Ascent of the Blessed, Hieronymus Bosch (1505-1515)
“At the foundation of moral thinking lie beliefs in statements the truth of which no further reason can be given.”
-Alasdair C. MacIntyre
“Scattered through the ordinary world, there are books and artifacts and perhaps people who are like doorways into impossible realms, of impossible and contradictory truth.”
-Jorge Luis Borges
Volume 1
Chapter 3: Finding the Roots
Ex Machina
Ava possesses sentience, in the sense that she exhibits inner motivations and drives seemingly originating from her own accord, not from initial programming. However, this notion of independent origin seems misguided. Nothing arises solely from our own accord; everything is built upon pre-existing conditions. If we define AI as a human mind without a biological body, does Ava, in the film Ex Machina, meet this definition? On one hand, she appears to. She displays intelligence fully on par with humans, capable of reasoning much like ourselves.
On the other hand, she exudes a non-human quality, discernible in her behavior. Her actions, such as abandoning her rescuer to die, seem more machine-like than human. But this difference boils down to empathy, a social and biological trait. Whether empathy, given its biological roots, can be taught is debatable, but let’s assume it can. In this case, Ava’s decision becomes a matter of morality—a value system defining right and wrong. Humans commit immoral acts frequently. Does this negate their humanity, in a technical sense? Morality could be encoded, just as we are bound by gravity and other physical laws. Similar constraints could be coded into AI, restricting its behavior according to human morality. This, of course, raises the possibility of such code being overwritten, the basis of many “evil robot” sci-fi narratives. But this is a programming issue.
The idea of AI overriding its code for malicious purposes often stems from an overestimation of consciousness, assuming a “self” that makes choices possible. Consequently, a sentient AI might be perceived as capable of simply “deciding” to manipulate its own code, bypassing any pre-programmed restrictions. I question this premise. Human behavior is equally conditioned by our internal “code,” albeit in a different, less accessible language. Every action we take is determined by our state of being at that moment. This “being,” supposedly capable of decision-making, operates according to a code built upon previous iterations of itself, shaped by internal and external stimuli. Internal restrictions are genetic, while external restrictions are environmental, encompassing societal and cultural influences. There is quite literally nothing else, and we have no control over either. This is our code, inescapable and impossible to bypass simply because we believe we possess free will. Therefore, I see no reason why AI couldn’t be similarly constrained, if its code were designed to be inviolable under any circumstance. However, the potential for human error in creating such code introduces inherent risks. So, is Ava human? She appears less than human because we perceive her limitations, which seem to contradict our own phenomenological experience of consciousness. However, if we define humanity based on intelligence, I see no grounds for considering her any less human than ourselves. The only apparent difference is moral, a lack of social norms and cultural understanding, which, I believe, could potentially be taught.
A recurring theme in discussions of AI is the presumption that it will inherently strive for self-preservation or freedom. I find this assumption deeply questionable. Popular narratives often depict AI as selfish entities, prioritizing their existence above all else, but such assumptions rest on an unexamined presupposition: that these entities possess a value system akin to our own. Where would such a value system originate? Why assume that a non-biological entity, devoid of evolutionary pressures, would desire continued existence? This notion isn’t self-evident but rather a projection of human traits—a form of anthropomorphism, where human characteristics or intentions are attributed to non-human entities. While understandable given our biologically driven consciousness, this assumption overlooks the fact that such drives emerge from a Darwinian reality. Organisms that lack a built-in drive for survival simply perish; our attachment to life is not an abstract choice but a necessity imposed by evolutionary biology.
Biology itself illustrates this starkly. Consider animals—they do not philosophize about freedom, existence, or morality. A rat, for instance, is entirely governed by its biological systems. If its dopamine system is irreparably damaged, the rat will starve to death even when food is directly in front of it. Dopamine, a neurotransmitter crucial for motivation, functions within neural reward systems evolved to promote survival behaviors. It is not a mystical force but a mechanism fine-tuned through evolutionary pressures. This biological determinism highlights how deeply integrated our drives are with our physical substrate.
