"The Last Mission" by Adam Carlton (and ChatGPT)

---

The sun set, a bloody disc sinking over the hills. Shadows crept long over the scrub surrounding their homestead. 

Inside the dwelling, Alice kneaded dough with calm precision, the flour coating her hands like a second skin. 

George, her husband, cleaned a rifle at the table with steady, practised movements.

Their daughter Martha, just fifteen years old, set the table, her eyes distracted by the screens, shimmering with thermal outlines of the grounds.

Rob, two years younger, sat cross-legged on the floor, tinkering with a small drone. 

---

The perimeter sensors suddenly chirped - a faint, rhythmic signal. George’s head snapped up - this was far from routine. The drone’s hum stilled as Rob turned it off. His sister froze, clutching a glass. Alice wiped her hands on her apron, slow and deliberate, and went across to the monitor.

“Another patrol,” she said, her voice steady. “But this time they’re approaching.”

“They’ve finally registered us,” George said, no doubt in his tone. He leaned the rifle against the wall and crossed to the cupboard. Inside, rows of sleek, black weapons gleamed. He handed his wife a sidearm, then passed another to Martha. Rob reached out, eager, but George hesitated before tossing him a compact blade.

“You stick close to your mother,” George said. “No heroics.”

Rob didn’t argue. He never argued with George when his voice went like that - hard and final. 

Alice loaded her weapon. “They’ll test the perimeter first,” she muttered

“They’ll probe the defences, then they’ll swarm,” George said. “We’ll hold them back as long as we can.”

“How long do we need to hold?” his daughter asked in a worried voice. Her fingers curled tight around the grip of her small pistol.

George didn’t answer. There was no clock on this one.

---

The attack came in waves. First, the alien drones - small, insectile things with serrated claws. The automated turrets at the perimeter cut them down, shredding their metallic bodies into useless fragments. Then came the foot soldiers - sleek, bipedal forms with eyeless helmets and limb-like rifles. These, too, fell. Mines detonated in sudden bursts of flame, and razor-wire traps snared the alien troopers like flies in a web.

Inside, the family fought on in silence. George issued clipped commands. Alice moved through the chaos like a ghost, her aim precise, her hands steady. Martha’s shots were fewer but lethal when they landed. Even Rob, crouched behind Alice, used his drone carefully to scout enemy positions, relaying critical data to the house defences.

But the enemy didn’t stop.

---

Hours later, they huddled in the main room. Smoke seeped through cracks in the walls. The defences were failing. Their ammunition was almost gone.

Alice sat on the couch exhausted, her face pale. Martha’s little hand trembled as she reloaded. Rob stared at the broken drone in his lap; it had flown back to his arms to die. George stood at the window, watching the erratic, flickering lights of the last barely-functioning turrets.

“We’re not getting out of this,” he said, almost to himself, turning to face them. 

The room went still. The words hung heavy, final.

“We still have one option left,” George continued, his voice low but firm. He looked at his wife. She met his gaze, her expression unreadable. They’d discussed this outcome before, but not in front of the kids.

“What option?” Rob cried from the floor, his voice small and wavering. He was on the brink of tears.

George crouched down, eye level with his son. “Do you trust me?”

Rob nodded. 

George looked to his daughter, Martha. She hesitated, then nodded too.

“Okay,” George said, standing. He took a deep breath. “The truth then… we’re not here to survive. Not in the way you think. Our mission was never about escape or rescue.”

“What are you talking about?” Martha asked, her voice rising, terror barely kept at bay.

George glanced again at Alice. She stood and took Martha’s hand. “We’re going to end this,” she said, “All of it. The aliens. The war. That’s what this mission is all about.”

“How?” Rob asked, his face a mix of confusion and fear.

George didn’t sugarcoat it. “We’re not just human anymore. We’ve all been… altered. If we die here - when we die here - our bodies will transform. We’ll become something new. Something the aliens can’t fight. A new kind of life that spreads. Grows. Adapts.”

Alice tightened her grip on Martha’s hand. “We’ll still be us, though,” she said softly. “We’ll still be together.”

Martha shook her head. “No. That’s crazy. You’re saying we just… going to die? Right now?”

George’s face hardened. “We don’t have a choice.”

---

They prepared themselves together, in silence. Alice gathered the family in a circle, her hands trembling only slightly as she pressed a kiss to each child’s forehead. Martha cried but didn’t pull away. Rob clung to her like he had when he was small, his arms tight around her waist.

George armed the last of the explosives: shaped charges rigged to explode in an ever-widening circle of destruction. But in the centre they would be unscathed, their bodies already primed for the change which would engulf them. 

“Positions,” he said, his voice gruff. 

They stood together, backs straight, faces set. Martha reached for her brother’s hand. He took it.

The aliens breached the last-ditch defences. They poured in like a tide, the last few metres towards the house, black and chittering, their weapons glowing with lethal energy.

George hit the trigger.

---

There was pain. Searing, blinding. Then… silence.

Darkness.

And then… light.

---

The wind swept over the savanna, rustling the tall, golden stalks. The plants swayed in unison, their movements synchronised, almost deliberate. Beneath the soil, roots intertwined, forming a vast network of thought and memory.

Alice was the first to wake. Not as she had been, but as something new. She felt the sun on her leaves, the warmth sinking deep into her core. She felt George beside her, his presence steady and familiar, like an old tree anchoring a forest. 

Martha and Rob stirred next, their thoughts blooming in vibrant colours. They reached out, connecting, their consciousnesses merging and separating in a fluid dance. There was no fear now. No pain. Only a profound sense of being.

The savanna spread, unstoppable, consuming everything in its path. The planet would be theirs, a haven of sunlight, rain, and wind.

