If someone builds a business, cures a disease, or writes a symphony, did he choose to exert the effort that caused the achievement? Could he have done otherwise? Or was he moved by forces beyond his control?

Similarly, if someone robs a bank, rapes a woman, or commits murder, did he choose to do so? Could he have done otherwise? Or was he a victim of forces beyond his control?

Are we human beings in charge of the decisions we make—or not?

This is the alternative of free will or determinism.

Free will is the idea that people initiate and control certain mental and physical actions, such that they could have done otherwise. These actions are freely chosen.

Determinism is the idea that all our actions—mental and physical—are caused and necessitated by forces beyond our control. No action is freely chosen.

To the extent that you accept one of these ideas (or some mixture), it underlies and directly affects the way you think about every concern in your life—from personal achievement to moral responsibility, self-confidence, self-development, friendship, romance, recreational activities, and political freedom. Most fundamentally, your acceptance of free will or determinism affects your psychological orientation toward the world, yourself, and others—and thus your general relationship to each.

If you freely choose your actions, then your relationship to the world, yourself, and others is active. You can—and, if you want to thrive, you should—use your mind to understand the world and yourself; choose and pursue a fulfilling career, friendships, and romantic relationships that support and enhance your life; deliberately plan and strive for success; and cooperate with like-minded people to create and maintain a social system in which everyone is politically free to choose his own goals, act on his own judgment, and keep the product of his effort.

If you don’t freely choose your actions, then your relationship to the world is passive. Whatever illusions you might have about “free will,” you are not actively in charge of your life; rather, you merely experience events happening to you. You might have a job and go to work, or not—but whether you do or don’t is not up to you. You might have friends or a lover, or not; either way, you didn’t make it so. And whatever social system happens to exist wherever you happen to be is what you’re stuck with—at least until another one happens to come along or you happen to be moved to another place where a different system happens to exist.

If determinism is true, there is no “should” or even “could” about what you do. Your strings are pulled one way or another, and you move as you must, like a marionette. As Sam Harris, a leading proponent of this idea, puts it, “you are being played by the universe”—you are “a biochemical puppet” who “will do whatever it is you do, and it is meaningless to assert that you could have done otherwise.”¹

So, which is it? Are you an active agent or a passive puppet?

Let’s consider arguments and evidence for each, beginning with determinism.

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The Case for Determinism

Determinism is the idea that all our actions—mental and physical—are caused and necessitated by forces beyond our control. Free will, in this view, is an illusion; you might think you make choices, you might feel as though you have some degree of control, but you don’t.

According to determinism, all events—including events we may think we control, such as choosing to apply for a job, ask someone on a date, or crash a truck into a parade of people—are caused by prior events, which, in turn, are caused by prior events, and so on, back to before we were born and, indeed, before Earth was formed. In this view, people no more control their actions than rocks control their locations or rivers control their flows.

The core argument for determinism involves three related claims:

1. You don’t choose the thoughts that arise in your mind; to choose them, you would have to “think them before you think them,” which is impossible.2

2. You can act only as you want to act (or are forced to act), and you can’t control your wants, so you can’t choose your actions.3

3. The law of cause and effect holds that all events are caused and necessitated by prior events; thus, free will—a choice not necessitated by a prior event—would violate the law of causality.4

Let’s examine each claim with examples, then turn to the case for free will.

1. You Don’t Choose Your Thoughts

“Two plus two equals . . .” Observe that the word “four” arose in your mind and that you had no control over it. You didn’t choose it. It simply appeared.

“Humpty Dumpty sat on a . . .” Again, you had no control over whether “wall” surfaced in your mind. You had no choice in the matter.

“For every action, there is an equal and opposite . . .” Just the reaction I expected! Once again, you didn’t choose that thought; it just popped into your head.

From such observations, determinists argue that you have no control over your thoughts—and thus none over your mind. As Harris puts it,

If you pay attention to how thoughts arise, you’ll see that they simply appear quite literally out of nowhere—and you’re not free to choose them before they appear. That would require that you think them before you think them. So, here’s the question: If you can’t control your next thought, if you can’t decide what it will be before it arises, and if you can’t prevent it from arising, where is your freedom of will?5

Harris offers an extended example to emphasize this point. “Think of a city anywhere in the world. You can choose any city you want,” he begins:

Now, the first thing to notice about this is that this is as free a decision as you are ever going to make in your life. You have all the cities in the world to choose from, and I’m just asking you to pick one. Now, several cities have probably occurred to you. Just focus on one. . . . Do this again just so you can see what the process is like. Pick another city—it can’t be the first—and notice what that experience is like. Did you see any evidence for free will? We better be able to find it here. If it’s not here, it’s not anywhere. So let’s look for it.

First, let’s set aside all those cities whose names you don’t know and therefore could not have picked—because you couldn’t have picked one of those if your life depended on it. There’s no freedom in that, obviously. There are many other cities whose names are quite well known to you but which simply didn’t occur to you to pick. For instance, perhaps Cairo didn’t occur to you. You absolutely know that Cairo is a city but, for whatever reason, your Cairo circuits were not engaged; as a matter of neurophysiology, Cairo was not in the cards.

Think about this: Were you free to choose that which did not occur to you to choose? Based on the state of your brain a few moments ago, Cairo was not coming. Where is the freedom in that? . . .

Now, you probably thought of several cities. Let’s say you thought of Paris, New York, and Tokyo. And, then you thought, “I love Paris, I’m going to go with Paris”—and at the last minute you thought, “No, no, Tokyo. I’ll go with Tokyo.”

This is the sort of decision that motivates the idea of free will: You’ve got two or more choices, you’re picking between them, and it’s just you and your thoughts. There’s no coercion from the external world—you are doing it, apparently. But, when you look closely, I think you’ll find that you are in no position to know why you picked what you picked—in this case, why you chose Tokyo over Paris. You might have some additional story to tell about it. You might think, “Well, I had Japanese food last night, and so I remembered it, and I picked Tokyo.” . . .

Even if you are right in this instance—even if your choice of Tokyo over Paris is based on your memory of having Japanese food last night, you still can’t explain why you remembered having Japanese food last night, or why the memory had the effect that it did. Why didn’t it have the opposite effect? Why didn’t you think, “Well, I just had Japanese food last night, so let’s go with something new, let’s go with Paris”?

The thing to notice about this is that you as the conscious witness of your inner life are not making these decisions—you can only witness these decisions. You no more picked the city you settled on than you would have if I picked it for you.6

The conclusion that Harris and other determinists draw from such examples is that every idea that arises in your mind is caused and necessitated by forces beyond your control. “You think you’re the thinker of the thoughts,” says Harris, but “you’re not. Thoughts just arise.”7 Indeed, he ventures to say, “If you look for the thinker of these thoughts, you will not find one. And the sense that you have—‘What the hell is Harris talking about? I’m the thinker!’—is just another thought, arising in consciousness.”8

In this view, you are not a thinker but a reactor. You are a puppet being played by the universe.

We’ll revisit these claims about thoughts and thinkers later. For now, let’s consider another argument determinists make.

2. You Act Only as You Want to Act or Are Forced to Act

Alex O’Connor, another popular proponent of determinism, argues against free will primarily by zeroing in on the fact that our actions are motivated by our desires: “You only ever do anything—ever—because you want to, or because you’re forced to. That’s it. There’s no counterexample to this. . . . If you’re forced to [act], you’re not in control. If you do it because you want to, then given that you can’t control your wants, you’re not in control of that [action], either.”

O’Connor illustrates this point by querying a woman who thought she had chosen to walk her dog:

“Why did you walk your dog?” he asks.

“Because if I didn’t, he wouldn’t have gotten walked.”

“So what?”

“I suppose I want to care for him.”

“You want to care for the dog because you have a desire for your dog to be in good health.”

“Yes.”

“Had the desire to stay at home been stronger, that’s what you would have done. Wants have governed your decision.”9

Harris uses this same line of argument:

You are “free” to do an almost infinite number of things today—free in the sense that no one will try to stop you from doing these things or put you in prison if you do them. But you’re not free to want what you don’t in fact want, or to want what you want more than you want it. . . . Where is the freedom in doing what one wants when one’s very desires are the products of prior events that one had absolutely no hand in creating?10

This is the second prong of the core argument against free will: You can act only as you want to act (or are forced to act), and your desires are products of prior events over which you had no control, so there is no room for freedom of choice.

We’ll return to these claims later, as well. But now, let’s consider what many regard as the strongest argument against free will: an argument pertaining to natural law—specifically, the law of causality.

3. Free Will Would Violate the Law of Causality

The basic argument of this third prong is that because every event is caused by prior events, because every action is a reaction to preceding actions, free will is impossible. If you take an action, mental or physical, that seems to be freely chosen—say, you think about your plans for the weekend, or go for a run, or attend a marketing seminar—what actually happened is that prior events inexorably made you do it. In this view, an event not necessitated by prior events would be causeless or random. If it’s causeless, you didn’t cause it; and if it’s random, it happened by chance. Either way, you didn’t cause it, so you are not in control.

As Harris puts it,

Everywhere we look, we see patterns of events, and all these events have prior causes, which is to say they depend materially and functionally and logically on other events that preceded them in time. And, most relevantly for our purposes, all of our conscious experiences—our thoughts, intentions, desires—and the actions and choices that result from them are caused by events of which we are not conscious and which we did not bring into being.11

Most determinists acknowledge, as Harris does, that so-called “choices, efforts, intentions, and reasoning influence our behavior.” But, they say, these influences “are themselves part of a chain of causes that precede conscious awareness and over which we exert no ultimate control.”12 Thus, all control is illusory. As Harris sums it up, “The next thing you think and do can only emerge from this totality of prior causes, and it can only emerge in one of two ways: lawfully—that is, deterministically, like one domino just getting knocked over by another—or randomly.”13

To indicate the significance of this point regarding moral responsibility, Harris provides this example:

Consider a generic serial killer. His choice to commit his last murder was determined by neurophysiological events in his brain, which were, in turn, determined by prior causes—bad genes, the developmental effects of an unhappy childhood, a night of lost sleep because a car alarm was going off down the street. These events precede any conscious decision to act.

