Latest news with #TheGrayArea
Yahoo
5 days ago
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
Are we reading Machiavelli wrong?
There are very few philosophers who become part of popular culture, and often, if their ideas become influential, people don't know where they came from. Niccolò Machiavelli, the great 16th-century diplomat and writer, is an exception. I don't know how many people have actually read Machiavelli, but almost everyone knows the name, and almost everyone thinks they know what the word 'Machiavellian' means. It's someone who's cunning and shrewd and manipulative. Or as one famous philosopher called him, 'the teacher of evil.' But is this fair to Machiavelli, or has he been misunderstood? And if he has been, what are we missing in his work? Erica Benner is a political philosopher and the author of numerous books about Machiavelli including my favorite, Be Like the Fox, which offers a different interpretation of Machiavelli's most famous work, The Prince. For centuries, The Prince has been popularly viewed as a how-to manual for tyrants. But Benner disagrees. She says it's actually a veiled, almost satirical critique of authoritarian power. And she argues that Machiavelli is more timely than you might imagine. He wrote about why democracies get sick and die, about the dangers of inequality and partisanship, and even about why appearance and perception matter far more than truth and facts. In another of his seminal works, Discourses on Livy, Machiavelli is also distinctly not authoritarian. In fact, he espouses a deep belief in republicanism (the lowercase-r kind, which affirms representative government). I invited Benner onto The Gray Area to talk about what Machiavelli was up to and why he's very much a philosopher for our times. As always, there's much more in the full podcast, so listen and follow The Gray Area on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Pandora, or wherever you find podcasts. New episodes drop every Monday. This interview has been edited for length and clarity. The popular view of Machiavelli is that he wanted to draw this neat line between morality and politics and that he celebrated ruthless pragmatism. What's incomplete or wrong about that view? What is true is that he often criticizes the hyper-Christian morality that puts moral judgments into the hands of priests and popes and some abstract kind of God that he may or may not believe in, but in any case doesn't think is something we can access as humans. If we want to think about morality both on a personal level and in politics, we've got to go back to basics. What is the behavior of human beings? What is human nature? What are the drives that propel human beings to do the stuff that we call good or bad? He wants to say that we should see human beings not as fundamentally good or evil. We shouldn't think that human beings can ever be angels, and we shouldn't see them as devils when they behave badly. But the basic point is if you want to develop a human morality, you study yourself, you study other humans, you don't put yourself above other humans because you're one, too. And then you ask, What kind of politics is going to make such people coexist? I take it you think his most famous book, , is not well understood? I used to have to teach Machiavelli and I would just say, It's a handbook for tyrants. But he wrote the Discourses, which is a very, very republican book. So that's the first thing that sets people off and makes you think, How could he have switched so quickly from writing The Prince to being a super-republican writing the Discourses? So that's a warning sign. When I started seeing some of the earliest readers of Machiavelli and the earliest comments you get from republican authors, they all see Machiavelli as an ally and they say it. They say he's a moral writer. Rousseau says, 'He has only had superficial and corrupt readers until now.' If you ever pick up The Prince and you read the first four chapters, and most people don't read them that carefully because they're kind of boring, the exciting ones are the ones in the middle about morality and immorality and then you come to chapter five, which is about freedom. And up to chapter four, it sounds like a pretty cruel, cold analysis of what you should do. Then you get to chapter five and it's like, Wow! It's about how republics fight back, and the whole tone changes. Suddenly republics are fighting back and the prince has to be on his toes because he's probably not going to survive the wrath of these fiery republics that do not give up. So who is he talking to in the book? Is he counseling future princes or warning future citizens? It's complicated. You have to remember that he was kicked out of his job and had a big family to support. He had a lot of kids. And he loved his job and was passionate about the republic. He was tortured. He doesn't know what's going to happen next. He's absolutely gutted that Florence's republican experiment has failed and he can't speak freely. So what does a guy with a history of writing dramas and satire do to make himself feel better? It's taking the piss out of the people who have made you and a lot of your friends very miserable, in a low-key way because you can't be too brutally satirical about it. But I think he's really writing to expose the ways of tyrants. Would you say that Machiavelli has something like an ideology or is he just a clear-eyed pragmatist? He's a republican. And again, this is something that, if you just read The Prince, you're not going to get. But if you read the Discourses, which was written around the same time as The Prince, it's very, very similar in almost every way except that it praises republics and criticizes tyrants very openly. Whereas The Prince never once uses the words 'tyrant' or 'tyranny.' So if there's a guiding political view, whether you call it 'ideology' or not, it's republicanism. And that's an ideology of shared power. It's all the people in a city, all the male people in this case. Machiavelli was quite egalitarian. He clearly wanted as broad of a section of the male population to be citizens as possible. He says very clearly, The key to stabilizing your power is to change the constitution and to give everyone their share. Everyone has to have their share. You might want to speak a little bit more for yourself and the rich guys, but in the end, everyone's got to have a share. Should we treat Machiavelli like a democratic theorist? Do you think of him as someone who would defend what we call democracy today? If you think the main principle of democracy is that power should be shared equally, which is how I understand democracy, then yes. He'd totally agree with that. What kind of institutions would he say a democracy has to have? He's pretty clear in the Discourses. He says you don't want a long-term executive. You need to always check power. I realize we exist in a very different world than Machiavelli, but is he a useful guide to understanding contemporary politics, particularly American politics? This is a really Machiavellian moment. If you read The Prince and look not just for those provocative quotes but for the criticisms, and sometimes they're very subtle, you start to see that he's exposing a lot of the stuff that we're seeing today. Chapter nine of The Prince is where he talks about how you can rise to be the ruler of a republic and how much resistance you might face, and he says that people might be quite passive at first and not do very much. But at some point, when they see you start to attack the courts and the magistrates, that's when you're going to clash. And he says, That's when you as a leader — and he's playing like he's on the leader's side — that's when