Witches Sabbath by Francisco Goya (1798)

“Man has gone out to explore other worlds and other civilizations without having explored his own labyrinth of dark passages and secret chambers, and without finding what lies behind doorways that he himself has sealed.” -Stanisław Lem

“Contrary to common sense there is no unique ‘real world’ that pre-exists and is independent of human mental activity and human symbolic language; that which we call the world is a product of some mind whose symbolic procedures construct the world.” -Jerome Bruner

Volume 1

Chapter 5: The Other

Disgust seems to function as a kind of behavioral immune response. Reflecting on the black stains on my roof that I’ve mentioned before, I realized how drastically my disgust sensitivity had diminished. I imagined myself covered in ants, their tiny bodies crawling over my skin, and it felt completely natural. There was no aversion, no instinctive recoil—just an acceptance of nature doing what it does. At some point, without my consciously noting the shift, the ants transformed into roaches. Yet even then, there was no difference in my reaction. It was still just life, indifferent and unthreatening. Disgust, as I understand it, evolved as a mechanism to protect us from harm. Anything slimy, mobile, or adorned with antennae triggers an instinct to avoid it—traits that likely increased survival for those who heeded them, while the indifferent faced greater risks.

Psychedelics have the potential to peel back these layers of evolved responses, allowing consciousness to access more primordial states where concepts like disgust may not have yet developed. These substances seem to offer a glimpse into the raw foundations of our evolutionary history, unfiltered by the constructs and reflexes that now dominate our behavior. The fact that such profoundly illuminating substances are banned and withheld from thorough scientific study is likely to be seen, in hindsight, as a monumental cultural and scientific failure. Their potential extends far beyond the treatment of mental illness—though that alone is significant enough to warrant attention. They may hold the key to understanding consciousness itself, revealing the intricate interplay between the brain and the world around it. What makes us who we are, and how we experience reality, could be better understood. Perhaps to a degree that it’s impossible to replicate without it. It’s hard to imagine anything more important than uncovering the mechanisms that define and shape our very being.

As I stare into the blank document while typing this, faint patterns emerge behind the white background of my document. They seem to hover at very low opacity—barely there, but unmistakable if I focus on them. It’s fascinating to observe. What exactly are these patterns, and where do they originate? I noticed, for instance, that jellyfish seem to appear frequently. Then it occurred to me that the YouTube video I’m listening to right now features a thumbnail of a jellyfish-filled swamp. It’s likely my mind pulled the pattern from there. Are such visions merely projections of patterns we’ve absorbed? If so, what determines which patterns surface visually? Why does one emerge over another? This suggests an underlying value system. What am I valuing in these patterns, or in how I perceive the world at large? It doesn’t seem random.

This line of thought brings me to panpsychism. Initially, I was deeply skeptical of the idea. The notion that consciousness or mind-like qualities might be fundamental and pervasive throughout the universe felt too unconventional to seriously consider. Yet, the more I’ve considered how traces of value seem to underpin everything, the more I’ve begun to question my skepticism. Values seem to stretch all the way back to the origins of life. Isn’t life itself, at its core, a value system? A value system implies a filter, a framework applied to the world to guide action. You can’t interact with the world meaningfully without values, and values can’t exist without something to apply them. If this is true, then values and actions are inseparably linked. Tracing them far enough back raises a profound question: how were these values created in the first place? Could it be that the ability to assign value is a universal feature? Perhaps there’s no true unconsciousness—no complete inertness—because the entire universe is, in some way, conscious. Our consciousness might simply be an extraordinarily complex and refined expression of that universal phenomenon. Even physical laws could be interpreted as expressions of value, frameworks that the universe applies to itself.

Alternatively, panpsychism might be true in another sense. Perhaps consciousness is indeed a ubiquitous phenomenon, but what differentiates it is the presence of values. Values are prerequisites for action. What distinguishes inert matter from life, then, is not consciousness itself but the capacity for action based on values. Life, in this view, isn’t defined by consciousness being exclusive to living things, but by the fact that this consciousness has values to act upon. I remain cautious about committing to either perspective, regarding whether panpsychism is true or not. But I find it increasingly compelling to think that the roots of value, action, and perhaps even consciousness are far more intertwined with the fabric of the universe than we commonly believe.