So, what does it mean to say that this murderer committed his crime of his own free will? If this statement means anything, it must mean that he could have behaved differently. He could have resisted the impulse to commit the murder, or he could have declined to feel the impulse altogether—and not on the basis of some random influences over which he had no conscious control, but because he was actually the conscious author of his thoughts and actions.

The problem is that no one has been able to describe a way in which mental and physical events could arise that would make sense of this claim of freedom. When we assume that violent criminals have such freedom, we reflexively blame them for their actions. But when we look at this wider net of causality, the basis for placing blame seems to evaporate. The moment we catch sight of a stream of causes that reach back into childhood and beyond, the sense of his culpability begins to disappear.

To say that he would have done otherwise or could have done otherwise, had he chosen to, is simply to say he would have lived in a different universe had he been in a different universe. As sickening as I might find such a person’s behavior, I have to admit that if I were to trade places with him, atom for atom, I would be him. There’s no extra part of me that could resist the impulse to victimize innocent people.14

This is the meaning of determinism regarding morality and personal responsibility: We all are inexorably driven to act as we do by prior conditions and events beyond our control, so no one is genuinely responsible for anything—not for good behavior, bad behavior, or the most evil behavior imaginable.

Leveraging this conception of causality, Harris seemingly drives the final nail into the coffin of free will:

You didn’t choose your parents. You didn’t choose the society into which you were born. There’s not a cell in your body or brain that you the conscious subject created, nor is there a single influence coming from the outside world that you brought into being. And yet everything you think and do arises from this ocean of prior causes. . . .

There’s no way to describe causality such that the idea of free will could make sense. Neither determinism nor randomness nor any combination of the two cashes out this idea of free agency. Under determinism you lose the free part, and under randomness you lose the agency.15

In sum, as Harris puts it,

1. “You are no more responsible for the next thing you think (and therefore do) than you are for the fact that you were born into this world.”16

2. “The ‘you’ that you take yourself to be isn’t in control of anything.”17

3. “The future is set—and this includes all our future states of mind and our subsequent behavior.”18

To many people, the foregoing arguments seem decisive. It appears that free will is simply impossible. To reconcile free will with our thoughts, desires, and causality, we would have to integrate it with each—without contradiction.

We will.

But before we do, let’s note some general implications of determinism.

Implications of Determinism

If we have no free will—if we are not in control of our actions—then we are in a strange and dark place. Among other things:

• As indicated above, moral responsibility is out. No one can be morally responsible for something over which he has no control. If you didn’t will yourself to study for the exam, then you can’t legitimately claim credit for the A. If you didn’t freely choose the actions that built your company and created your wealth, then you can’t legitimately claim ownership of either. And if jihadists didn’t will themselves to burn families alive; rape, torture, and mangle women and children; murder people in myriad unspeakable ways; and celebrate all this in the streets, then we can’t legitimately hold them responsible or even hold them in contempt for having done so; they couldn’t help it.

• Romantic love is out. “Honey, I didn’t choose you; I was pushed by forces beyond my control to ask you out. Then I was forced to kiss you. Then to have sex with you. Then to marry you. And now, unless the forces change, I have to stay with you. Perhaps tomorrow they’ll push me toward our neighbor, Mary. Who knows? But remember, I’m just a puppet being played by the universe. So, whatever happens, the universe made me do it.”

• Friendship is out—for the same reason as romance. You didn’t choose your friends. They didn’t choose you. You don’t choose to get together when you do. And when you enjoy each other’s company, there is no “you” or “self” involved on anyone’s part. You’re just meat puppets running your mouths and slapping your knees.

• Purpose is out. You might feel like you choose your career, hobbies, and various projects. But you don’t. It’s all accidental. You are merely pushed this way or that by forces beyond your control; there’s no intention or striving to any of it. You’re merely a passive reactor. Tell yourself what you will—lie if you must. But you have no purposes or aims in life.

• Self-esteem is out—for the same reason as purpose. You might feel as though you’ve achieved worthy goals—say, creating an app or climbing El Capitan. But you haven’t achieved anything. All your alleged achievements were caused and necessitated by forces beyond your control. To take pride in them is to pretend that they were achievements. Again, lie if you must. But you don’t deserve to feel good about yourself.

• Political freedom is out. The whole point of political freedom—the reason human beings need it—is that we have free will and need to act in accordance with our own choices, purposes, and aims. If Frederick Douglass had no free will, why would it matter that Thomas Auld forced him to serve against his “will”? If people have no free will, they have no need for political freedom. Forcing someone to work in a field or factory is no more “wrong” or “immoral” than forcing a horse to pull a plow or training a dog to lead the blind. What’s more, people—including statist politicians and dictators—who act to enslave others have no choice in the matter. They merely do as they must—and they can’t be blamed. If free will doesn’t exist, then there is no moral difference between Abraham Lincoln and the United States on the one hand and Joseph Stalin and the Soviet Union on the other.

Those are just some of the implications of determinism.

Now let’s consider a different approach to free will.

What Free Will Is and Isn’t

Free will is not the ability to fully control which thoughts or memories arise from your subconscious. Nor is it the ability to act in ways you don’t want to act—or to act on a weaker rather than a stronger desire. Nor is free will a violation of the law of causality, properly understood.

What, then, is free will? It is the choice to think or not to think—to exert mental effort or not to do so.19

That you can and do make this choice is introspectively self-evident. When you introspect—when you look inward at the functions of your consciousness—you can watch yourself choosing to focus your mind fully or less than fully. You can observe that you are able to choose to increase or decrease mental effort.

The word “introspection” derives from the Latin specere, meaning “to look” or “to observe.” And “evidence” derives from the Latin videre, meaning “to see.” When you look inward and observe yourself choosing to activate your mind, you are observing evidence of the fact that you can choose to activate your mind.

The process of looking inward and observing yourself choosing to think is as valid as the process of looking outward and observing a traffic light turning green. It is direct evidence. (If someone claims that your introspective evidence of your choice to think is invalid, the burden is on him to provide evidence that what you observe yourself doing is not what you observe yourself doing.)

To fully grasp the nature of free will, we must understand the relationship between free will and reason.

Reason is the faculty that operates by means of perceptual observation, conceptual integration, and logic (non-contradictory identification). Using reason, we can perceive the outside world with our senses (extrospection) and the functions of our mind through introspection; we can integrate our perceptions into concepts, propositions, generalizations, and principles; and we can check our ideas for contradictions and correct them along the way. In short, reason is the faculty that enables us to think.

Whereas reason is our capacity to think, free will (or volition) is our ability to activate that capacity. Seen this way, reason and volition are two sides of the same faculty; whereas reason enables us to think, free will is the choice to think.

As the philosopher Ayn Rand observed, “man is a being of volitional consciousness. Reason does not work automatically; thinking is not a mechanical process; the connections of logic are not made by instinct. The function of your stomach, lungs or heart is automatic; the function of your mind is not.”20 At any waking moment, a person “can focus his mind to a full, active, purposefully directed awareness of reality—or he can unfocus it and let himself drift in a semiconscious daze, merely reacting to any chance stimulus of the immediate moment.”21 A person can even actively turn his mind against its proper function; he can deliberately try to push out of his awareness relevant facts that he does not want to face. In a word, he can evade.22

Consider these alternatives regarding one of the most important matters in life: the need for productiveness. To live, we human beings must produce the values necessary to sustain and further our lives (or survive parasitically on the productive efforts of others). The things we need don’t spring into existence from a wish or a prayer. We must produce them—or produce something we can trade to get them from others who have produced them. This sphere of life entails a vast range of options—from construction work to chemical engineering, from teaching to gardening, from medical work to method acting, from writing novels to programming computers—the list is practically endless. Within this massive range, each of us must choose some way to produce values in order to survive and thrive (or suffer the consequences of not doing so). This is a basic fact of reality: Human beings must produce in order to live.

Given the alternatives that free will affords, we can approach the need of productiveness in one of three ways: fully in focus, less than fully in focus, or evasively:

1. We can set our minds to full, conscious awareness of our need for productiveness; consider our alternatives in the full context of our lives, needs, values, and desires—all the things that matter to us; and choose to pursue a productive path fully rationally. (People who love and excel in their careers do so because they approach the subject this way.)

2. We can approach the issue less than fully focused, thinking about it some but not a lot, and drift in a semiconscious daze regarding this important area of life. (Many people do this.)

3. We can actively set our minds against recognizing and accepting the fact that our life requires productiveness, try to push it out of our minds, and seek instead to “get by” without having to produce values. (Thieves, con artists, and many politicians and bureaucrats choose this approach.)

That these alternatives exist is a matter of observation. You can see them both introspectively and extrospectively (i.e., through your observations of and experiences with others). And what makes them possible is free will.

Consider another example: moral justice. If, when judging someone’s character, you take into account your full context of knowledge about him—all that you know he has said and done, including good, bad, or questionable things—and judge him accordingly, you have judged him in full focus. If, instead, you don’t consider the available and relevant facts but you hear others say positive or negative things about the person (which you don’t know to be true) and judge him on the basis of such hearsay, then you have judged him in less than full focus, in a semiconscious daze (not to mention secondhandedly). And if you know that the person has been honest and just in all your dealings with him—or, alternatively, that he has been dishonest or unjust at times—but you try to push this knowledge out of your mind so that you can judge him, say, in a way that aligns with the views of people from whom you seek approval, then you have judged him evasively (and secondhandedly).