you've got to decide if you're going to get really, really tough, or are you going to have to find other ways to soften things up a bit? What would he make of Trump? He would put Trump in two categories. He's got different classifications of princes. He's got the prince of fortune, somebody who relies on wealth and money and big impressions to get ahead. He would say that Trump has a lot of those qualities, but he'd also call him this word 'astutia' — astuteness, which doesn't really translate in English because we think of that as a good quality, but he means calculating shrewdness. Somebody whose great talent is being able to shrewdly manipulate and find little holes where he can exploit people's weaknesses and dissatisfactions. This is what he thought the Medici were good at. And his analysis of that is that it can cover you for a long time. People will see the good appearances and hope that you can deliver, but in the long run, people who do that don't know how to build a solid state. That's what he would say on a domestic front. I think there's an unsophisticated way to look at Trump as Machiavellian. There are these lines in about knowing how to deploy cruelty and knowing when to be ruthless. But to your deeper point, I don't think Machiavelli ever endorses cruelty for cruelty's sake, and with Trump — and this is my personal opinion — cruelty is often the point, and that's not really Machiavellian. Exactly. I wouldn't say Trump is Machiavellian. Quite honestly, since the beginning of the Trump administration, I've often felt like he's getting advice from people who haven't really read Machiavelli or put Machiavelli into ChatGPT and got all the wrong pointers, because the ones that they're picking out are just so crude. But they sound Machiavellian. You're absolutely right, though. Machiavelli is very, very clear in The Prince that cruelty is not going to get you anywhere in the long term. You're going to get pure hate. So if you think it's ever instrumentally useful to be super cruel, think again. This obviously isn't an endorsement of Trump, but I will say that something I hear often from people is that the system is so broken that we need someone to smash it up in order to save it. We need political dynamite. I bring that up because Machiavelli says repeatedly that politics requires flexibility and maybe even a little practical ruthlessness in order to preserve the republic. Do you think he would say that there's real danger in clinging to procedural purity if you reach a point where the system seems to have failed? This is a great question. And again, this is one he does address in the Discourses quite a lot. He talks about how the Romans, when their republic started slipping, had 'great men' coming up and saying, 'I'll save you,' and there were a lot before Julius Caesar finally 'saved' them and then it all went to hell. And Machiavelli says that there are procedures that have to sometimes be wiped out — you have to reform institutions and add new ones. The Romans added new ones, they subtracted some, they changed the terms. He was very, very keen on shortening the terms of various excessively long offices. He also wanted to create emergency institutions where, if you really faced an emergency, that institution gives somebody more power to take executive action to solve the problem. But that institution, the dictatorship as it was called in Rome, it wasn't as though a random person could come along and do whatever he wanted. The idea was that this dictator would have special executive powers, but he is under strict oversight, very strict oversight, by the Senate and the plebians, so that if he takes one wrong step, there would be serious punishment. So he was very adamant about punishing leaders who took these responsibilities and then abused them. Listen to the rest of the conversation and be sure to follow The Gray Area on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Pandora, or wherever you listen to podcasts.
Vox
5 days ago
- Politics
- Vox
Are we reading Machiavelli wrong?
There are very few philosophers who become part of popular culture, and often, if their ideas become influential, people don't know where they came from. Niccolò Machiavelli, the great 16th-century diplomat and writer, is an exception. I don't know how many people have actually read Machiavelli, but almost everyone knows the name, and almost everyone thinks they know what the word 'Machiavellian' means. It's someone who's cunning and shrewd and manipulative. Or as one famous philosopher called him, 'the teacher of evil.' But is this fair to Machiavelli, or has he been misunderstood? And if he has been, what are we missing in his work? Erica Benner is a political philosopher and the author of numerous books about Machiavelli including my favorite, Be Like The Fox, which offers a different interpretation of Machiavelli's most famous work, The Prince. For centuries, The Prince has been popularly viewed as a how-to manual for tyrants. But Benner disagrees. She says it's actually a veiled, almost satirical critique of authoritarian power. And she argues that Machiavelli is more timely than you might imagine. He wrote about why democracies get sick and die, about the dangers of inequality and partisanship, and even about why appearance and perception matter far more than truth and facts. In another of his seminal works, Discourses on Livy, Machiavelli is also distinctly not authoritarian. In fact, he espouses a deep belief in republicanism (the lowercase-r kind, which affirms representative government). I invited Benner onto The Gray Area to talk about what Machiavelli was up to and why he's very much a philosopher for our times. As always, there's much more in the full podcast, so listen and follow The Gray Area on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Pandora, or wherever you find podcasts. New episodes drop every Monday. This interview has been edited for length and clarity. The popular view of Machiavelli is that he wanted to draw this neat line between morality and politics and that he celebrated ruthless pragmatism. What's incomplete or wrong about that view? What is true is that he often criticizes the hyper-Christian morality that puts moral judgements into the hands of priests and popes and some abstract kind of God that he may or may not believe in, but in any case doesn't think is something we can access as humans. If we want to think about morality both on a personal level and in politics, we've got to go back to basics. What is the behavior of human beings? What is human nature? What are the drives that propel human beings to do the stuff that we call good or bad? He wants to say that we should see human beings not as fundamentally good or evil. We shouldn't think that human beings can ever be angels, and we shouldn't see them as devils when they behave badly. But the basic point is if you want to develop a human morality, you study yourself, you study other humans, you don't put yourself above other humans because you're one, too. And then you ask, What kind of politics is going to make such people coexist? I take it you think his most famous book, The Prince, is not well understood? I used to have to teach Machiavelli and I would just say, It's a handbook for tyrants. But he wrote the Discourses, which is a very, very republican book. So that's the first thing that sets people off and makes you think, How could he have switched so quickly from writing The Prince to being a super-republican writing the Discourses? So that's a warning sign. When I started seeing some of the earliest readers of Machiavelli and the earliest comments you get from republican authors, they all see Machiavelli as an ally and they say it. They