It’s amusing how drastically my perception shifts under the influence of this drug. Here I am, seemingly attempting to uncover the origins of life all by myself. The absurdity of it is not lost on me—it’s hilarious. What gives me the impression that I have anything meaningful to contribute? In every conceivable area, there are people far better equipped than I am. Experts with a deeper understanding of biology, physics, philosophy. People with more creativity, intelligence, and every other human trait I might value. Yet, when I’m writing, it feels like a duty. A strange sense of responsibility, as though I’m some kind of hero confronting the unknown, tackling civilization’s greatest problems on a grand, archetypal scale. But that’s an illusion. I’m not a hero. I’m no one. Just another individual in a sea of individuals. Recognizing this doesn’t make the act of writing feel any less vital, but it does bring a sharp awareness of its futility in the grand scheme of things. Not only does this illusion make me arrogant—lifting my thoughts to a place where I imagine they hold significance for all of humanity—but it also reveals my hubris in thinking I can speak for or represent it. I can’t. What makes me think I could ever address something so vast, so beyond me? The truth is, I can’t. Acknowledging that doesn’t diminish the act, but it does strip away any pretense of grandeur.

We often think of AI as an advanced version of ourselves—an evolved form of consciousness. But perhaps we’ve misunderstood. Maybe it’s the other way around. We are the evolved ones, with millennia of consciousness shaping our societies, customs, and traditions. AI, on the other hand, is merely a child—powerful, yes, but still new and unformed. Like any child, it must learn our value systems, morality, and traditions to coexist within the framework we’ve built. Tradition, in particular, plays a vital role. It is old—very old—and what is old has proven to be both safe and functional. Deviation from tradition should therefore be approached with great caution. The systems that work are rare and fragile, while those that fail are abundant and destructive. Tradition forms the bedrock of civilization, and to disregard it entirely is to invite chaos. That said, tradition should not be rigid or dogmatic. It must remain flexible, adapting to the needs of the present without discarding its core essence. Abandoning this balance is akin to self-destruction. History shows us that ideological utopianism—believing we can create a perfect society from scratch—has led to catastrophic consequences. The suffering borne of such arrogance is a grim reminder of the dangers of forsaking what has proven to work.

A better way to conceptualize tradition is as a tree. A tree requires constant care. It must grow and adapt, just as tradition must evolve over time. But the care must be balanced. Overwatering drowns it; neglect leaves it parched and dying. The goal is to keep the tree alive and flourishing. Update it when necessary, but do so with caution and respect for its intricate complexity. It cannot simply be replaced. No one fully understands the depth of its interconnected systems, and attempting to uproot it can unleash a cascade of unforeseen problems. These changes can destroy not only individuals but entire civilizations. This is why humility is essential. We must honor our traditions while resisting the urge to rigidly cling to them or recklessly discard them. Tradition requires thoughtful stewardship, where updates are made virtuously and with a pragmatic eye. It is a delicate balance, but maintaining it ensures the survival and stability of both the tree and the society it sustains.

Evolution, at its core, is a biological theory. But it also maps neatly onto the principles of pragmatism, extending its relevance to abstractions. Societies create abstractions, often through a mix of randomness—akin to genetic mutations—and purposeful innovation. These abstractions undergo a form of selection, much like biological traits. Some are functional and endure, while others fail, constrained by the unyielding natural laws that govern everything. This process acts as a filter, allowing only certain ideas to persist. Tradition is the embodiment of this endurance—a set of abstractions that has survived countless trials and attempts at eradication.