Again, these alternatives are possible because you have free will. They couldn’t exist without it.

We make many choices in life, but to focus our mind (or not) is our fundamental and primary choice. It is the choice that governs all our other choices. The choice to think, as Rand observed, is the locus of free will; it’s where free will fundamentally resides.23

Our other choices are real but secondary in that they follow from and are governed by our choice to think or not to think. Secondary choices include everything from choosing a career to choosing friends, a lover, where you’ll live, which entrée to order, or which movie to watch. In all such cases, you can activate your mind fully to the task at hand, less than fully, or evasively. The primary choice is always present. And the secondary choices are always real.

The foregoing indicates the basic nature of free will. Now, let’s see how this idea stands in relation to thoughts and memories arising from our subconscious, wants or desires that motivate our actions, and the law of causality, properly understood.

Free Will and Thoughts

Although as Harris and other determinists note, you can’t fully control the thoughts and memories that arise from your subconscious, you can choose to deal with them rationally—or not. When thoughts arise, you can activate your mind fully or less than fully to assess or work with them.

If I say, “Two plus two equals . . .” and “four” pops into your mind, that is not evidence against free will. It’s simply a consequence of the fact that you have a subconscious full of knowledge and memories, some of which were activated by the prompt. If you are paying attention when I issue the prompt, you likely can’t stop “four” from arising, but your free will does not lie in your ability to stop the automatic functions of your subconscious from happening. Rather, your free will lies in your ability to activate your consciousness fully or not, to be rational or not.

Likewise, if Harris asks you to think of a city, and Paris comes to mind, that is not evidence against free will. When your conscious mind queries your subconscious, it cannot predict precisely what will come up. It cannot think thoughts before they arise. But this is not evidence for determinism.

Your mind has a nature, and it can act only in accordance with its nature. It is capable of thinking, exerting mental effort, and trying to make sense of the material it receives—whether from your subconscious or from the outside world. Likewise, your subconscious has a nature, and it acts in accordance with its nature. Your subconscious is the storage facility for your knowledge, ideas, memories, skills. It does not actively think; rather, it passively stores data caused by your thinking or non-thinking and the experiences you’ve mentally processed one way or the other. So, although as Harris notes, your mind can’t know exactly what data will come up before it comes up, this has no bearing on whether you can choose to think or not to think. The content of your thoughts and the choice to think are not the same thing.

The content of your thoughts is the ideas you are forming, assessing, or working with at any given time. The choice to think is the choice to apply reason while forming, assessing, or working with ideas. If you apply reason to the question of whether you can control or predict every thought that arises from your subconscious, you will see that you can’t. If you apply reason to the question of whether you can activate your mind by choice, you will see that you can. The fact that thoughts sometimes pop into your mind unbidden is not evidence against free will. Rather, it is evidence of the existence and nature of your subconscious—which interacts with but is distinct from your conscious mind.

This distinction will become clearer as we consider the relationship between free will and desires.

Free Will and Wants

As O’Connor observes, apart from coercion, you always act on your desires; and, when faced with competing desires, you always act on your strongest desire. All of this is trivially true. The important question is: Do you think about your desires before acting on them? Do you rationally assess them with respect to the full context of your relevant knowledge and then act—or do you act on your desires without thinking about them at all? Free will is your power to do either. The choice is yours.

Which comes first: the will or the want? In a certain respect, they come together, as both free will and desires are omnipresent in our minds. However, in an important respect, free will comes first. To know what we want—especially to know what we want most and to know whether the things we want are good for our lives—we must think. We must activate our minds to identify our desires, analyze them, name them, compare them, determine whether they integrate with or contradict our long-range plans and purposes, project the course of our lives if we act this way rather than that way, and so on. Desires, to be understood, must be examined. Our means of examining them is reason—which operates by choice.

Moreover, our desires are not causeless starting points. Rather, they are caused by the ideas and values we’ve accepted—which, in turn, are consequences of the thinking or non-thinking we’ve done. Of course, our thinking or non-thinking is done within the context of our social environment and our biological and psychological nature. Someone born and raised in Boston who is six feet tall and has an IQ of 90 will have substantially different experiences and opportunities than someone born and raised in Nairobi who is five feet tall and has an IQ of 130. But none of this changes the fact that we can and do choose to think or not to think. Contrary to the widely accepted false alternative, “nature and nurture” are not the only things that affect your life. Your choices affect it, too—and this part is entirely up to you.

Whether and to what extent you choose to think about your wants before acting on them makes a massive difference. Acting on your desires without full-context thinking is not the same as acting on your desires with full-context thinking, and the difference is decisive. If you think and act rationally as a matter of principle, you will live a profoundly different life than if you don’t. This is why rational parents and teachers encourage children to think before they act, to use their heads, to consider the consequences of their actions, and so on.

To fully grasp the relationship between free will and wants, we need to understand exactly what emotions are and how they relate to reason. Our emotions are automatic consequences of our value judgments; they arise from our evaluations of the things, people, and events in our lives. And they are vitally important. They are our psychological means of experiencing our values.

For instance, if you apply for a job that you consider ideal for your career path and get it, you experience positive, joyful emotions. If you don’t get the job, you experience frustration or disappointment. Similarly, if you haven’t seen your friend for a long time and you see him at a concert, you will be thrilled. If, however, he informs you that he’s been diagnosed with stage-four pancreatic cancer, your emotion will change to sorrow. Likewise, if your favorite team wins a major game, you’ll be happy about it. If they lose, you’ll be sad—especially if you bet a lot of money on the game.

Your emotions reflect what is important to you; they are, as Rand put it, “lightning-like estimates of the things around you, calculated according to your values.”24 As such, they are crucial to your life. If you didn’t experience desire, you wouldn’t be motivated to take any actions at all, and you’d soon die. If you never experienced joy, you’d have no reason to remain alive; a life devoid of joy is not worth living.

We need emotions. But emotions are not our means of knowledge. They can’t tell us which berries are edible, how to build a hut, how to write a constitution, who is honest, or what will make us happy. Only reason can tell us such things—and only if we choose to use it.

If we choose to use reason as a matter of course in life, we develop healthy, life-serving values and, correspondingly, life-serving emotions. We feel emotions of joy when we achieve our life-enhancing goals or see other good people achieve theirs. And we feel emotions of frustration, sorrow, or anger when we fail or experience or witness tragedies or atrocities.

So, although we don’t control our emotions directly, we do control them indirectly: by means of our thinking or non-thinking.

This means that, over time, we can change how we feel about something or someone. For instance, if a woman wants to remain in a relationship with a man who is abusive, because she’s attracted to his “bad boy” demeanor, but she also wants to stop wanting to remain in the relationship, she can make this change. She can choose to exert the effort necessary to engage in full-context thinking about the situation. She can question the value of the “bad boy” to her life, physical well-being, psychological needs, and long-term happiness. She can compare him and his ilk to the kind of men who treat people rationally and justly as a matter of principle. She can project what her life would be like if she were to leave the “bad boy” and begin engaging with men of (genuine) self-esteem. She can do this kind of thinking—if she chooses to. And if she does, she can also choose to act accordingly. She can choose to act in her rational self-interest. And if she thinks and acts this way as a matter of course, then, in time, she will lose her desire for a “bad boy” and instead desire a good man.

Given the respective natures and relationship of reason and emotion, the lag time between our thinking and corresponding emotional changes can be substantial. But, if we choose to think, we can understand this fact, project the future value of acting in accordance with our rational judgment today, and thus develop a strong desire to do so. Free will makes this possible. To make it actual, we must choose to think.

With this in mind, let’s revisit O’Connor’s and Harris’s claims that we have no control over our wants or desires.

O’Connor says, “You only ever do anything—ever—because you want to, or because you’re forced to. That’s it. There’s no counterexample to this.” OK. That comports with experience. But what about this: “If you [take an action] because you want to, then given that you can’t control your wants, you’re not in control of that [action].” Is this true? As we’ve seen, it is not.

Likewise, Harris says, “You are ‘free’ to do an almost infinite number of things today—free in the sense that no one will try to stop you from doing these things . . . [but] Where is the freedom in doing what one wants when one’s very desires are the products of prior events that one had absolutely no hand in creating?” Is it true that you have no hand in creating your desires? Again, on examination, it is not.

We do control our desires—in two ways: First, we choose to think (or not) while forming our values—which, in turn, give rise to our emotions and desires; and, second, when we experience a given desire or set of desires, we choose to assess them rationally (or not) before acting on them. So, our choice to think (or not) governs both sides of the equation: our formation of the values that cause our emotions and desires—and our decisions about whether to act on a given desire.

It is worth noting the abundance of literature, audio, and video on the subject of changing the way you think in order to change the way you feel. All of it presupposes and depends on the idea that you can choose to think. For instance, both rational emotive behavior therapy, developed by Albert Ellis in the 1950s, and cognitive behavioral therapy, developed by Aaron Beck in the 1960s, emphasize the causal relationship between the ideas you accept and how you feel. Likewise, Nathaniel Branden’s work on the psychology of self-esteem, developed with Ayn Rand in the 1950s and 60s and elaborated by him in subsequent decades, focuses explicitly on the relationship between rational thinking and personal happiness. Similarly, positive psychology, developed by Martin Seligman in the 1990s, is about choosing to focus on the positive aspects of your life, including life-enhancing opportunities and courses of action—and challenging and reframing negative thoughts in light of positive alternatives. And of course, the entire self-help and self-development industry is premised on your ability to take charge of your life by activating your mind. Examples include the work of James Clear, author of Atomic Habits: An Easy & Proven Way to Build Good Habits & Break Bad Ones, who observes, “Ultimately, the only way to truly be in control of your life is to be in control of your thoughts”; and the work of Carol S. Dweck, author of Mindset: The New Psychology of Success, which is based explicitly on the premise that “You’re in charge of your mind. You can help it grow by using it in the right way.”25

The foregoing is an indication of the relationship of reason and emotion and how they can and should work in harmony. Your fundamental means of making them work in harmony is free will: your choice to think.