say he's a moral writer. Rousseau says, 'He has only had superficial and corrupt readers until now.' If you ever pick up The Prince and you read the first four chapters, and most people don't read them that carefully because they're kind of boring, the exciting ones are the ones in the middle about morality and immorality and then you come to chapter five, which is about freedom. And up to chapter four, it sounds like a pretty cruel, cold analysis of what you should do. Then you get to chapter five and it's like, Wow! It's about how republics fight back, and the whole tone changes. Suddenly republics are fighting back and the prince has to be on his toes because he's probably not going to survive the wrath of these fiery republics that do not give up. So who is he talking to in the book? Is he counseling future princes or warning future citizens? It's complicated. You have to remember that he was kicked out of his job and had a big family to support. He had a lot of kids. And he loved his job and was passionate about the republic. He was tortured. He doesn't know what's going to happen next. He's absolutely gutted that Florence's republican experiment has failed and he can't speak freely. So what does a guy with a history of writing dramas and satire do to make himself feel better? It's taking the piss out of the people who have made you and a lot of your friends very miserable, in a low-key way because you can't be too brutally satirical about it. But I think he's really writing to expose the ways of tyrants. Would you say that Machiavelli has something like an ideology or is he just a clear-eyed pragmatist? He's a republican. And again, this is something that, if you just read The Prince, you're not going to get. But if you read the Discourses, which was written around the same time as The Prince, it's very, very similar in almost every way except that it praises republics and criticizes tyrants very openly. Whereas The Prince never once uses the words 'tyrant' or 'tyranny.' So if there's a guiding political view, whether you call it 'ideology' or not, it's republicanism. And that's an ideology of shared power. It's all the people in a city, all the male people in this case. Machiavelli was quite egalitarian. He clearly wanted as broad of a section of the male population to be citizens as possible. He says very clearly, The key to stabilizing your power is to change the constitution and to give everyone their share. Everyone has to have their share. You might want to speak a little bit more for yourself and the rich guys, but in the end, everyone's got to have a share. Should we treat Machiavelli like a democratic theorist? Do you think of him as someone who would defend what we call democracy today? If you think the main principle of democracy is that power should be shared equally, which is how I understand democracy, then yes. He'd totally agree with that. What kind of institutions would he say a democracy has to have? He's pretty clear in the Discourses. He says you don't want a long-term executive. You need to always check power. I realize we exist in a very different world than Machiavelli, but is he a useful guide to understanding contemporary politics, particularly American politics? This is a really Machiavellian moment. If you read The Prince and look not just for those provocative quotes but for the criticisms, and sometimes they're very subtle, you start to see that he's exposing a lot of the stuff that we're seeing today. Chapter nine of The Prince is where he talks about how you can rise to be the ruler of a republic and how much resistance you might face, and he says that people might be quite passive at first and not do very much. But at some point, when they see you start to attack the courts and the magistrates, that's when you're going to clash. And he says, That's when you as a leader — and he's playing like he's on the leader's side — that's when you've got to decide if you're going to get really, really tough, or are you going to have to find other ways to soften things up a bit? What would he make of Trump? He would put Trump in two categories. He's got different classifications of princes. He's got the prince of fortune, somebody who relies on wealth and money and big impressions to get ahead. He would say that Trump has a lot of those qualities, but he'd also call him this word astutia — astuteness, which doesn't really translate in English because we think of that as a good quality, but he means calculating shrewdness. Somebody whose great talent is being able to shrewdly manipulate and find little holes where he can exploit people's weaknesses and dissatisfactions. This is what he thought the Medici were good at. And his analysis of that is that it can cover you for a long time. People will see the good appearances and hope that you can deliver, but in the long run, people who do that don't know how to build a solid state. That's what he would say on a domestic front. I think there's an unsophisticated way to look at Trump as Machiavellian. There are these lines in The Prince about knowing how to deploy cruelty and knowing when to be ruthless. But to your deeper point, I don't think Machiavelli ever endorses cruelty for cruelty's sake, and with Trump — and this is my personal opinion — cruelty is often the point, and that's not really Machiavellian. Exactly. I wouldn't say Trump is Machiavellian. Quite honestly, since the beginning of the Trump administration, I've often felt like he's getting advice from people who haven't really read Machiavelli or put Machiavelli into ChatGPT and got all the wrong pointers, because the ones that they're picking out are just so crude. But they sound Machiavellian. You're absolutely right, though. Machiavelli is very, very clear in The Prince that cruelty is not going to get you anywhere in the long term. You're going to get pure hate. So if you think it's ever instrumentally useful to be super cruel, think again. This obviously isn't an endorsement of Trump, but I will say that something I hear often from people is that the system is so broken that we need someone to smash it up in order to save it. We need political dynamite. I bring that up because Machiavelli says repeatedly that politics requires flexibility and maybe even a little practical ruthlessness in order to preserve the republic. Do you think he would say that there's real danger in clinging to procedural purity if you reach a point where the system seems to have failed? This is a great question. And again, this is one he does address in the Discourses quite a lot. He talks about how the Romans, when their republic started slipping, had 'great men' coming up and saying, 'I'll save you,' and there were a lot before Julius Caesar finally 'saved' them and then it all went to hell. And Machiavelli says that there are procedures that have to sometimes be wiped out — you have to reform institutions and add new ones. The Romans added new ones, they subtracted some, they changed the terms. He was very, very keen on shortening the terms of various excessively long offices. He also wanted to create emergency institutions where, if you really faced an emergency, that institution gives somebody more power to take executive action to solve the problem. But that institution, the dictatorship as it was called in Rome, it wasn't as though a random person could come along and do whatever he wanted. The idea was that this dictator would have special executive powers, but he is under strict oversight, very strict oversight, by the Senate and the plebians, so that if he takes one wrong step, there would be serious punishment. So he was very adamant about punishing leaders who took these responsibilities and then abused them.