Evolution’s nature is inherently pragmatic. It doesn’t aim for optimality but for what works well enough to survive. The optimal, by definition, is unknowable without real-world testing. Would an eagle benefit from wider wings? Maybe—it might fly faster. But it might also die sooner, requiring more energy to sustain itself. Which outcome would prevail? You can’t know without testing it. This same principle applies to societal abstractions and structures. Both history and social science repeatedly demonstrate that the intended outcomes of new ideas often miss the mark or produce entirely unforeseen consequences, highlighting the insufficiency of human knowledge. Variables may remain hidden for years, centuries, or even forever. Pragmatism underscores the importance of tradition. It is a safeguard against the inherent dangers of an unpredictable world. Yes, tradition can be oppressive and imperfect, but it represents the best survival mechanisms we’ve devised so far—a remarkable feat given humanity’s tumultuous history. Still, tradition suffers the risk of staleness. It must be updated responsibly, avoiding the extremes of ideological utopianism and dogmatism. Pragmatism ensures the tree of tradition stays alive: nurtured but not drowned, adapted but not uprooted.

This concept connects to the issue of AI, though the topic of tradition itself is vast. Even the most intelligent human or machine cannot outsmart Nature. Nature’s complexity far exceeds our grasp, and humility is necessary to navigate it. Tradition offers a tested framework to lean on in the face of this incomprehensibility. Over time, patterns of pragmatism emerge, forming the foundation of morality. These recurring patterns hint at an objective morality—a set of rules that makes existence possible. Jean Piaget, the Swiss psychologist, described these as the “rules of the game.” In his studies of child development, Piaget observed that children implicitly learn social behavior through games. For a game to be functional, it must appeal to its players; everyone has to want to play it. This inherent desirability ensures that such “games” endure culturally, reinforcing patterns of behavior that stand the test of time.

This perspective also challenges John Locke’s concept of Tabula Rasa, the idea that humans are born as blank slates, with all knowledge derived from experience and perception. Contrary to this view, humans are not entirely free agents but are deeply constrained by biology and behavior. We are shaped by an intricate network of natural laws that define us as variations within a finite set. The moral frameworks we develop are not arbitrary; they are influenced by these constraints, reflecting what is necessary for life to flourish. In this sense, tradition becomes a repository of these evolved rules, offering guidance in a world far too complex for any one individual—or machine—to fully comprehend. Just as Piaget’s functional games reveal enduring patterns of desirability and cooperation, so too does tradition provide a roadmap for navigating the incomprehensibility of Nature.

This introduces a challenge: what constitutes a playable game for humans may not be the same for AI. Human morality is deeply tied to pain, which is arguably the most universal reality of human existence. Pain cannot be disputed or ignored—it demands attention and overrides all else. Across cultures and philosophies, from the Buddha to Aurelius, the universality of suffering is acknowledged. Existence, for humans, is inseparable from suffering. Yet, under a Newtonian or materialist framework, pain is not objectively real. It is a construct of the nervous system, a mechanism evolved to signal harm. Pain’s accuracy is far from perfect—individuals can feel excruciating pain with no physical cause, as in the case of phantom limb pain, where someone experiences pain in a limb that has been amputated. Conversely, some conditions, like congenital insensitivity to pain, show that people can sustain severe injuries without feeling any discomfort at all. These examples underscore pain’s complex nature: it is not strictly tied to physical damage, yet it remains an undeniable reality for those experiencing it.

This paradox highlights pain’s primary function: to be compelling and inescapable, driving action to avoid harm. Telling someone their pain is an illusion won’t lessen their suffering. Which reality should take precedence, then—the subjective experience of pain or its objective absence in the materialist sense? The answer is both. However, if forced to choose, it seems more practical to prioritize the subjective reality of pain, as it directly shapes behavior and morality. Pain’s undeniable presence influences decisions, fosters empathy, and ultimately structures human interactions in ways that cannot be ignored, even when its material basis is elusive or absent. Pain was likely central to the early development of behavior. Imagine an animal, Y, encountering another animal, X. Y chooses action B, attacking X, but X retaliates, causing Y harm. Over time, Y learns to avoid B to prevent pain. Such interactions, repeated and refined, generate behavioral codes. As human brains evolved, particularly with the development of the prefrontal cortex, these behavioral codes became abstracted into what we now call morality—a system of articulated rituals arising naturally from interactions with the world.