In light of these facts, we can see that no dichotomy exists between acting on your desires and acting on your rational judgment. You can do both at the same time. But you can do so only if you place reason in charge of the process. This is because reason can account for and assess your emotions—including your wants and desires—which are important facts that can and should be included in your thought processes; but your emotions cannot account for your reason, because they are not a means of thinking. Nor can your wants or desires make you think or not think. They are incentives; they can and do provide motivation for you to act (or not) in certain ways. But they cannot force you to act one way or another. Incentives are not coercions—which is why we have different concepts for the two different things. Incentives are incentives.

Your wants and desires are real, and they are involved in your thinking and choosing—even in your choice to think or not to think. You don’t make that choice in a vacuum; you make it in the context of your values, desires, and aims—all of which provide incentive for you to think. Indeed, the desire for a life of happiness provides a massive incentive to think. If you want to flourish, you must think rationally and act accordingly. Every adult with a normal, healthy brain knows this to some extent, whether explicitly or implicitly; and if he ignores or evades this knowledge, he suffers the consequences. But not even this powerful incentive can force anyone to think.

The only thing that can make a choice happen—the only thing that can cause a choice—is the person who chooses. This will become clearer as we think through our next subject: the law of causality.

Free Will and Causality

The final and most fundamental problem in the determinist’s approach to the question of free will is a false conception of causality: the notion that events are caused by events.

This idea seems to make sense in the realm of mechanistic or physical causation—planetary motion, river flows, chemical reactions, and the like. But this conception of causality is fundamentally flawed, which is why it cannot account for our observations of free will.

The correct formulation of the law of causality is not that “events are caused by events” (aka “event causality”) but, rather, that actions are actions of entities—and entities act (and interact) in accordance with their identities (“entity causality”). As Rand put it, “The law of causality is the law of identity applied to action. All actions are caused by entities. The nature of an action is caused and determined by the nature of the entities that act; a thing cannot act in contradiction to its nature.”26

This conception of causality is observably true. We can see that things are what they are—and that they act in accordance with their natures. For example, we can see that a rose is a rose and a woman is a woman. We can see that a rose can bloom but cannot speak, that a woman can become an engineer but cannot become a pillar of salt.

The event-causality model is observably false. Events are self-evidently not primaries; they cannot happen apart from entities. Blooming can’t happen in the absence of a thing that blooms (e.g., a rose), and speaking can’t happen in the absence of a thing that speaks (e.g., a woman). Entities—including people (agents)—are the causes of events.

Recall Harris’s claim that thinking just happens—that there is no thinker of thoughts: “You think you’re the thinker of the thoughts,” but “you’re not. Thoughts just arise.” “If you look for the thinker of these thoughts, you will not find one. And the sense that you have—‘What the hell is Harris talking about? I’m the thinker!’—is just another thought, arising in consciousness.”

The notion that an action or event (such as thinking) can happen without an entity that takes the action or causes the event is absurd. Just as “dancing” can’t happen without a dancer, and “skiing” can’t happen without a skier, so, too, “thinking” can’t happen without a thinker.

Events are not primary aspects of existence. Entities are. And entities are what cause actions and interactions (e.g., “colliding” can’t happen without entities that collide). If you (an entity/agent) throw a rock (an entity) at a window (an entity), what happens—and why? The window breaks—and it breaks because of the natures, the identities, of the entities involved. Likewise, if you throw a cotton ball at the same window, what happens? Exactly. And why? What difference makes the difference? The difference that makes the difference is the nature of the cotton ball in relation to the nature of the window—and how they interact given their respective natures.

The valid conception of the law of causality is that actions are actions of entities, and that entities act in accordance with their identities. With this conception in mind, we can see that free will is not an exception to the law of causality but an instance of it. Human beings have a nature, the essence of which is that we possess the faculty of reason—which operates by choice. Your choice to think (or not) is caused—caused by you: the agent (entity) making the choice.

That you must choose one way or the other—to focus your mind fully or not to do so—also is caused: It is caused by your nature as a being who possesses the faculty of reason. But your choice to think or not to think in any given moment is not necessitated by any prior event or any other entity. You are the cause of the choice. You are the primary cause.

Recall Harris’s claim that “There’s no way to describe causality such that the idea of free will could make sense.” This seems to be true—if you describe causality as events causing events. But in light of the observably correct law of causality—the fact that actions are actions of entities and that entities act in accordance with their identities—we can see that the determinists are wrong on this count, too. Free will is an instance of causality.

Free will makes us remarkably different from other things, including other animals. This is because they don’t possess the faculty of reason. We do. And with reason comes the ability to activate it: free will.

Just as we don’t look at inanimate objects such as rocks or gears and say, “These objects are the model of causation for all entities, regardless of kind”—and just as we don’t look at plants and say, “No way! These things can’t possibly engage in self-generated action, because inanimate objects can’t take such action”—and just as we don’t look at animals and say, “Impossible! These things can’t conceivably engage in self-generated locomotion, because plants can’t engage in such action”—so, too, we shouldn’t look at human beings and say, “Absolutely not! These things can’t possibly engage in self-generated mental action, because non-human animals can’t take such action.”

Different things have different identities. Different things have different natures. And each thing acts in accordance with its nature.

Free will is a complex subject. There is a lot here to get our heads around—especially given how much has been written and said in support of determinism and against free will in recent decades. So, take your time with these ideas. Be patient with yourself and with others. The goal in thinking about and discussing this subject (as with all philosophic subjects) is to see which ideas derive from and integrate non-contradictorily with direct evidence, both introspective and extrospective—and thus which ideas ultimately make sense.

Toward that end, let’s consider a few common fallacies that can and often do cause confusion about free will.

Fallacies Against Free Will

The following is not an exhaustive list of fallacies that cause confusion about free will, but these prevalent few are worth understanding and bearing in mind. I encourage you to think through them and be on the lookout for them in your own thinking and in the arguments and claims of others.

Loaded Question

A loaded question is one that contains an unwarranted assumption or implication.

Whereas the question “What caused my choice to think?” is not a loaded question (something must have caused it, and that something is me), the question “What caused me to choose?” is loaded. It implies that something other than me (i.e., other than the choosing agent) ultimately caused the choice. This is an unwarranted assumption. What’s more, it flies in the face of direct introspective evidence that I initiate my choice to think.

Circular Reasoning or Begging the Question

Circular reasoning (aka question begging) consists in assuming that which you are trying to prove.

If someone argues that “something must have caused you to choose one way or the other—because every event is caused by a prior event,” he is begging the question. In an argument about whether free will exists, the question of whether something other than the agent caused his choice is precisely the issue at hand. For someone to argue that “something must have made you choose . . .” is to assume what he is trying (and has the burden) to prove—namely, that your choice to think (or not) is caused not by you but by something else.

Frozen Abstraction

The fallacy of the frozen abstraction consists in falsely equating ideas by substituting a particular conceptual concrete for the wider abstract class to which it belongs.27

To treat the law of causality (a broad abstraction—indeed, a universal law) as the equivalent of one of its constituent kinds of causality, say, mechanistic causality, is to exclude from the universal law things that are in the universe yet operate via a different kind of causality—such as vegetative causality (specific to plants), instinctive causality (specific to certain animals), and volitional causality (specific to humans).

Just as we don’t equate math with algebra and thus omit arithmetic, geometry, and calculus from the broader abstraction of “math,” so, too, we shouldn’t equate the law of causality with one specific kind of causality and thereby omit the others. To do so is to conceive a universal law in non-universal terms.

Post Hoc

“Post hoc” is short for “post hoc ergo propter hoc,” which means “after this, therefore because of this.” The fallacy consists in assuming that because one event precedes another, the first event caused the second. It’s an instance of assuming that correlation implies causation but specifically regarding temporal sequence.

One way this fallacy manifests regarding free will is in claims to the effect that because certain experiments show that a certain kind of brain activity precedes people’s alleged choices, the brain activity caused the choices. Harris cites such experiments in his book, Free Will. As you read this passage, see if you can spot the fallacy:

The physiologist Benjamin Libet famously used EEG to show that activity in the brain’s motor cortex can be detected some 300 milliseconds before a person feels that he has decided to move. Another lab extended this work using functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI): Subjects were asked to press one of two buttons while watching a “clock” composed of a random sequence of letters appearing on a screen. They reported which letter was visible at the moment they decided to press one button or the other. The experimenters found two brain regions that contained information about which button subjects would press a full 7 to 10 seconds before the decision was consciously made. More recently, direct recordings from the cortex showed that the activity of merely 256 neurons was sufficient to predict with 80 percent accuracy a person’s decision to move 700 milliseconds before he became aware of it. . . .

One fact now seems indisputable: Some moments before you are aware of what you will do next—a time in which you subjectively appear to have complete freedom to behave however you please—your brain has already determined what you will do. You then become conscious of this “decision” and believe that you are in the process of making it.28

Did you catch it?

That final paragraph is an instance of the post hoc fallacy. The fact that activity in the subjects’ brains preceded their decisions to act doesn’t mean the brain activity caused their decisions to act. The brain activity may be a necessary condition for a choice to be made, but that doesn’t make it a sufficient condition. Engine activity is a necessary condition for a car to move; that doesn’t make it a sufficient condition. For the car to move, the driver must put the car in gear and press the accelerator.

As various scientists and thinkers (including Libet himself) have noted, the brain activity could be and likely is part of a pre-choice process leading up to the agent’s choice to act one way or another. Assuming causation based merely on temporal sequence is not scientific.