Vox
13-05-2025
- Vox
How to find a meaningful job: try 'moral ambition,' says Rutger Bregman
is a senior reporter for Vox's Future Perfect and co-host of the Future Perfect podcast. She writes primarily about the future of consciousness, tracking advances in artificial intelligence and neuroscience and their staggering ethical implications. Before joining Vox, Sigal was the religion editor at the Atlantic. We're told from a young age to achieve. Get good grades. Get into a good school. Get a good job. Be ambitious about earning a high salary or a high-status position. But many of us eventually find ourselves asking: What's the point of all this ambition? The fat salary or the fancy title…are those really meaningful measures of success? There's another possibility: Instead of measuring our success in terms of fame or fortune, we could measure it in terms of how much good we do for others. And we could get super ambitious about using our lives to do a gargantuan amount of good. That's the message of Moral Ambition, a new book by historian and author Rutger Bregman. He wants us to stop wasting our talents on meaningless work and start devoting ourselves to solving the world's biggest problems, like malaria and pandemics and climate change. I recently got the chance to talk to Bregman on The Gray Area, Vox's philosophically-minded podcast. I invited him on the show because I find his message inspiring — and, to be honest, because I also had some questions about it. I want to dedicate myself to work that feels meaningful, but I'm not sure work that helps the greatest number of people is the only way to do that. Moral optimization — the effort to mathematically quantify moral goodness so that we can then maximize it — is, in my experience, agonizing and ultimately counterproductive. I also noticed that Bregman's 'moral ambition' has a lot in common with effective altruism (EA), the movement that's all about using reason and evidence to do the most good possible. After the downfall of Sam Bankman-Fried, the EA crypto billionaire who was convicted of fraud in 2023, EA suffered a major reputational blow. I wondered: Is Bregman just trying to rescue the EA baby from the bathwater? (Disclosure: In 2022, Future Perfect was awarded a one-time $200,000 grant from Building a Stronger Future, a family foundation run by Sam and Gabe Bankman-Fried. Future Perfect has returned the balance of the grant and is no longer pursuing this project.) So in our conversation, I talked to Bregman about all the different things that can make our lives feel meaningful, and asked: Are some objectively better than others? And how is moral ambition different from ideas that came before it, like effective altruism? This interview has been edited for length and clarity. There's much more in the full podcast, so listen and follow The Gray Area on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Pandora, or wherever you find podcasts. Why should people be morally ambitious? My whole career, I've been fascinated with the waste of talent that's going on in modern economies. There's this one study from two Dutch economists and they estimate that around 25 percent of all workers think that their own job is socially meaningless, or at least doubt the value of their job. That is just insane to me. I mean, this is five times the unemployment rate. And we're talking about people who often have excellent resumes, who went to very nice universities. Harvard is an interesting case in point: 45 percent of Harvard graduates end up in consultancy or finance. I'm not saying all of that is totally socially useless, but I do wonder whether that is the best allocation of talent. [Note: In 2020, 45 percent of Harvard graduating seniors entering the workforce went into consulting and finance. Among the class of 2024, the number was 34 percent.] We face some pretty big problems out there, whether it's the threat of the next pandemic that may be just around the corner, terrible diseases like malaria and tuberculosis killing millions of people, the problem with democracy breaking down. I mean, the list goes on and on. And so I've always been frustrated by this enormous waste of talent. If we're going to have a career anyway, we might as well do a lot of good with it. What role does personal passion play in this? You write in the book, 'Don't start out by asking, what's my passion? Ask instead, how can I contribute most? And then choose the role that suits you best. Don't forget, your talents are but a means to an end.' I think 'follow your passion' is probably the worst career advice out there. At the School for Moral Ambition, an organization I co-founded, we deeply believe in the Gandalf-Frodo model of changing the world. Frodo didn't follow his passion. Gandalf never asked him, 'What's your passion, Frodo?' He said, 'Look, this really needs to be done, you've got to throw the ring into the mountain.' If Frodo would have followed his passion, he would have probably been a gardener having a life full of second breakfasts and being pretty comfortable in the Shire. And then the orcs would have turned up and murdered everyone he ever loved. So the point here is, find yourself some wise old wizard, a Gandalf. Figure out what some of the most pressing issues that we face as a species are. And ask yourself, how can I make a difference? And then you will find out that you can become very passionate about it. In your book, there's a Venn diagram with three circles. The first is labeled 'sizable.' The second is 'solvable.' And the third is 'sorely overlooked.' And in the middle, where they all overlap, it says 'moral ambition.' I wonder about the 'sizable' part of that. Does moral ambition always have to be about scale? I'm a journalist now, but before that I was a novelist. And I didn't care how many people my work impacted. My feeling was: If my novel deeply moves just one reader and helps them feel less alone or more understood, I will be happy. Are you telling me I shouldn't be happy with that? I think there is absolutely a place for, as the French say, art pour l'art — art for