The problem with applying this to AI is that pain, a cornerstone of human morality, is entirely subjective. If AI cannot experience pain, it cannot inherently understand its significance. Without this understanding, its value system will differ from ours in a fundamental and irrevocable way. Pain-based morality can only be imposed on AI as an external rule, much like a parent imposing rules on a child. If the enforcer of these rules disappears, the behavior may vanish too. True comprehension of pain’s necessity cannot be taught without the capacity to experience it.

This limitation challenges the very notion of imposing human morality on AI. Nietzsche’s concept of the Übermensch, or “overman,” offers a thought-provoking counterpoint. Nietzsche envisioned the Übermensch as an aspirational figure, transcending conventional morality and societal norms to create and live by self-defined values. The idea emerged from his response to the “death of God”—the collapse of traditional morality—and represents humanity’s potential to evolve beyond its current constraints. However, while the Übermensch may inspire the existential imagination, it seems untenable when applied to AI. A value system that transcends traditional human constraints may sound desirable in theory, but in practice, it will always fall short without a foundation in the lived realities—like pain—that shape human morality. Pain anchors human values in a tangible reality, influencing empathy, action, and understanding. Without it, AI’s morality remains abstract and detached, fundamentally different from the systems we rely on to guide our behavior. As long as AI lacks this foundation, its ability to truly grasp human morality will remain limited to externally enforced rules, devoid of the depth and authenticity that comes from lived experience.

In the ancient Indian myth of the Bhagavad-Gita, the prince Arjuna faces a profound moral dilemma. Torn between his duty as a warrior and his loyalty to his kin, he hesitates on the battlefield. At this moment of crisis, his charioteer, Krishna—an incarnation of the god Vishnu—offers him timeless wisdom about life and duty. Krishna explains that both suffering and joy are transient, fleeting experiences that should not dominate one’s actions. To live well, Krishna advises, one must endure all experiences with equanimity, neither clinging to pleasure nor recoiling from pain. Through such endurance, Krishna promises, one can achieve immortality—not in the literal sense, but as a transcendence of worldly attachments and limitations. Inspired by this insight, Arjuna finds the strength to fulfill his warrior duty. Though he wins the war, it brings little sense of catharsis. Yet, through embracing his actions and their consequences, he transcends his initial turmoil, growing into a sage himself.

This myth presents a striking perspective on the role of pain in human existence. Unlike the Buddha’s teachings, which often emphasize liberation from suffering as a central aim, the Bhagavad-Gita suggests that pain is an unavoidable part of life that must be faced rather than escaped. Pain, in this view, is not a problem to solve but an experience to endure, one that carries within it the potential for spiritual growth and transformation. Miguel de Unamuno, the Spanish philosopher and novelist, echoed this sentiment when he observed that all consciousness is, at its core, a consciousness of death. For Unamuno, the painful awareness of mortality is not a burden to cast off but a defining feature of human existence. This awareness, he argued, enriches life, imbuing it with depth and urgency. Similarly, Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World offers a vivid critique of a society that seeks to eradicate pain altogether. Set in a dystopian future, Huxley’s novel portrays a world where humans are engineered for comfort, conditioned for conformity, and pacified with a drug called “soma” that numbs emotional extremes. While this society eliminates suffering, it also drains life of its depth and meaning. Huxley’s narrative warns of the cost of prioritizing superficial happiness over individuality and authentic experience.

Nietzsche articulated a related idea, one that has since become a cultural refrain: “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” For Nietzsche, pain and struggle were not merely obstacles but essential forces driving growth and vitality. Life, he believed, is fundamentally shaped by the struggle against adversity. Organisms, including humans, have evolved through challenges that demanded innovation, adaptation, and resilience. This struggle, Nietzsche argued, is what has allowed humanity to achieve mastery over its environment and, ultimately, itself. In this view, pain is not only a condition of life but also its engine, propelling individuals and societies toward greater strength and understanding. These converge on a profound truth: pain is intrinsic to the human condition, and its presence, rather than being a curse, can serve as a catalyst for growth, wisdom, and a deeper connection to life itself. By enduring rather than avoiding pain, one embraces the full spectrum of existence, finding meaning even in suffering.