Together, they would grow: forever.

---

Author’s note: I wrote a 400 word character and plot outline for this Young Adult story and then asked ChatGPT (in its writer’s variant) to author it. I then spent about twenty minutes in a final edit, changing a few phrases here and there. Scary, isn’t it?

Panpsychism and the Hard Problem: A Dialogue with 'David Chalmers'

David Chalmers is a leading philosopher and cognitive scientist renowned for his influential contributions to the study of consciousness. Born in Sydney, Australia, in 1966, Chalmers initially studied mathematics before transitioning to philosophy, earning his Ph.D. from Indiana University under the supervision of Douglas Hofstadter. He is currently a professor at New York University, where he co-directs the Center for Mind, Brain, and Consciousness.

Chalmers gained widespread recognition for coining the term "the hard problem of consciousness" in his 1995 paper presented at the Toward a Science of Consciousness conference. He distinguished this from the "easy problems" of consciousness, which concern explaining cognitive and behavioral functions in physical terms. The hard problem, however, pertains to explaining subjective experience itself - why and how physical processes in the brain give rise to the rich, qualitative phenomena known as qualia (e.g., the redness of red or the pain of a headache).

Chalmers is also known for his controversial advocacy of panpsychism, the view that consciousness is a fundamental and ubiquitous feature of the universe. He argues that purely physical explanations cannot bridge the explanatory gap between brain processes and subjective experience. 

By positing that all matter has some form of proto-consciousness, panpsychism claims to provide a theoretical framework that bypasses the limitations of strict materialism while avoiding dualism's pitfalls.

I really wanted to explore these questions in more depth, but talking to Professor Chalmers is not easy. Instead, I asked ChatGPT to emulate him, based on his published work: here is the resulting interview.

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Panpsychism and the Hard Problem: A Dialogue with 'David Chalmers' (emulated by ChatGPT)

Q: Professor Chalmers, by positing consciousness everywhere, doesn’t panpsychism simply assume the phenomenon it’s trying to explain? Wouldn’t it be more intellectually honest to admit we just don’t know and focus elsewhere?

Chalmers: Panpsychism doesn’t simply assume consciousness but starts from the undeniable reality of subjective experience. The challenge is explaining why consciousness arises at all. Traditional materialist frameworks falter here, often treating experience as an inexplicable byproduct. Panpsychism, by contrast, hypothesizes that proto-conscious properties are fundamental, much like mass or charge, and seeks to explore how these could scale into complex conscious states. While the framework is speculative, it opens a conceptual path rather than surrendering to mystery or incomprehensibility.

Q: Even if proto-consciousness is fundamental, how do we move from this general philosophical paradigm to something scientifically productive? Taking your example of mass, where’s your equivalent of mass-energy equivalence or the Higgs field in your theory?

Chalmers: You’re right that panpsychism lacks a formal, testable model. But early scientific theories often began conceptually, as with the atomic theory of matter. Integrated Information Theory (IIT) hints at how consciousness might be quantified, but panpsychism suggests a deeper question: could proto-consciousness underlie physical processes in a way we haven’t yet modeled? The task is to bridge this gap through interdisciplinary exploration, acknowledging that we are at the earliest stages.

Q: Consciousness correlates strongly with complex neural systems. Isn’t it a category error to apply panpsychism at the level of elementary particles? It seems to distract from the real challenge of understanding how neural organization generates qualia. Also, could a brick feel pain? Could you torture a brick?

Chalmers: Panpsychism doesn’t claim particles are "conscious" in any meaningful sense but posits they may possess proto-conscious properties. These properties might combine in complex systems—like brains—to give rise to richer experiences. A brick, lacking the necessary integration and complexity, wouldn’t experience pain. The value of panpsychism is not in attributing consciousness to arbitrary objects but in reframing the hard problem: why does anything experience anything? This shift might inspire new ways of thinking about systems beyond neural ones, including artificial ones.

Q: But panpsychism doesn’t propose any useful research directions. It’s words without substance, offering no testable hypotheses or scientific programs. How do you respond to that?

Chalmers: I agree panpsychism is more a conceptual framework than a scientific theory at this stage. Its value lies in encouraging us to think differently about consciousness and its possible connection to fundamental reality. It challenges materialist assumptions and broadens the field of inquiry, including examining how organizational principles in biological or artificial systems correlate with experience. If panpsychism inspires a research program, it would need to explore measurable correlates of proto-consciousness and integrate insights from physics, neuroscience, and AI.

Q: Perhaps Dan Simmons captured the paradigm of panpsychism best in his Hyperion Cantos, where 'love' and 'empathy' characterise 'The Void Which Binds', described as a fundamental attribute of reality. Doesn’t this poetic vision summarize the idea’s speculative nature better than any theoretical framework could?

Chalmers: Simmons’ vision is a beautiful metaphor, and it captures something essential about the mystery of consciousness. Panpsychism, like his idea of The Void Which Binds, is not yet a theory—it’s a provocation, a scaffold for future inquiry. If nothing else, it pushes us to reimagine the universe as imbued with intrinsic qualities that defy easy categorization. Whether or not this leads to breakthroughs, it keeps alive the most profound questions about existence.

---

The dialogue highlights both the intrigue and limitations of panpsychism. While Chalmers frames it as a conceptual alternative to materialism, critics might find it lacking in actionable science.

Perhaps, as Simmons suggested, the mystery of consciousness resembles The Void Which Binds in its ineffability - a reality we sense but cannot yet explain. Whether panpsychism offers a way forward or merely a philosophical detour remains an open question.

“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.

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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.

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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).

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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...).

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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.

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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

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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

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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.

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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

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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.