the sake of art itself. I don't want to let everything succumb to a utilitarian calculus. But I do think it's better to help a lot of people than just a few people. On the margins, I think in the world today, we need much more moral ambition than we currently have. When I was reading your book, I kept thinking of the philosopher Susan Wolf, who has this great essay called 'Moral Saints.' She argues that you shouldn't try to be a moral saint — someone who tries to make all their actions as morally good as possible. She writes, 'If the moral saint is devoting all his time to feeding the hungry or healing the sick or raising money for Oxfam, then necessarily he is not reading Victorian novels, playing the oboe or improving his backhand. A life in which none of these possible aspects of character are developed may seem to be a life strangely barren.' How do you square that with your urge to be morally ambitious? We are living in a world where a huge amount of people have a career that they consider socially meaningless and then they spend the rest of their time swiping TikTok. That's the reality, right? I really don't think that there's a big danger of people reading my book and moving all the way in the other direction. There's only one community I know of where this has become a problem. It's the effective altruism community. In a way, moral ambition could be seen as effective altruism for normies. Let's talk about that. I'm not an effective altruist, but I am a journalist who has reported a lot on EA, so I'm curious where you stand on this. You talk about EA in the book and you echo a lot of its core ideas. Your call to prioritize causes that are sizable, solvable, and sorely overlooked is a rephrase of EA's call to prioritize the 'important, tractable, and neglected.' And then there's this idea that you shouldn't just be trying to do good, you should try to do the most good possible. So is being morally ambitious different from being an effective altruist? So, I wouldn't say the most good. I would say, you should do a lot of good — which is different, right? That's not about being perfect, but just being ambitious. Effective altruism is a movement that I admire quite a bit. I think there's a lot we can learn from them. And there are also quite a few things that I don't really like about them. What I really like about them is their moral seriousness. I come from the political left, and if there's one thing that's often quite annoying about lefties it's that they preach a lot, but they do little. For example, I think it's pretty easy to make the case that donating to charity is one of the most effective things you can do. But very few of my progressive leftist friends donate anything. So I really like the moral seriousness of the EAs. Go to EA conferences and you will meet quite a few people who have donated kidneys to random strangers, which is pretty impressive. The main thing I dislike is where the motivation comes from. One of the founding fathers of effective altruism was the philosopher Peter Singer, who has a thought experiment of the child drowning in the shallow pond… That's the thought experiment where Singer says, if you see a kid drowning in a shallow pond, and you could save this kid without putting your own life in danger, but you will ruin your expensive clothes, should you do it? Yes, obviously. And by analogy, if we have money, we could easily save the lives of people in developing countries, so we should donate it instead of spending it on frivolous stuff. Yes. I never really liked the thought experiment because it always felt like a form of moral blackmail to me. It's like, now I'm suddenly supposed to see drowning children everywhere. Like, this microphone is way too expensive, I could have donated that money to some charity in Malawi! It's a totally inhuman way of looking at life. It just doesn't resonate with me at all. But there are quite a few people who instantly thought, 'Yes, that is true.' They said, 'Let's build a movement together.' And I do really like that. I see EAs as very weird, but pretty impressive. Let's pick up on that weirdness. In your book, you straight up tell readers, 'Join a cult — or start your own. Regardless, you can't be afraid to come across as weird if you want to make a difference. Every milestone of civilization was first seen as the crazy idea of some subculture.' But how do you think about the downsides of being in a cult? A cult is a group of thoughtful, committed citizens who want to change the world, and they have some shared beliefs that make them very weird to the rest of society. Sometimes that's exactly what's necessary. To give you one simple example, in a world that doesn't really seem to care about animals all that much, it's easy to become disillusioned. But when you join a safe space of ambitious do-gooders, you can suddenly get this feeling of, 'Hey, I'm not the only one! There are other people who deeply care about animals as well. And I can do much more than I'm currently doing.' So it can have a radicalizing effect. Now, I totally acknowledge that there are signs of dangers here. You can become too dogmatic, and you can be quite hostile to people who don't share all your beliefs. I just want to recognize that if you look at some of these great movements of history — the abolitionists, the suffragettes — they had cultish aspects. They were, in a way, a little bit like a cult. Do you have any advice for people on how to avoid the downside — that you can become deaf to criticism from the outside? Yes. Don't let it suck up your whole life. When I hear about all these EAs living in group houses, you know, they're probably taking things too far. I think it helps if you're a normie in other respects of your life. It gives you a certain groundedness and stability. In general, it's super important to surround yourself with people who are critical of your work, who don't take you too seriously, who can laugh at you or see your foolishness and call it out — and still be a good friend.
Vox
13-05-2025
- Vox
Does your job feel meaningless? Try 'moral ambition.'