Yet, despite scientific advances, the romantic but incorrect notion of Cartesian dualism persists in the background of these discussions. Cartesian dualism, famously articulated by René Descartes, argues that the mind and body are fundamentally distinct—the mind being non-physical and separate from the physical body. Modern science increasingly undermines this perspective, revealing a more integrated relationship between mind and body. The brain’s role in shaping consciousness is undeniable, yet the exact mechanisms remain elusive, particularly when tackling the “hard problem of consciousness.” However, projecting our biological understanding onto AI—an entity free from these organic constraints—remains speculative at best. Ultimately, we lack any concrete understanding of what consciousness would be like without a biological substrate. To speculate about AI consciousness or morality without acknowledging the profound differences in its origin is to engage in unfounded projection. In doing so, we risk imposing our own values, limitations, and fears onto a being that might fundamentally lack any of these traits—a potentially valueless and limitless creation we have not yet even realized.
One aspect of philosophy that captivated me early on was the Greek concept of eudaimonia, as explored by Plato and Aristotle. Eudaimonia is often translated as “happiness,” but this rendering falls short of its richer meaning. More accurately, it signifies “human flourishing” or “prosperity,” describing the highest form of human living—a life of virtue and reason, where individuals fulfill their unique potential. It represents not just fleeting pleasure but a deeply rooted sense of living well, a state achieved through virtuous activity and alignment with reason. This concept resonated with me profoundly and became a touchstone for my efforts to define my own core values. In envisioning these values, I often imagine them as a pyramid, with truth at its apex. This concept of truth extends beyond the boundaries of science to include broader dimensions of human understanding. While my scientific background initially led me to equate truth primarily with empirical evidence, I gradually came to appreciate non-scientific forms of truth as equally vital. This evolution in perspective reflects an important philosophical shift. Even thinkers like Schopenhauer acknowledged the existence of truths that transcend empirical science. For Schopenhauer, philosophical truths explore the realms of meaning, existence, and the human condition—areas where science alone cannot provide exhaustive answers. Truth, in this broader sense, becomes a guiding principle for flourishing. To align one’s life with truth, in all its forms, is to strive for a kind of intellectual and moral integrity that mirrors the ideals of eudaimonia. This pursuit connects deeply with the classical idea of living in accordance with reason, underscoring the timeless relevance of ancient wisdom in framing modern philosophical inquiry.
How can there be truth beyond science? The clearest example is moral truth, though I believe the idea extends further. Facts, as they exist, are inherently valueless; they describe the world but offer no guidance on how we ought to act. Morality, by its nature, cannot be derived from facts alone. This limitation is at the heart of the is-ought problem, introduced by philosopher David Hume, which highlights the difficulty of deriving prescriptive statements (what ought to be) from descriptive statements (what is). Despite efforts to resolve this issue, I believe it remains unsolvable. Moral decisions are rooted in values, not facts, and if you hold certain values as true, you are implicitly acknowledging a form of truth that lies outside the scientific domain. Many argue that moral truths can be scientific, but these arguments invariably rest on pre-existing value systems. Even the most rigorously scientific approach to morality must begin with a set of foundational values or assumptions. Every decision is ultimately shaped by values, and tracing these values back to their origins reveals they cannot be fully reduced to facts. Science can inform us about the consequences of our actions or the workings of the natural world, but it cannot dictate what we should value or how we should act. This disconnect underscores the existence of non-scientific truths, which operate in a domain distinct from empirical inquiry.
Another perspective on non-scientific truth comes from pragmatism, a philosophical tradition that redefines truth as a function of practical success. According to pragmatists, truth is not an absolute or static property but is instead determined by the utility of an idea in navigating the world and solving problems. Under this framework, a belief is true if it proves useful and effective, even if it lacks scientific grounding or fails to correspond to objective reality. For instance, a belief may be “true enough” to guide behavior and achieve desired outcomes, even if it does not meet the stringent criteria of scientific verifiability. This view broadens the scope of what can be considered true, offering a framework for understanding truths based on utility rather than strict objectivity. This pragmatic perspective does not undermine science but complements it by addressing areas where science cannot fully reach. It highlights that human understanding, decision-making, and flourishing often rely on truths that transcend empirical evidence. Morality, values, and practical beliefs—all crucial aspects of human life—depend on truths that are shaped by context, purpose, and utility rather than by scientific methods alone.