Libet himself saw his experiments not as disproving free will but as affirming it in some form or another. In his article “Do We Have Free Will?,” he wrote,

I have taken an experimental approach to this question. Freely voluntary acts are preceded by a specific electrical change in the brain (the ‘readiness potential’, RP) that begins 550 ms before the act. Human subjects became aware of intention to act 350–400 ms after RP starts, but 200 ms. before the motor act. The volitional process is therefore initiated unconsciously. But the conscious function could still control the outcome; it can veto the act. Free will is therefore not excluded. . . .

Potentially available to the conscious function is the possibility of stopping or vetoing the final progress of the volitional process, so that no actual muscle action ensues. Conscious-will could thus affect the outcome of the volitional process even though the latter was initiated by unconscious cerebral processes. Conscious-will might block or veto the process, so that no act occurs. The existence of a veto possibility is not in doubt.29

“After this, therefore because of this” is not a scientific method or principle but a logical fallacy.

Whatever the relationship of brain activity to choice, introspective observation of our ability to choose to think (or not) is direct evidence of free will. And any experiment that ignores direct introspective evidence of the fact that a person can choose to think (or not) violates the primary, most fundamental principle of science: Perceptual evidence is the ultimate standard of knowledge and truth.

Stolen Concept

Concept stealing consists in using a concept while denying or ignoring more basic ideas on which it logically depends—the ideas that connect it to reality and thereby give it meaning.30 Whereas question begging consists in relying on an idea you are trying to affirm or prove, concept stealing consists in relying on an idea you are trying to deny or disprove.

We’ve already seen a clear-cut case of this fallacy: the notion that there can be “thinking” without a thinker. To claim or assume that thinking can happen while denying the very thing that makes thinking possible (a being who can think) is to steal the concept of “thinking.”

Another example is any experiment allegedly proving that free will does not exist. When someone claims that an experiment has shown that all human action is caused and necessitated by forces beyond our control, he steals the concept of “experiment” (among others).

Think about what an experiment involves, presupposes, and depends on. To perform an experiment, the experimenter must choose the variables he will control, the factors he will isolate, the data he will include or exclude from his thinking, and so forth. If these mental actions were not freely chosen but determined by forces beyond his control, then his alleged experiment would not be an experiment; rather, it would be a series of predetermined actions over which he had no control. Consequently, his alleged conclusion could neither be true nor false. It would be merely a necessary outcome of the prior actions and events that caused it. It would be no more or less “true” or “valid” or “scientific” or “controlled” than any other result of any other antecedently necessitated actions performed by any other alleged experimenters—including those whose alleged “experiments” allegedly show that human beings do possess free will. If people could not choose to think (or not), no one’s uncontrolled noises or preordained utterances would have any greater cognitive status or truth value than any other. Indeed, none would have any greater truth value than a dog’s bark, a snake’s slither, or a river’s flow.

An experiment presupposes and depends on acts of choice. To claim that an experiment proved that choices are an illusion is like claiming that a mathematical equation proved that numbers are an illusion. It is to steal the concept of “experiment”—to tear it away from the context that connects it to reality and gives it meaning.

This same basic analysis applies to people’s use of normative terms such as “ought” or “should” while denying the existence of free will. For instance, if someone says, “Science shows that we don’t have free will; and, of course, we ought to go by science!,” he steals the concept of “ought.” Ought implies can. To say that someone ought to act this way rather than that way presupposes that he can choose to act one way or the other. This principle applies both to epistemology (“you should go by evidence and logic”) and to ethics (“you ought to act in accordance with the requirements of human life”). If we had no free will, then all “oughts” and “shoulds” would be meaningless. To use “ought” or any prescriptive concept while denying free will is to steal the prescriptive concept—to tear it away from the foundation that grounds it in reality and gives it meaning: namely, free will.

Indeed, because all concepts and ideas ultimately are caused by and depend on the use of reason (i.e., the choice to think), to use any concepts at all to deny or even to challenge free will is to steal literally every concept used in the effort.

No concepts could exist or be used were it not for the faculty of reason and its corollary: the choice to think or not. Free will makes concepts possible.

Self-Exclusion

The fallacy of self-exclusion consists in making a claim that contradicts the very act of making it. Examples include “There is no such thing as truth” (is that true?), “No one can be certain of anything” (are you certain of that?), and “Knowledge is impossible” (do you know that?). If the claim is “true,” it’s toast; and if it’s not true, it’s toast. To “get around” this glaring contradiction, those who make such claims either say or imply that their claim should be excluded from itself: “There is no such thing as truth—except this truth!”

When determinists claim that people are biochemical puppets being played by the universe—that nothing anyone thinks, says, or does could have been otherwise—do they include themselves in this claim? Are they—the determinists—biochemical puppets being played by the universe such that nothing they think, say, or do could have been otherwise? If so, their claim is just predetermined noise, like a clap of thunder. If not, their claim falls flat. “This biochemical puppet issues truths, whereas those biochemical puppets issue falsehoods” is not a rational claim but a comedy skit.

Fat Cattle Fallacy

The fat cattle fallacy consists in assuming that a cause must be like its effects, or vice versa. It is so named because any such assumption is like assuming that a person who drives cattle and thus causes them to be fat must himself be fat.31

When someone assumes or argues that neither free will nor even consciousness can exist or function in a manner different from physical things because consciousness and free will, if they exist, must be caused by physical things and thus be like physical things, he is committing the fat cattle fallacy.

There is no reason to assume that a cause must be like its effects—or vice versa. And there is a world of evidence showing that such an assumption is false. For instance, the cause of a wooden table is the table maker who made it. The table is made of wood, yet the table maker is not. The table has four legs and a flat surface, yet the table maker does not. Likewise, the cause of a tsunami is shifting tectonic plates; the plates are solid, yet the tsunami is liquid. You can multiply examples endlessly.

Whatever the cause or origins of consciousness and free will, there is no reason to believe that they must be like their cause—or that their cause must be like them.

Claims and arguments against free will involve many other fallacies as well, but the foregoing are some of the most prevalent.

Implications of Free Will

What are the implications of human beings having free will? They are precisely the same as the implications of human beings possessing the faculty of reason—because reason and free will are the same faculty viewed from different perspectives. Reason is our capacity to think; free will is our ability to activate that capacity.

If we have free will, if we have direct control over whether we think and thus control over our corresponding actions—and we do—then we are in a bright and beautiful place. Among other things:

• Moral responsibility is in. People are morally responsible for their choices and actions. If you choose to study for an exam, then you legitimately get credit for the effort and the outcome. If you build a company and create wealth, then you morally own both. And when faith-driven monsters attack, torture, and murder people, they are morally responsible for the evil they committed, and we are morally justified in ending their undeserved existence.

• Romantic love is in. Romance is all about celebrating your life, values, and experiences with someone you choose because he or she brings you great joy. Romantic love is a consequence of myriad choices that form your soul and your lover’s soul and make you sublimely suitable to live and love life together.

• Friendship is in—for the same reason as romance. You do choose your friends, and they choose you. You choose to spend time together, to share experiences, and to support each other through thick and thin. When you enjoy your friends’ company, you are enjoying the presence of individuals with minds, values, and control over their lives. They are worthy of your friendship because they choose to think and because they have substantial values that you enjoy together.

• Purpose is in. You choose your aims. You are able to set long-range goals, pursue a career, develop hobbies, engage in soul-fueling projects, and take deliberate steps to achieve your aims. Your life has meaning and purpose because you have a mind and choose your goals.

• Self-esteem is in—for the same reason as purpose. When you set and achieve worthy goals—when you create an app, climb El Capitan, build a business, or raise children with logic and love—you did that. You can and should take pride in your achievements. They are real, and they are yours. You can and should reflect on your successes, gain confidence by acknowledging them, and thus feel capable of success and worthy of happiness.

• Political freedom is in. If people have free will—and we do—then we need freedom from coercion so we can make choices, act on our own judgment, and thus live fully as human beings. This is why the enslavement of Frederick Douglass and every other slave was a moral abomination: Humans are beings with free will—and for them to live as human beings, they must be free to act as they choose, so long as they don’t force others to act against their will. Because free will exists, the moral difference between Abraham Lincoln and the United States, on the one hand; and Joseph Stalin and the Soviet Union, on the other, is profound, and we should shout it from the rooftops.

In sum, because free will is real:

1. You are responsible for your thoughts and actions—and for the self-made soul and life you build with them.

2. The “you” that you know yourself to be is the integrated being of body and mind whose rational faculty operates by choice and who is, therefore, fundamentally in control of his or her life.

3. Your future is open, and it includes your power to shape your mind, your ideas, your actions, your emotions—your life—into a beautiful, enjoyable, unified whole of which you can be proud.

It is time to accept what we directly observe about free will: We have it. And it is a beautiful thing to use correctly.

This article appears in the Spring 2025 issue of The Objective Standard.

With this issue, we begin not only our twentieth year of publication but also our first year at our new digital home on Substack. We moved to Substack because of the incredible value it offers for managing the technical aspects of our online journal—and because Substack is a great place to share our ideas, essays, and commentary with tens of millions of readers worldwide. (If you’re new to TOS, I hope you’ll peruse our seventy-six-issue archive and more than two thousand articles elucidating and applying the principles of Objectivism and rational philosophy more broadly.)

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Also with this issue, I am happy to announce that Thomas Walker-Werth has been promoted to managing editor of the journal. Thomas is stepping into this role as Jon Hersey is stepping out to pursue a master’s degree at Berklee College of Music. As you may have noticed through Jon’s “Noteworthy” articles and videos, music has long been one of his driving passions, and all of us at TOS wish him great success in his new ventures.