is a senior reporter for Vox's Future Perfect and co-host of the Future Perfect podcast. She writes primarily about the future of consciousness, tracking advances in artificial intelligence and neuroscience and their staggering ethical implications. Before joining Vox, Sigal was the religion editor at the Atlantic. We're told from a young age to achieve. Get good grades. Get into a good school. Get a good job. Be ambitious about earning a high salary or a high-status position. But many of us eventually find ourselves asking: What's the point of all this ambition? The fat salary or the fancy title…are those really meaningful measures of success? There's another possibility: Instead of measuring our success in terms of fame or fortune, we could measure it in terms of how much good we do for others. And we could get super ambitious about using our lives to do a gargantuan amount of good. That's the message of Moral Ambition, a new book by historian and author Rutger Bregman. He wants us to stop wasting our talents on meaningless work and start devoting ourselves to solving the world's biggest problems, like malaria and pandemics and climate change. I recently got the chance to talk to Bregman on The Gray Area, Vox's philosophically-minded podcast. I invited him on the show because I find his message inspiring — and, to be honest, because I also had some questions about it. I want to dedicate myself to work that feels meaningful, but I'm not sure work that helps the greatest number of people is the only way to do that. Moral optimization — the effort to mathematically quantify moral goodness so that we can then maximize it — is, in my experience, agonizing and ultimately counterproductive. I also noticed that Bregman's 'moral ambition' has a lot in common with effective altruism (EA), the movement that's all about using reason and evidence to do the most good possible. After the downfall of Sam Bankman-Fried, the EA crypto billionaire who was convicted of fraud in 2023, EA suffered a major reputational blow. I wondered: Is Bregman just trying to rescue the EA baby from the bathwater? (Disclosure: In 2022, Future Perfect was awarded a one-time $200,000 grant from Building a Stronger Future, a family foundation run by Sam and Gabe Bankman-Fried. Future Perfect has returned the balance of the grant and is no longer pursuing this project.) So in our conversation, I talked to Bregman about all the different things that can make our lives feel meaningful, and asked: Are some objectively better than others? And how is moral ambition different from ideas that came before it, like effective altruism? This interview has been edited for length and clarity. There's much more in the full podcast, so listen and follow The Gray Area on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Pandora, or wherever you find podcasts. Why should people be morally ambitious? My whole career, I've been fascinated with the waste of talent that's going on in modern economies. There's this one study from two Dutch economists and they estimate that around 25 percent of all workers think that their own job is socially meaningless, or at least doubt the value of their job. That is just insane to me. I mean, this is five times the unemployment rate. And we're talking about people who often have excellent resumes, who went to very nice universities. Harvard is an interesting case in point: 45 percent of Harvard graduates end up in consultancy or finance. I'm not saying all of that is totally socially useless, but I do wonder whether that is the best allocation of talent. [Note: In 2020, 45 percent of Harvard graduating seniors entering the workforce went into consulting and finance. Among the class of 2024, the number was 34 percent.] We face some pretty big problems out there, whether it's the threat of the next pandemic that may be just around the corner, terrible diseases like malaria and tuberculosis killing millions of people, the problem with democracy breaking down. I mean, the list goes on and on. And so I've always been frustrated by this enormous waste of talent. If we're going to have a career anyway, we might as well do a lot of good with it. What role does personal passion play in this? You write in the book, 'Don't start out by asking, what's my passion? Ask instead, how can I contribute most? And then choose the role that suits you best. Don't forget, your talents are but a means to an end.' I think 'follow your passion' is probably the worst career advice out there. At the School for Moral Ambition, an organization I co-founded, we deeply believe in the Gandalf-Frodo model of changing the world. Frodo didn't follow his passion. Gandalf never asked him, 'What's your passion, Frodo?' He said, 'Look, this really needs to be done, you've got to throw the ring into the mountain.' If Frodo would have followed his passion, he would have probably been a gardener having a life full of second breakfasts and being pretty comfortable in the Shire. And then the orcs would have turned up and murdered everyone he ever loved. So the point here is, find yourself some wise old wizard, a Gandalf. Figure out what some of the most pressing issues that we face as a species are. And ask yourself, how can I make a difference? And then you will find out that you can become very passionate about it. In your book, there's a Venn diagram with three circles. The first is labeled 'sizable.' The second is 'solvable.' And the third is 'sorely overlooked.' And in the middle, where they all overlap, it says 'moral ambition.' I wonder about the 'sizable' part of that. Does moral ambition always have to be about scale? I'm a journalist now, but before that I was a novelist. And I didn't care how many people my work impacted. My feeling was: If my novel deeply moves just one reader and helps them feel less alone or more understood, I will be happy. Are you telling me I shouldn't be happy with that? I think there is absolutely a place for, as the French say, art pour l'art — art for the sake of art itself. I don't want to let everything succumb to a utilitarian calculus. But I do think it's better to help a lot of people than just a few people. On the margins, I think in the world today, we need much more moral ambition than we currently have. When I was reading your book, I kept thinking of the philosopher Susan Wolf, who has this great essay called 'Moral Saints.' She argues that you shouldn't try to be a moral saint — someone who tries to make all their actions as morally good as possible. She writes, 'If the moral saint is devoting all his time to feeding the hungry or healing the sick or raising money for Oxfam, then necessarily he is not reading Victorian novels, playing the oboe or improving his backhand. A life in which none of these possible aspects of character are developed may seem to be a life strangely barren.' How do you square that with your urge to be morally ambitious? We are living in a world where a huge amount of people have a career that they consider socially meaningless and then they spend the rest of their time swiping TikTok. That's the reality, right? I really don't think that there's a big danger of people reading my book and moving all the way in the other direction. There's only one community I know of where this has become a problem. It's the effective altruism community. In a way, moral ambition could be seen as effective altruism for normies. Let's talk about that. I'm not an effective altruist, but I am a journalist who has reported a lot on EA, so I'm curious where you stand on this. You talk about EA in the book and you echo a lot of its core ideas. Your call to prioritize causes that are sizable, solvable, and sorely overlooked is a rephrase of EA's call to prioritize the 'important, tractable, and neglected.' And then there's this idea that you shouldn't just be trying to do