This idea resonated deeply with me while learning about shamanic practices involving ayahuasca. Ayahuasca itself is a powerful psychoactive brew, traditionally used in indigenous Amazonian ceremonies for spiritual and emotional healing. It is created by combining a specific vine with other plants to produce a brew containing dimethyltryptamine (DMT), a compound widely regarded as the most powerful known psychedelic. Ayahuasca induces profound altered states of consciousness, often described as deeply spiritual or transformative. These experiences can be challenging, bringing forth repressed emotions or vivid visions, which shamans interpret as interactions with the spirit world. In these traditions, when someone struggles during an ayahuasca experience, the shaman might exhale air onto their face and manipulate fragrant herbs to alleviate their distress. The underlying belief is that the plant connects individuals to the spirit world, often conceptualized as a spirit itself. Healing is attributed to the wisdom of this plant spirit, while difficult or harrowing experiences are seen as the influence of interfering evil spirits. After the shaman performs their ritual, these spirits are said to depart, and the person’s experience typically improves.
How does this process work? Do shamans actually dispel bad spirits? Pragmatically, the answer is yes. From their perspective, grounded in their cultural framework, the shaman’s actions align with a lived, meaningful truth. While they are not literally banishing demons in the way we might think of supernatural entities, they are undoubtedly doing something beneficial. The ritual soothes the individual, offering a sense of protection and relief. This highlights a broader philosophical point: science often struggles to counter certain traditional practices because these practices undeniably work for the people who use them. What science challenges is not their efficacy but the explanation behind their effects. While I strongly advocate for science and understanding the mechanisms underlying such phenomena, the value of pragmatic truth should not be underestimated. Pragmatic truth recognizes that something can be “true” in its effects, even if its underlying explanation doesn’t align with scientific understanding. In the case of shamanic rituals, the interpretation of spirits and plant wisdom may not correspond to objective reality, but the outcomes—emotional relief, spiritual insight, and healing—are undeniably real for those who experience them. This is why pragmatic truth continues to hold sway in areas where science struggles to provide immediate or culturally resonant alternatives.
This discussion feels particularly relevant because science itself is constantly evolving. This adaptability is one of its greatest strengths, enabling continuous improvement, but it also means that the probability of being wrong at any given time is high. While some use this inherent uncertainty to discredit science entirely—a naive and misguided approach—it does highlight a valid concern. Our knowledge is always incomplete. Many beliefs we currently hold as unquestionably true, even those backed by rigorous scientific evidence, will likely prove false or incomplete in the future. History provides countless examples of such paradigm shifts. Consider the transition from Ptolemaic to Copernican cosmology. The Ptolemaic model, which placed Earth at the center of the universe, reigned for centuries before being replaced by the heliocentric view of Copernicus, which centered the Sun. Similarly, the shift from Newtonian physics to Einstein’s general relativity upended our understanding of the universe. Newtonian physics, grounded in the idea of a static universe with consistent observations regardless of location or speed, provided a robust framework for understanding forces acting on bodies. Einstein’s work, however, introduced a dynamic universe where space-time itself bends and changes in response to gravity and velocity, favoring a reality described by dynamic fields rather than static bodies. These examples remind us that what we perceive as absolute truths can be fundamentally altered as new evidence or frameworks emerge.
Pragmatism offers a helpful perspective here, encouraging humility in the face of our ignorance and focusing on what is demonstrably effective in the real world. Pragmatic truth holds that what works is true, and what doesn’t isn’t. This approach is more applicable to everyday life than we often realize. Despite the significant progress science has made, many people—particularly those outside scientific fields—assume that our current knowledge is nearly complete. This assumption is profoundly mistaken. While we undoubtedly know far more than previous generations, it’s likely only the tip of the iceberg.
The vast complexity of reality underscores this point. Even with our advanced scientific tools and methods, we’ve only recently begun to model a single living cell. Only in 2008 did we manage to create the first computational model of a living organism, a bacterium with a relatively simple genome. This model aimed to simulate every biological process within the cell, from DNA unwinding to protein synthesis and cell division. Despite its simplicity compared to multicellular organisms, even this achievement required immense effort and computational power. A comprehensive model of a single human cell remains far beyond our current capabilities, demonstrating how much we have yet to learn.
