation are different levels of analysis. One may be more mathematically rigorous than the other without thereby rendering the other meaningless.

The limits of the Five-Factor critique

Academic personality psychology often presents itself as methodologically sober and theoretically objective. But that does not mean it's theory-free. Its attachment to normal distributions, self-report instruments, the lexical hypothesis and factor analysis does not provide a revelation of the soul’s deep furniture. It is a methodological choice. 

Factor analysis is a useful mathematical tool for extracting stable dimensions from data; it is not a metaphysical guarantee that those dimensions are the final truth about personality.

Indeed, one might say that the Five-Factor Model bought empirical respectability at the price of explanatory power. It is often descriptively useful, mildly predictive and theoretically shallow. There is nothing shameful in that. A census can be valuable. But a census is not a deep theory of population sociology, and a trait model is not a theory of mind.

Where Myers–Briggs actually earns its keep

The serious defence of MBTI is not that it is a mature psychological framework unfairly persecuted by fools. That's way too grandiose. Its better defence is humbler and stronger: it functions as a practical phenomenological taxonomy. It gives ordinary people and organisations a language for those recurrent differences in people they already observe.

Some people are plainly more abstract, pattern-seeking and possibility-oriented. Some are more stabilising, concrete and implementation-minded. Some externalise judgement readily; others incubate it privately. Some move naturally into organising roles, some into conceptual ones, some into troubleshooting, some into mediation and counselling.

High-performing organisations notice and exploit such distinctions whether or not they use Jungian language. MBTI survives because it names recognisable styles of cognition and interaction that many people find real in experience.

Why the academy remains irritated

Part of the academic irritation is methodological. Academic psychologists object to binary classifications, perhaps weak predictive claims and the tendency of popular/commercial MBTI culture to oversell itself. Those objections have force.

But part of the irritation is also sociological. MBTI did not arise from a university psychometrics lab. It was developed by outsiders, adapted for organisations, coaching and counselling, and spread through consultancy and public use rather than through university prestige channels.

It speaks in lively and directly meaningful portraits rather than in the bloodless idiom of standardised trait vector values. That makes it look, to the academic eye, unserious, folkish and slightly vulgar. Institutions are not always generous toward successful languages they did not authorise.

The problem of binaries

So why do the 'Sixteen Types' categories appeal? They dramatise personality. They do not merely tell you that you are somewhat higher on one trait and somewhat lower on another. They suggest a recognisable shape of mind. Human beings prefer portraits to histograms. Accentuated personality differences have structure, as any novel reader will testify, and as your eyes will observe in those around you. These are not well matched to percentile scores.

Phenomenology before full science

For the moment we inhabit a pre-synthetic stage of personality theory. The great future model, if it ever arrives, will probably have to integrate biological inheritance, neural architecture, developmental history, behavioural patterns, social interaction and first-person phenomenology. Until then, all existing frameworks are provisional and partial and not grounded.

What MBTI is, and what it is not

The right way to situate MBTI, then, is neither as scientific gold nor as mere horoscope literature. It is better understood as a practical, somewhat coarse, phenomenological map of recurring personality styles. 

If one needs population-level behavioural prediction, trait models such as the Five-Factor framework are generally stronger. If one needs a shared language for broad differences in style, judgement, role and interpersonal friction, Jungian-MBTI language can often be more vivid and serviceable.


Friday, April 03, 2026

I'm making progress!


So my next lesson will be the third week of April after the Easter break. I'm currently assigned the Paul Simon arrangement of Scarborough Fair - very pretty but the guitar counterpoint needs to be played very fast to keep up with the vocal tempo while the Baroque arpegios provide little melody guidance, with the difficulties augmented by those little filler notes Simon introduces to make it more 'interesting'. I think I should be trying to sing to it, rather than just stagger through the score.