good, you should try to do the most good possible. So is being morally ambitious different from being an effective altruist? So, I wouldn't say the most good. I would say, you should do a lot of good — which is different, right? That's not about being perfect, but just being ambitious. Effective altruism is a movement that I admire quite a bit. I think there's a lot we can learn from them. And there are also quite a few things that I don't really like about them. What I really like about them is their moral seriousness. I come from the political left, and if there's one thing that's often quite annoying about lefties it's that they preach a lot, but they do little. For example, I think it's pretty easy to make the case that donating to charity is one of the most effective things you can do. But very few of my progressive leftist friends donate anything. So I really like the moral seriousness of the EAs. Go to EA conferences and you will meet quite a few people who have donated kidneys to random strangers, which is pretty impressive. The main thing I dislike is where the motivation comes from. One of the founding fathers of effective altruism was the philosopher Peter Singer, who has a thought experiment of the child drowning in the shallow pond… That's the thought experiment where Singer says, if you see a kid drowning in a shallow pond, and you could save this kid without putting your own life in danger, but you will ruin your expensive clothes, should you do it? Yes, obviously. And by analogy, if we have money, we could easily save the lives of people in developing countries, so we should donate it instead of spending it on frivolous stuff. Yes. I never really liked the thought experiment because it always felt like a form of moral blackmail to me. It's like, now I'm suddenly supposed to see drowning children everywhere. Like, this microphone is way too expensive, I could have donated that money to some charity in Malawi! It's a totally inhuman way of looking at life. It just doesn't resonate with me at all. But there are quite a few people who instantly thought, 'Yes, that is true.' They said, 'Let's build a movement together.' And I do really like that. I see EAs as very weird, but pretty impressive. Let's pick up on that weirdness. In your book, you straight up tell readers, 'Join a cult — or start your own. Regardless, you can't be afraid to come across as weird if you want to make a difference. Every milestone of civilization was first seen as the crazy idea of some subculture.' But how do you think about the downsides of being in a cult? A cult is a group of thoughtful, committed citizens who want to change the world, and they have some shared beliefs that make them very weird to the rest of society. Sometimes that's exactly what's necessary. To give you one simple example, in a world that doesn't really seem to care about animals all that much, it's easy to become disillusioned. But when you join a safe space of ambitious do-gooders, you can suddenly get this feeling of, 'Hey, I'm not the only one! There are other people who deeply care about animals as well. And I can do much more than I'm currently doing.' So it can have a radicalizing effect. Now, I totally acknowledge that there are signs of dangers here. You can become too dogmatic, and you can be quite hostile to people who don't share all your beliefs. I just want to recognize that if you look at some of these great movements of history — the abolitionists, the suffragettes — they had cultish aspects. They were, in a way, a little bit like a cult. Do you have any advice for people on how to avoid the downside — that you can become deaf to criticism from the outside? Yes. Don't let it suck up your whole life. When I hear about all these EAs living in group houses, you know, they're probably taking things too far. I think it helps if you're a normie in other respects of your life. It gives you a certain groundedness and stability. In general, it's super important to surround yourself with people who are critical of your work, who don't take you too seriously, who can laugh at you or see your foolishness and call it out — and still be a good friend.
Yahoo
12-05-2025
- Politics
- Yahoo
Is your brain your political destiny?
You often hear about 'ideology' these days. Even if that word isn't mentioned, it's very much what's being discussed. When President Donald Trump denounces the left, he's talking about gender ideology or critical race theory or DEI. When the left denounces Trump, they talk about fascism. Wherever you look, ideology is being used to explain or dismiss or justify policies. Buried in much of this discourse is an unstated assumption that the real ideologues are on the other side. Often, to call someone 'ideological' is to imply that they're fanatical or dogmatic. But is that the best way to think about ideology? Do we really know what we're talking about when we use the term? And is it possible that we're all ideological, whether we know it or not? Leor Zmigrod is a cognitive neuroscientist and the author of The Ideological Brain. Her book makes the case that our political beliefs aren't just beliefs. They're also neurological signatures, written into our neurons and reflexes, and over time those signatures change our brains. Zmigrod's point isn't that 'brain is destiny,' but she is saying that our biology and our beliefs are interconnected in important ways. I invited Zmigrod onto The Gray Area to talk about the biological roots of belief and whether something as complicated as ideology is reducible to the brain in this way. As always, there's much more in the full podcast, so listen and follow The Gray Area on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Pandora, or wherever you find podcasts. New episodes drop every Monday. This interview has been edited for length and clarity. What is ideology? How are you defining it? I think ideology has two components. One is a very fixed doctrine, a set of descriptions about the world that's very absolutist, that's very black and white, and that is very resistant to evidence. An ideology will always have a certain kind of causal narrative about the world that describes what the world is like and also how we should act within that world. It gives prescriptions for how we should act, how we should think, how we should interact with other people. But that's not the end of the story. To think ideologically is both to have this fixed doctrine and also to have a very fixed identity that influences how you judge everyone. And that fixed identity stems from the fact that every ideology, every doctrine, will have believers and nonbelievers. So when you think ideologically, you're really embracing those rigid identity categories and deciding to exclusively affiliate with people who believe in your ideology and reject anyone who doesn't. The degree of ideological extremity can be mapped onto how hostile you are to anyone with differing beliefs, whether you're willing to potentially harm people in the name of your ideology. You write, 'Not all stories are ideologies and not all forms of collective storytelling are rigid and oppressive.' How do you tell the difference? How do you, for instance, distinguish an ideology from a religion? Is there room for a distinction like that in your framework? What I think about often is the difference between ideology and culture. Because culture can encompass eccentricities; it can encompass deviation, different kinds of traditions or patterns from the past, but it's not about legislating what one can do or one can't do. The moment we detect an ideology is the moment when you have very rigid prescriptions about what is permissible and what is not permissible. And when you stop being able to tolerate any deviation, that's when you've moved from culture, which can encompass a lot of deviation and reinterpretations, to