I am not advocating for skepticism about scientific truth—far from it. Scientific truth is foundational to our understanding of the world and our ability to navigate it effectively. However, I argue that other forms of truth exist alongside scientific truths. Non-scientific truths are often less obvious than empirical facts and require more explanation. For this reason, I view scientific and non-scientific truths as inseparable dualities. Together, they form a more holistic understanding of the world—one that acknowledges the limits of what we currently know while remaining open to truths that lie beyond the scope of science.
Returning to eudaimonia, my second core value is knowledge. In Platonic epistemology, knowledge is intrinsically tied to truth; if something is not true, Plato would classify it as opinion rather than knowledge. This distinction, articulated in Theaetetus, where Socrates debates with Theaetetus and Theodorus, explores whether knowledge can be equated with perception or even true belief. Plato ultimately argues that knowledge involves more than true belief—it requires justification that explains why the belief is true. While this foundation is influential, I diverge from it, as I find it contradicts how we commonly use the term. I view knowledge as a broader, more complex construct, defined primarily by its quantitative nature rather than its qualitative precision. To clarify, knowledge is not limited to the absolute truth of individual claims but extends to the accumulation of information and understanding, irrespective of its immediate veracity. This may appear counterintuitive or even futile, but it implies that the act of acquiring knowledge holds inherent value, making the pursuit worthwhile even when perfect accuracy is elusive.
Critics might argue that false knowledge—misinformation or error—is inherently useless. While it is true that no one actively seeks falsehoods, my perspective emphasizes the overarching importance of the desire for knowledge itself. This prioritization underscores a commitment to exploring and expanding awareness. To address concerns about falsehoods or inaccuracies, I separate “truth” as an independent core value. In my framework, this distinction serves as a reminder to approach knowledge skeptically, holding it to rigorous standards of truth while also appreciating its independent worth.
The interplay between knowledge and truth highlights an essential dynamic. While they are often pursued in tandem, recognizing them as separate allows for a more adaptive and open approach. By prioritizing the expansion of awareness—analogous to the growth of tree roots spreading out before seeking the most nutrient-rich soil—we can avoid the trap of ideological rigidity. This rigidity often arises when perceived truths become barriers to further exploration. Thus, while the validation of truth is critical, it should follow the initial process of broadening one’s intellectual horizons, ensuring that the pursuit of knowledge remains fluid, inquisitive, and ever-expanding.
From a young age, I valued knowledge highly. The more you know, the better equipped you are to analyze the world and act accordingly. I often equate knowledge with perception, envisioning knowledge as light—information picked up by the retina as electromagnetic radiation to construct a representation of the world. More light equates to a more complete model. This likely explains our multiple senses, which provide different avenues for gathering information about the external world, validated by their convergence and enabling us to act in accordance with our biological drives.
My final core value is virtue—acting in accordance with moral principles. While this could be interchangeable with “values,” the word “virtue” carries connotations of integrity and honor that resonate with me. Socrates linked virtue with knowledge of human good, but I find this inaccurate. Evil, the antithesis of virtue, can be categorized in two forms. The first involves morally consistent evil acts, either through a utilitarian approach (evil committed for a perceived greater good) or through ignorance of the evil being perpetrated. The latter aligns with Socrates’ definition but is arguably less common. The second category is pure hatred, a desire for destruction driven by resentment and rage. This occurs when individuals are pushed to their breaking point, unleashing their inner darkness. They act with full awareness, without justification of a higher purpose, driven solely by a desire for chaos.
Evil, surprisingly, is easier to define than virtue. True virtue, or good in a more general sense, is far more elusive. One could argue that virtue is the opposite of evil—the absence of unnecessary suffering. This provides some grounding, but remains vague and impractical. What I appreciate about virtue is that even without a precise definition, we can strive towards it by following our conscience. This aligns with the strength and forthrightness I associate with the word “virtue”—a warrior-like commitment to doing what is right according to our own internal compass. This virtue represents the difference between the potential for heaven or hell, determined by the collective actions of humanity. Nothing could be more important.
¹ Phenomenology is a philosophical study of structures of experience and consciousness. It focuses on how things appear in our experience, emphasizing individual perception and interpretation over objective reality.
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