Thomas has been writing and editing for TOS since March 2020 and has been its associate editor since March 2022. He has published fifty-four excellent articles and edited hundreds more. In addition to writing and editing, Thomas lays out and publishes TOS Weekly and our quarterly journal, including the print edition of the quarterly, and he exceeds expectations with all of it. Thomas also teaches writing and editing at TOS’s educational nonprofit sister organization, Objective Standard Institute, where he works with a steady stream of rising intellectuals, helping them to think and write more clearly. (Indeed, two junior fellows at OSI who study with Thomas, Daria Topchii and Nadav Sternheim, have articles in this issue of TOS.)

Thomas has earned this promotion in myriad ways. I hope you will join me in celebrating it. Congratulations, Thomas—and thank you for your dedication to clarity, precision, and truth. I look forward to seeing how you shape the journal moving forward.

Now, to the contents of this seventy-seventh issue of The Objective Standard.

In “Free Will: Who Has It,” I address the core arguments against free will (including those of Sam Harris and Alex O’Connor), the conclusive evidence in support of it, and various errors and fallacies that cause confusion on this vital subject.

Next up, in “Trump’s Tariffs: Immoral, Indefensible, and Illiberal,” Nicholas Provenzo shows how the president’s tariffs violate Americans’ rights and spells out a moral—and thus practical—trade policy for protecting rights.

In “DOGE Should Protect Rights, Not ‘Democracy,’” Tom Malone highlights the vital need for an organization such as DOGE to cut government waste, the good the new department has done, flaws in its procedures and justifications, and the principles that should govern its operations.

In “Promoting Life, Reason, and Liberty—Even in a War Zone,” Thomas Walker-Werth reports on his recent trip to a philosophy conference in Kyiv, Ukraine, where he engaged with an inspiring group of new intellectuals and moral giants.

In “Giordano Bruno: Herald of the Enlightenment,” Tom Malone profiles the radical 16th-century Italian freethinker who challenged the dogma and oppression of the Catholic Church, suffered its faith-based brutality, and exposed the anti-reason, antilife nature of religion.

On the right side of reason and life, in “Charlie Munger’s Value Investing: A Philosophical Approach,” David Chávez Salazar examines the late financier’s reason-based approach to investing and how it can help you level up in other areas of life, as well.

In “Richard Trevithick: The Forgotten Hero of Steam,” Thomas Walker-Werth profiles this often-overlooked pivotal figure in the early development of the steam engine.

In “Lessons on Liberty and Self-Esteem from The Handmaid’s Tale,” Angelica Walker-Werth explores how the fictional Republic of Gilead undermines and destroys its citizens’ self-esteem and what Margaret Atwood’s book can teach us about achieving and maintaining this crucial value.

Reviewing The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie, Nadav Sternheim highlights the mind- and life-focused brilliance of this pioneering detective novel.

In “Why Does Hollywood Have an Originality Problem?,” Angelica Walker-Werth addresses today’s abundance of movie sequels, spin-offs, and adaptations, zeroing in on the reasons for the lack of creativity.

In “New Who at Twenty: The Doctor Who Revival’s Best Episodes,” Thomas Walker-Werth looks back on nine of the best episodes of this reason-promoting show’s 2005 revival.

Daria Topchii reviews David Lynch’s Twin Peaks, examining the late director’s vision for this widely misunderstood series.

And, finally, in her review of It Ends with Us, directed by Justin Baldoni, Angelica Walker-Werth focuses on the differences between the film and the book it’s based on, asking whether either does justice to its subject matter.

That’s it for this issue. I hope you enjoy the articles and reviews. If so, be sure to recommend and share them with friends—especially on Substack. If you have a Substack publication of your own, please recommend The Objective Standard on your home page (see “recommendations” on your dashboard). And if you’ve not yet subscribed to the journal for people of reason, well, you know what to do:

Craig Biddle
Editor in Chief
The Objective Standard

PS. EPUB and PDF versions of this issue will be posted on March 15; audio versions are available in the Substack app.

On February 1, 2025, President Donald Trump reinvigorated America’s long-standing tariff debate, imposing a 25 percent tariff on many goods from Canada and Mexico, a 10 percent tariff on Canadian oil, and a 10 percent tariff on Chinese imports.1 After negotiations, the administration agreed to a thirty-day pause on tariffs on Canada and Mexico in exchange for the promise of stronger border security measures. Meanwhile, China retaliated with tariffs on U.S. goods, escalating trade tensions and imposing additional costs on businesses in both countries. Ten days later, Trump announced sweeping tariffs on foreign steel and aluminum, slapping a 25 percent tariff on metals from all other countries.2 Unlike during Trump’s first term, the administration says it will grant no exceptions for American companies that rely on foreign steel and aluminum.

These measures were welcomed by some domestic steelmakers who had been lobbying the Trump administration for “protection” against foreign competition. Kevin Dempsey, the president of the American Iron and Steel Institute, stated that the group welcomed Trump’s “continued commitment to a strong American steel industry, which is essential to America’s national security and economic prosperity.”3 However, businesses that use metals to make other products, such as car manufacturers and food packaging companies, objected to the rising costs. Robert Budway, president of the Can Manufacturers Institute, supported the tariffs but nevertheless warned of “unintended consequences” for the nation’s food security when tariffs are placed on tin-plate steel.4

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Supporters of Trump’s tariffs include politicians such as Senator Josh Hawley and former U.S. Trade Representative Robert Lighthizer. Both argue that tariffs protect American industries from “unfair” foreign competition, particularly from nations such as China where the government heavily subsidizes many industries. Hawley, who has introduced multiple bills in Congress that would impose tariffs on goods from China, argues that America has an “unsustainable trade deficit”; and Lighthizer claims that without tariffs, “[w]e and our children are poorer and our ostensible trading ‘partners’ are richer.”5

Trump champions tariffs as part of his broader economic protectionist agenda, arguing that they safeguard American industries and help rebuild the nation’s manufacturing base. He also claims his tariffs combat fentanyl abuse in America by punishing the Canadian, Chinese, and Mexican governments for their alleged roles in the crisis (citing the production of fentanyl precursors in China and Canada and Mexico’s failure to prevent the trafficking of the drug into the United States).6

But tariffs don’t tax foreign businesses or governments—they tax you. Every time you buy groceries, fill your gas tank, or replace your car or appliances, you’re paying the price for these government-imposed penalties on your freedom to trade, which restrict your choices and force you to pay more for less. Tariffs won’t stop addiction or protect American producers; they’ll just make life more expensive. Tariffs aren’t a solution—they’re a blatant violation of individual rights masquerading as economic policy in service of political power and cronyism. The evidence is clear: history, economics, and rational moral principles all demonstrate why tariffs fail—and why free trade is the only rational alternative.

A History of Failure: Tariffs in America

From the founding of the American republic, politicians and businesses have used tariffs as tools of political favoritism. The Tariff Act of 1789 had the stated intention of funding the federal government, but it quickly became a way for northern manufacturers to shield themselves from competition. Throughout the 19th century, high tariffs were promoted under the so-called American System, an interventionist program that also involved federally funded infrastructure, and a national bank to manage credit and currency. Although these measures were ostensibly intended to foster economic growth and national unity, they ultimately distorted markets, entrenched political favoritism, and inflamed tensions between the North and South by increasing prices for northern farm equipment that southern farmers needed.7

The Smoot-Hawley Tariff of 1930, imposed despite dire warnings from economists, triggered an escalation of reciprocal tariffs, collapsed international trade, and worsened the Great Depression. Levied under the guise of protecting American industries by raising tariffs on more than twenty thousand imported goods, the Smoot-Hawley tariffs instead triggered a devastating global trade war that deepened the Great Depression. Economist Thomas Rustici, in his analysis of Smoot-Hawley, describes how protectionism crippled entire industries, leading to mass unemployment, bankruptcies, and severe financial hardship for American families.8

Before Smoot-Hawley, the U.S. automotive sector thrived on exports. However, retaliatory tariffs from other countries slashed international demand for American-made cars. By 1933, the industry had lost an estimated $1.5 billion in exports, devastating firms such as Ford and General Motors. Factory closures and layoffs followed, sending thousands of auto workers into unemployment.

Farmers, already suffering from falling crop prices, were particularly hard hit. Smoot-Hawley raised import duties on foreign agricultural goods, prompting other countries to retaliate by blocking U.S. farm exports. The result was catastrophic: wheat and cotton prices collapsed, farm incomes plummeted by more than 60 percent, and thousands of farmers lost their land. Many resorted to extreme measures, including slaughtering livestock they could no longer afford to feed.

By 1933, U.S. unemployment had reached 25 percent, and Smoot-Hawley worsened the downturn. Families endured widespread poverty, losing homes and life savings as businesses and banks failed. Many survived only by growing their own food and making their own clothes. Rustici describes how some unemployed men rode freight trains across the country searching for work, while others stood in bread lines for basic sustenance. The human toll of this outbreak of protectionism was incalculable.

Although economists highlighted the destructive consequences of Smoot-Hawley in economic terms, they failed to make a compelling moral argument against the tariffs. By focusing solely on economic efficiency—how tariffs distort markets, reduce trade, and hinder economic growth—they overlooked the most important issue: tariffs violate individual rights. A rational moral argument shows that tariffs are fundamentally unjust because they impose coercive restrictions on individuals, limiting their ability to exercise their judgment, produce values, and freely trade them with others—which, in turn, leads to economic disaster and widespread human suffering. Without moral clarity, the tariff debate remains fixated on numbers and ignores the essential point that economic freedom is a right that must be protected absolutely. This leaves the tariff debate wide open for advocates of government intervention to falsely claim the moral high ground and thereby win popular support.