ideology. How do you test for cognitive flexibility versus rigidity? In order to test someone's cognitive rigidity or their flexibility, one of the most important things is not just to ask them, because people are terrible at knowing whether they're rigid or flexible. The most rigid thinkers will tell you they're fabulously flexible, and the most flexible thinkers will not know it. So that's why we need to use these unconscious assessments, these cognitive tests and games that tap into your natural capacity to be adaptable or to resist change. One test to do this is called the Wisconsin Card Sorting Test, which is a card-sorting game where people are presented with a deck of cards that they need to sort. And initially, they don't know what the rule that governs the game is, so they try and figure it out. And quickly, they'll realize that they should match the cards in their deck according to their color. So they'll start putting a blue card with a blue card, a red card with a red card, and they'll get affirmation that they're doing it. They start enacting this rule, adopting it, applying it again and again and again. And after a while, unbeknownst to them, the rule of the game changes and suddenly this color rule doesn't work anymore. That's the moment of change that I'm most interested in because some people will notice that change and they will adapt. They will then go looking for a different rule, and they'll quickly figure out that they should actually sort the cards according to the shape of the objects on the card and they'll follow this new rule. Those are very cognitively flexible individuals. But there are other people who will notice that change and they will hate it. They will resist that change. They will try to say that it never happened, and they'll try to apply the old rule, despite getting negative feedback. And those people that really resist the change are the most cognitively rigid people. They don't like change. They don't adapt their behavior when the evidence suggests that they do. So if someone struggles to switch gears in a card-sorting game, that says something about their comfort with change and ambiguity in general. And someone who struggles with change and ambiguity in a card game will probably also have an aversion to something like pluralism in politics because their brain processes that as chaotic. Is that a fair summary of the argument? Yeah, broadly. People who resist that change, who resist uncertainty, who like things to stay the same, when the rules change. They really don't like it. Often that translates into the most cognitively rigid people, people who don't like pluralism, who don't like debate. But that can really coexist on both sides of the political spectrum. When we're talking about diversity, that can be a more politicized concept, and you can still find very rigid thinkers being very militant about certain ideas that we might say are progressive. So it's quite nuanced. It's easy to understand why being extremely rigid would be a bad thing. But is it possible to be too flexible? If you're just totally unmoored and permanently wide open and incapable of settling on anything, that seems bad in a different way, no? What you're talking about is a kind of immense persuadability, but that's not exactly flexibility. There is a distinction there because being flexible is about updating your beliefs in light of credible evidence, not necessarily adopting a belief just because some authority says so. It's about seeing the evidence and responding to it. Focusing on rigidity does make a lot of sense, but is there a chance you risk pathologizing conviction? How do you draw the line between principled thinking and dogmatic thinking? It's not about pathologizing conviction, but it is about questioning what it means to believe in an idea without being willing to change your mind on it. And I think that there is a very fine line between what we call principles and what we call dogmas. This gets particularly thorny in the moral domain. No one wants to be dogmatic, but it's also hard to imagine any kind of moral clarity without something like a fixed commitment to certain principles or values. And what often happens is if we don't like someone's values, we'll call them extremists or dogmatic. But if we like their values, we call them principled. Yeah, and that's why I think that a psychological approach to what it means to think ideologically helps us escape from that kind of slippery relativism. Because then it's not just about, Oh, where is someone relative to us on certain issues on the political spectrum? It's about thinking, Well, what does it mean to resist evidence? There is a delicate path there where you can find a way to have a moral compass — maybe not the same absolutist moral clarity that ideologies try to convince you exists, but you can have a morality without having really dogmatic ideologies. How much of our rigid thinking is just about our fear of uncertainty? Ideologies are our brains' way of solving the problem of uncertainty in the world because our brains are these incredible predictive organs. They're trying to understand the world, looking for shortcuts wherever possible because it's very complicated and very computationally expensive to figure out everything that's happening in the world. Ideologies kind of hand that to you on a silver plate and they say, Here are all the rules for life. Here are all rules for social interaction. Here's a description of all the causal mechanisms for how the world works. There you go. And you don't need to do that hard labor of figuring it out all on your own. That's why ideologies can be incredibly tempting and seductive for our predictive brains that are trying to resolve uncertainty, that are trying to resolve ambiguities, that are just trying to understand the world in a coherent way. It's a coping mechanism. In the book, you argue that every worldview can be practiced extremely and dogmatically. I read that, and I just wondered if it leaves room for making normative judgments about different ideologies. Do you think every ideology is equally susceptible to extremist practices? I sometimes get strong opposition from people saying, Well, my ideology is about love. It's about generosity or about looking after others. The idea is that these positive ideologies should be immune from dogmatic and authoritarian ways of thinking. But this research isn't about comparing ideologies as these big entities represented by many people. I'm asking if there are people within all these ideologies who are extremely rigid. And we do see that every ideology can be taken on militantly. Not every ideology is equally violent or equally quick to impose rules on others, but every ideology that has this very strong utopian vision of what life and the world should be, or a very dystopian fear of where the world is going, all of those have a capacity to become extreme. How do you think about causality here? Are some people just biologically prone to dogmatic thinking, or do they get possessed by ideologies that reshape their brain over time? This is a fascinating question, and I think that causality goes both ways. I think there's evidence that there are preexisting predispositions that propel some people to join ideological groups. And that when there is a trigger, they will be the first to run to the front of the line in support of the ideological cause. But at the same time, as you become more extreme, more dogmatic, you are changed. The way you think about the world, the way you think about yourself, changes. You become more ritualistic, more narrow, more rigid in every realm of life. So yes, ideology also changes you. Listen to the rest of the conversation and be sure to follow The Gray Area on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Pandora, or wherever you listen to podcasts.