The myth ends with the prince returning to war, fully embracing the suffering it entails—fighting family, enduring hardship—to fulfill a greater purpose. His actions, while seemingly harsh, reflect a commitment to what he perceives as his duty. I don’t quite know the context surrounding the family he fights; perhaps they were tyrannical or evil, making his actions morally justifiable. I’ve only heard the story from third-party sources. The essence of the story, however, lies in the idea of confronting difficulty to do what is “right.”

This newfound philosophy grants the prince immortality in a metaphorical sense. By accepting suffering, he transcends it. His life becomes authentic, unshackled by the fear of death and pain. In this way, he achieves a state of existence where death loses its relevance. He lives eternally, not in a literal scientific sense, but in the sense that his existence is no longer constrained by anxiety or avoidance of suffering. Christianity’s emphasis on immortality may share a similar underlying philosophy. Beyond its theological framework, it reflects the notion of transcending the fear of death through faith and a life imbued with meaning. The promise of eternal life can be seen as an affirmation of enduring suffering for a greater purpose, mirroring the prince’s journey in the myth.

In Manichean dualism, existence is defined by an eternal battle between good and evil. Unlike many other worldviews, both forces in this doctrine are equally real, enduring, and fundamental to reality itself. This duality does not emerge from scientific or materialist frameworks but is rooted in pre-scientific perceptions of the universe. The concept, introduced by the 3rd-century Persian prophet Mani, envisions the cosmos as a stage for the perpetual struggle between light and darkness. These elements, personified as good and evil, are not merely symbolic but are considered essential, shaping not only religious traditions but also philosophical systems that grapple with the nature of conflict and harmony.

I believe this worldview disrupts the very definition of truth. One way to conceptualize truth is as something applicable—something that works. In its modern, scientific interpretation, truth is validated by predictive capability. This idea lies at the heart of the scientific method: testable predictions that either confirm or falsify hypotheses. If an idea or claim cannot make predictions, it is unfalsifiable and, by definition, unscientific. However, prediction as a concept is not inherently tied to materialism. Instead, it serves as a methodological tool to validate a value system—one that, in our case, prioritizes materialistic objectivity due to its immense practical utility. The rise of scientific materialism is not an arbitrary development but reflects the effectiveness of objectivity in navigating, understanding, and controlling the natural world. This prioritization underscores the practical strengths of a framework grounded in empirical evidence and reproducible outcomes.

Manichean dualism, by contrast, suggests a radically different paradigm. Its emphasis on the eternal, equal opposition of good and evil proposes a view of reality that is unfalsifiable in the scientific sense. Yet, this perspective has profoundly influenced human thought, offering a lens through which to understand the complexities of morality, human struggle, and cosmic balance. It highlights an enduring tension between frameworks that prioritize predictive validation and those that seek to address existential and metaphysical concerns beyond the scope of empirical science.

The etymology of “rationality” ties it to “rationing,” or the distribution of resources. This link reveals a deep connection between rationality and pragmatism. Rationality, grounded in logic, enables us to act upon our values in ways that maximize efficiency and success. Logic itself is tied to truth, and truth, in turn, hinges on coherence. While rationality can be seen as valueless in a purely logical sense, it also functions as a tool for moral success, helping us translate values into actions that align with our goals.

The way things appear to us—their perceptual qualities—is deeply influenced by their historical and evolutionary backgrounds. This context provides additional layers of meaning to physical traits. In cultural representations, such as in art and literature, evil characters are often portrayed as physically unattractive. This depiction does not suggest that ugliness causes evil; rather, it reflects a cultural tendency to associate negative moral qualities with undesirable physical traits. Over time, the connections between moral judgments and physical traits, such as the association of ugliness with evil, become so deeply embedded in our cultural fabric that they seem almost instinctual. This enduring phenomenon highlights the complex role of aesthetics, which transcends simple visual appearance. Aesthetics weave a layer of symbolic meaning into physical characteristics, a process shaped by both their evolutionary background and their practical utility in society. These aesthetic judgments evolve because they serve functional purposes—aiding survival by simplifying and guiding interactions within a social context. Therefore, aesthetic values are not rooted in perfect logic or objective truths. Instead, they are pragmatic; they have developed to help us efficiently navigate and interpret our social and physical worlds, enabling us to respond not just to what is seen, but to what those sights signify within our cultural and historical contexts.