Following World War II, successive U.S. administrations, particularly those of Presidents Truman and Eisenhower, reduced trade barriers, which promoted global economic stability and growth. This policy shift led to the General Agreement on Tariffs and Trade (GATT) in 1947, which laid the foundation for freer global trade. Although protectionist pressures persisted, especially in such sectors as agriculture and manufacturing, later administrations, including those of Reagan and Clinton, advanced significant trade liberalization efforts, such as the reduction of tariffs and the passage of the North American Free Trade Agreement. However, in recent decades, the United States has lurched back toward protectionism, with policies such as Obama’s “Buy America” mandate and Trump’s aggressive use of tariffs. Once again, history repeats itself, and the same moral and economic fallacies drive destructive policies.

The False Promise of Protectionism

Tariff advocates make several arguments supporting these taxes—all of which fall apart under scrutiny. Let’s look at three of the most common.

Tariffs Protect Jobs: Politicians claim that tariffs shield American workers from so-called unfair foreign competition. But history shows that tariffs destroy more jobs than they preserve. By raising prices on raw materials and finished goods, tariffs make it harder for businesses to compete, leading to layoffs and closures. For every job “saved” in a protected industry, many more are lost in industries that rely on affordable inputs. Kadee Russ and Lydia Cox’s analysis of the Trump administration’s 2018 steel tariffs provides a compelling example of how protectionist policies harm the broader economy. Although these tariffs were intended to protect American steel manufacturers, their research shows that the costs to downstream industries far outweighed any benefits to steel producers.9

According to Russ and Cox, the tariffs led to only about one thousand additional jobs in steel production. However, the increased cost of steel created a severe disadvantage for industries that rely on it as an input, such as automotive manufacturing, construction equipment, and household appliances. By mid-2019, these industries had suffered an estimated seventy-five thousand fewer jobs than they would have without the tariffs—meaning that for every one job gained in steel production, approximately seventy-five jobs were lost elsewhere in manufacturing.

The reason is straightforward: higher domestic steel prices raised production costs for U.S. manufacturers, making it harder for them to compete with foreign firms that could still buy steel at lower world-market prices. As Russ and Cox explain, this put U.S. exporters at a disadvantage in global markets and made domestic manufacturers less competitive against foreign rivals within the United States. The burden of these tariffs was particularly acute in steel-intensive sectors, leading to layoffs, plant closures, and slowed investment.

The researchers also highlight how tariffs increased economic uncertainty, further undermining business confidence. Companies filed more than one hundred thousand exemption requests in an effort to avoid the increased costs, but the approval process was slow, opaque, and rife with concerns over political favoritism. Meanwhile, retaliatory tariffs from other countries compounded the damage, reducing export opportunities for American manufacturers.

By early 2020, the Trump administration attempted to extend tariffs to derivative steel products, such as nails and wire, to curb import substitution. However, as Russ and Cox argue, this strategy only exacerbated the economic harm, deepening the disadvantages for industries that depended on steel as an input.

Their findings confirm the broader principle that protectionism does not “save” jobs—it merely shifts economic burdens, destroying far more jobs than it preserves. Tariffs on intermediate goods, such as steel and aluminum, ripple through the economy, punishing industries that create far more value and employ far more people than the protected sector. Rather than shielding American workers, these policies erode economic growth and competitiveness, proving once again that free trade—not government intervention—is the path to prosperity.

Tariffs Counter Foreign Protectionism: Some argue that if other countries impose tariffs, we should, too. But matching bad policies with more bad policies doesn’t make sense. Responding to another country’s tariffs with tariffs does not punish the other country—it punishes your country’s citizens. If your neighbor shoots himself in the foot, why would you shoot yourself in your foot? Some advocates of tariffs rightly argue that when foreign governments subsidize industries, they are using political force to grant those businesses a competitive advantage. This, in turn, harms unsubsidized businesses and violates the rights of producers and consumers by coercively redistributing wealth and distorting the market. If a foreign government subsidizes its industries, it is engaging in economic destruction at home and distorting trade abroad—but the answer is not to mimic its mistakes. A moral government does not interfere in markets; it protects individual rights. The rational response to foreign subsidies is not more government control but the elimination of the domestic regulations, tariffs, and subsidies that make American industries less competitive in the first place. The best weapon against economic intervention is capitalism itself—free individuals, free markets, and the removal of all state-imposed distortions in trade and production.

For instance, the Chinese government’s subsidies to its electric bus industry artificially depress prices, depriving Western manufacturers of contracts they might otherwise have won. However, the proper response to such coercion is not to impose new coercion in the form of tariffs, which further violate the rights of consumers and businesses in both countries. Instead, the morally and economically correct course of action is to remove domestic barriers—especially subsidies, mandates, and regulations—that make U.S. businesses less competitive in the first place. Freer societies are always better to live in than less free societies, and a free economy is a critically important part of a free society. The solution to foreign intervention is not domestic intervention but the complete separation of economy and state, which would ensure that American producers succeed on merit, not government favoritism. Nevertheless, figures such as former Trump economic adviser Peter Navarro argue that “tariffs are a necessary weapon in economic warfare” and that the United States must match foreign protectionist policies to avoid being “exploited” by trade partners.10 But this approach concedes the false premise that government interference in trade is necessary.

If the Canadian or Chinese governments harm their own citizens through protectionism, the rational response is not to impose self-inflicted harm through retaliatory tariffs but to embrace greater economic freedom. If Canadian businesses are forced to pay higher prices for steel due to their government’s restrictions but American businesses can freely source materials at the best prices available, which economy will thrive? A freer market, with fewer trade barriers and less regulation, fosters greater innovation and growth, leaving protectionist nations with little choice but to deregulate or fall behind—just as the European Union is now reconsidering its regulatory policies in response to competition from the United States and China.11 The solution to foreign economic controls isn’t more control at home—it’s unleashing the productive power of free individuals.

Tariffs Strengthen National Security: Some industries are indeed vital to national defense. But tariffs do not aid these industries or any other—they are exclusively harmful. Secretary of State Marco Rubio has defended tariffs under the notion that America must maintain control over critical supply chains.12 Navarro has insisted that “China’s economic aggression is the single biggest national security threat of our time.”13 Although China is a threat to the United States in some respects, that fact does not legitimize self-destructive tariffs (which are not synonymous with sanctions or other interventions necessary to protect national security in certain contexts).

Regardless of whether China poses a national security threat to the United States, it is not rational or appropriate to mirror China’s interventionism with our interventionism, whether in the form of tariffs or any other rights-violating measures. Instead, the proper solution is to remove domestic restrictions that prevent U.S. businesses from thriving in a free market. America cannot protect critical supply chains by restricting trade; rather, it must remove burdensome regulations, lower corporate tax rates, and eliminate barriers to domestic production and innovation. Rather than shielding American companies from foreign competition, the best way to neutralize strategic threats is to increase domestic productivity, foster competition, and allow businesses to shift suppliers dynamically based on market conditions, not political mandates.

For legitimate security concerns, a free-market approach includes targeted policies such as strategic stockpiles, defense contracts, and voluntary industry incentives—not blanket tariffs that punish all trade. Protectionism weakens America’s economic strength by limiting flexibility, increasing costs, and making industries dependent on government intervention. If the United States truly seeks economic resilience against potential strategic competitors, it should embrace the power of a free market to outproduce and out-innovate authoritarian regimes—rather than adopting their policies.

Why Tariffs Stick Around: Politics over Principles

If tariffs are so destructive, why do politicians continue to impose them? The immediate answer is economic ignorance. Many policy makers and voters misunderstand basic trade principles, falsely believing that tariffs protect jobs, strengthen industries, and prevent trade deficits. Politicians exploit this misunderstanding, portraying tariffs as a tool to shield American workers from “unfair” foreign competition.

But economic ignorance alone does not explain why tariffs persist. If bad economics were the sole cause, protectionism would have collapsed long ago. A deeper reason sustains tariffs: moral collectivism—the belief that the “nation” must come before the individual and that individuals should sacrifice for some alleged “greater good.” Supporters frame tariffs as a patriotic duty, a way to “put America first,” as if restricting trade strengthens the country. This same moral premise underlies other forms of government intervention—the idea that individuals must subordinate their interests to the collective, and that economic freedom must yield to national solidarity.

Even the way politicians sell tariffs reflects this moral failing. Senator Josh Hawley claims that tariffs “protect the American worker,”14 as though workers have a moral right to government-imposed shields from competition rather than a right to freely produce and trade. Former U.S. Trade Representative Robert Lighthizer argues that without tariffs, “[w]e and our children are poorer and our ostensible trading ‘partners’ are richer,”15 implying that other nations’ success harms America—a classic example of zero-sum, tribalist thinking. These arguments rely not just on faulty economics but on the false premise that the government must control trade to engineer social outcomes.

Tariffs also persist because they protect entrenched interests. Politicians secure votes from industries that gain an advantage in the short term, while the costs—higher prices, job losses in downstream industries, and economic inefficiencies—spread across millions of individuals who may not realize how tariffs harm them. This redistribution of wealth through government coercion is not just economically disastrous but morally indefensible. So, although politicians push tariffs as populist rhetoric, the only “beneficiaries” are those who rely on government protection to keep producing products that would not be competitive in a free market. And once in place, tariffs are embedded in bureaucratic structures, making them difficult to repeal despite their clear harm.

Free Trade: The Moral and Practical Alternative

Tariffs don’t just hurt your wallet—they violate your freedom. They reduce your access to the best goods at market prices, forcing you to enrich politically connected industries while limiting your ability to act in your rational self-interest.

At stake here are your rights—including your right to produce, trade, and keep the rewards of your work. A free economy enables you to act in your self-interest without political interference. Tariffs violate this principle by forcibly limiting your choices and making it harder (or impossible) to purchase goods that best meet your needs—and to freely produce and trade your goods.