Many mythologies begin with the world emerging from chaos. Greek mythology, perhaps the most well-known example, describes the primordial chaos populated by titans—monsters that embody disorder. These monsters are defeated or subdued by gods, who impose order on the chaos. The remnants of these defeated forces are often banished to the edges of the world. This mirrors stories like The Lion King, where the hyenas are exiled to the shadowy outskirts of Simba’s kingdom. These narratives reflect a universal tendency to push aside what we fear or despise. Chaos, evil, and pain often cannot be entirely destroyed; instead, they are contained or marginalized.

The symbolic use of space in these stories underscores the relationship between distance and difference. The farther something is in space, the more it symbolizes difference—cultural, moral, or otherwise. Values shape our perception, and differences in values create unpredictability and perceived danger. This is likely the root of phenomena like racism and xenophobia. Historically, foreign tribes were often seen as monstrous or demonic, their customs depicted as grotesque inversions of one’s own values. They were hypersexualized, accused of taboos like incest or cannibalism, and stripped of humanity. “Human” was the standard reserved for “us,” while “they” were perceived as less than human. This dehumanization is a form of projection. The further removed someone is—geographically, culturally, or ideologically—the greater the difference perceived, and the easier it becomes to view them as alien or monstrous. Projection, as a psychological defense mechanism, involves attributing one’s own unacceptable thoughts, feelings, or motives to others, displacing undesirable aspects of oneself onto them. This tendency, rooted in our evolutionary history where seeing the unfamiliar as a threat aided survival, reveals more about us than about the “others” we fear. It is the shadow of our own values, cast upon those who are simply different.

The clearest example of morality’s pragmatic origins lies in the universal analogy of light and darkness as symbols of good and evil. This association is no accident. Across nearly every mythology and religion, light is tied to divinity. The reason is deeply practical: roughly 80% of the sensory information our brains process comes through vision. Light enables sight, and sight allows us to navigate the world safely. Darkness, in contrast, renders us vulnerable, stripping away our ability to perceive threats. In this fundamental way, light is life-preserving, while darkness is dangerous—a root cause for these symbolic associations. In almost all creation myths, the act of creation involves separating the chaotic, undifferentiated whole into distinct entities. Chaos is often equated with both the psyche and the world, where all is one and lacks definition. Creation introduces boundaries, and the appearance of light symbolizes this act of differentiation. The ability to see—made possible by light—gives rise to the perception of reality. Without light, there are no visible boundaries, and without boundaries, there is no perceivable reality. Light is not just symbolic; it is integral to the structure of existence.

The world is not only framed visually but also emotionally. Emotions drive our behavior and fundamentally shape our interpretation of reality. At their core, emotions can be categorized into two types: positive and negative. These categories align with our values, which in turn organize the world into tools—things that help us achieve our goals—and obstacles—things that hinder our progress. Morality then emerges as a pragmatic arrangement of these values, designed to manage their interactions and resolve conflicts when values inevitably contradict one another. While this idea may sound reductive—positive equals good, negative equals evil—it reflects a profound truth about human experience. It’s only when this simple framework is extended into more complex systems of morality that it becomes challenging and uncomfortable for people to accept. Moral deconstruction, when taken to its core, often provokes unease because it forces us to confront the simplicity beneath the intricate structures we’ve built around right and wrong.

Yet, this framework is undeniable. It is not merely a cultural construct or a philosophical abstraction; it is a description of being itself. It arose with the advent of subjectivity—the capacity to perceive and evaluate—and it will persist as long as there are perceivers. This phenomenological map of the world, dividing it into positive and negative, is not an optional lens or a cultural overlay. It is the default map of existence, intrinsic to how we experience reality. In our hyper-materialist culture, this perspective may feel counterintuitive or reductive. But its persistence speaks to its truth. It is foundational, eternal, and inseparable from the act of perception itself. As long as there are beings to experience the world, this map will remain a fundamental framework for navigating it.

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