The next time a politician defends tariffs as a way to “help” America, ask yourself: Who, exactly, is being helped? Not the consumer, who is forced to pay more. Not the honest businessman, who is fully capable of creating value without such “help.” Not the entrepreneur, who is denied access to affordable materials. The only ones who “benefit” are those who have successfully lobbied the government to rig the game in their favor and politicians who get reelected for peddling economic nationalism as a substitute for improving human flourishing. And in the long run, even these people suffer from a weaker economy, deprived of the wealth, innovation, and opportunities that tariffs stifle.

The only morally justifiable trade policy for a free society is free trade—trade without interference, without coercion, and without government picking winners and losers. The question before us is simple: Do we want a society in which individuals are free to trade and prosper, or do we want a society in which bureaucrats dictate the terms of economic exchange? If we value liberty, the answer is clear. Tariffs must be abolished because they are an affront to the fundamental principle of human freedom—and that is why they fail in practice.

The Path Forward: Embracing Free Trade

Tariffs don’t make America great—they make life harder and worse for Americans. The proper trade policy for a free people is simple: Let people trade. If other nations choose protectionism, that’s their mistake. America should lead by example, showing the world that economic freedom leads to prosperity.

It’s time to stop letting politicians and special interests rig the game and start letting Americans make their own choices.

This article appears in the Spring 2025 issue of The Objective Standard.

Donald Trump ran on a platform that promised major cost-cutting initiatives spearheaded by a new Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE). The head of DOGE, Elon Musk, is now under fire from Democrats for allegedly overstepping his authority, and the creation of DOGE by executive order is being challenged as unconstitutional.¹ Republicans argue that Musk has statutory authority, pointing out that DOGE is not a Cabinet agency and does not have to be approved by Congress (and will only last until July 4, 2026). Historian Victor Davis Hanson makes the point that “it’s not a permanent agency, but he has the same power, or lack of such, as the national security adviser, who does not have to be confirmed by the U.S. Senate.”2 Legal wrangling aside, the most fundamental question is whether the government should even be engaged in the spending DOGE is now investigating.

Granted, questions about DOGE’s legitimacy as a government agency are valid, given that it was created by executive order. In a truly free society, the president should not and would not have the power to unilaterally create such an agency but for an emergency; checks and balances within the American government were created for important, rights-protecting reasons. But we find ourselves in a situation in which politicians have lost sight of those reasons, resulting in a government that has grown massively beyond its proper, rights-protecting function. That growth and its economic consequences have arguably created an emergency in which Americans are faced with unsustainable rises in cost of living, a debt burden that exceeds annual economic output, and increasing restrictions on their freedom. In that context, DOGE’s efforts to curtail those activities are legitimate.

Government Power in General Is the Issue, Not Only DOGE’s

The federal government has long abandoned the constitutional limits that the founders set to prevent it from violating Americans’ rights to life, liberty, and property. Rather, it has engaged in massive redistribution of wealth, reckless spending, and programs that have no basis in the enumerated powers outlined in the Constitution. Thomas Jefferson wrote, “A wise and frugal government . . . shall not take from the mouth of labor the bread it has earned.”3 Yet today politicians openly disregard this principle, taking from productive citizens and spending so recklessly that our debt burden is now $36 trillion.

DOGE says that it has already uncovered numerous instances of wasteful and rights-violating spending within the U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID). Among the most controversial findings is the revelation that USAID unknowingly funded the college tuition of Anwar al-Awlaki, a future al-Qaeda recruiter linked to the 9/11 hijackers.4 The audit also exposed funds allocated to controversial cultural projects, such as a $47,000 grant for a Colombian opera about transgenderism. Other expenditures included $1.5 million to promote “diversity and inclusion” initiatives in Serbia and $70,000 for a DEI-themed musical in Ireland.5

Perhaps most alarming, the report found that millions of taxpayer dollars were directed to public international organizations (PIOs) with ties to terrorist groups, even after an inspector general launched an investigation into those organizations’ activities.6 In addition, DOGE revealed that USAID has funded a vast media network, including payments to more than six thousand journalists and support for more than seven hundred media organizations globally.7 The report also pointed to millions in funding granted to EcoHealth Alliance, an organization tied to gain-of-function research at China’s Wuhan Institute of Virology.8

These revelations have sparked intense debate over the role and oversight of USAID and other agencies, fueling calls for budget cuts and restructuring efforts. Musk and his team at DOGE argue that such wasteful, rights-violating spending highlights the broader issue of government overreach and inefficiency. As the administration moves to slash funding and increase oversight, it is already facing intense backlash and legal challenges from Democrats.

Musk and Trump should seize the opportunity to reframe the conversation: The real issue is not whether DOGE has the right to curb spending but whether the government should be able to take money from individuals by force and use it in ways that violate their liberty and property.

Individual Rights: The Moral Foundation of Government

If one recognizes the inalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness outlined in the Declaration of Independence, then the role of government becomes clear: to secure those rights and nothing more. The philosopher Ayn Rand articulated this beautifully when she wrote, “The only proper, moral purpose of a government is to protect man’s rights, which means: to protect him from physical violence.”9 By this standard, the federal government should be restricted to its only proper functions: national defense, the courts, and policing.

The vast majority of federal spending is immoral and unconstitutional. Government programs that forcibly redistribute wealth through welfare, corporate subsidies, foreign aid, federal grants, or toward any other purpose outside the proper role of government—violate individuals’ rights to their earnings.

The Danger of Appealing to Democracy

Musk has attempted to counter criticism by stating that the goal of DOGE is to “restore democracy.”10 But this is a fatal error—one that plays directly into the hands of his critics. The concept of “democracy” is widely misunderstood today. Most people take it to mean something along the lines of “a broadly free society in which leaders are elected by popular vote.” But the literal and historical meaning of “democracy” is mob rule. If we accept actual “democracy” as a value, we implicitly accept that majority opinion justifies any and all government action—including the very overreach DOGE is working to correct. If democracy is good, then what happens when the majority elects outright socialists or communists who decide that wealth confiscation should be even more aggressive?

This is precisely why the founding fathers were skeptical of democracy. James Madison wrote, “Democracies have ever been spectacles of turbulence and contention; have ever been found incompatible with personal security or the rights of property; and have in general been as short in their lives as they have been violent in their deaths.”11 The Constitution was designed not as a tool of majority rule but as a bulwark against the violation of individual rights. America is not—and was never meant to be—a democracy; it is a constitutional republic where laws are meant to protect against mob rule.

The Founders’ Vision versus Mob Rule

The founding fathers deliberately structured the government to prevent the tyranny of the majority. Instead, they established a system in which individual rights were never to be violated, even if the majority wished otherwise. The Bill of Rights exists to prevent the government from infringing upon freedom of speech, property, and commerce, no matter how many voters support such violations.

Anyone who wants to defend DOGE’s cost-cutting mission effectively should reject the false moral premise that spending cuts are only justified if they have democratic backing. Instead, we must champion the objective principle of individual rights and argue that the government has no moral right to confiscate and redistribute wealth.

Rather than appealing to democracy, Musk should make the case for a government limited solely to the protection of individual rights. With this kind of system, there would be no need for initiatives such as DOGE because the rights-violating spending it seeks to eliminate would not exist in the first place.

Trump, too, should frame the fight against wasteful spending in moral terms. It’s not just about finding “waste, fraud, and abuse” in a corrupt system—it’s about rejecting the immoral premise that the government has a right to spend taxpayer dollars however it pleases. The goal should not be to enable the government to violate rights more efficiently—the goal should be to make it properly delimited and stop rights-violating government spending.

Musk and Trump are right to challenge the bloated federal budget and should be commended for doing so—but they must go further; they must challenge any and all rights-violating government spending. The proper defense of DOGE is not that it serves “the will of the people” but that it aligns (or at least that it should align) with the foundational principles of America—individual rights and limited government.

As Jefferson put it, “The natural progress of things is for liberty to yield, and government to gain ground.”12 To reverse this trend, Trump and Musk must make a principled stand: The size and scope of government should be dictated not by democracy but by individual rights.

This article appears in the Spring 2025 issue of The Objective Standard.

The night of the Middle Ages lasted for a thousand years. The first star that enriched the horizon of this universal gloom was Giordano Bruno. He was the herald of the dawn. —Robert Ingersoll1

In the long battle for freedom of thought and speech, few figures stand out as boldly as Giordano Bruno. Born in 1548 in Nola, Italy, Bruno emerged as the most radical thinker of the Italian Renaissance and exhibited an unwavering commitment to reason, science, and freedom of expression. He was a beloved philosopher, poet, teacher, and lover of life whose gruesome and untimely death by fire at the hands of the Catholic Church has burned his memory vividly into the minds of his countrymen.

Many Italians still consider him the greatest, most daring thinker their country has produced. A contemporary of Shakespeare, Bacon, and Galileo, Bruno influenced many scientists and thinkers including Newton, Kepler, Descartes, Spinoza, and Goethe, as well as such modern thinkers as Carl Sagan. In 1872, the University of Leipzig in Germany honored Bruno as a pioneer of modern philosophy by publishing his works in its “Philosophical Library” series. In 1942, the prestigious Collège de France in Paris established a chair in the history of philosophy, acknowledging Bruno as a foundational figure in the transition from the Renaissance’s revival of classical learning to the emerging modern worldview rooted in reason, science, and skepticism of religious dogma that would become known as the Enlightenment.

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In America, 19th-century freethinkers such as Robert Ingersoll and Walt Whitman paid tribute to Bruno, recognizing him as a martyr for liberty and for freedom of conscience. NASA has even acknowledged Bruno by naming a lunar crater, the Giordano Bruno Crater, in his honor.2

Bruno’s unique work in memory enhancement (which he called “the art of memory”) has been cited as a precursor to the modern field of artificial intelligence research.3

Bruno was a blend of philosopher, scientist, and teacher who stood at a crossroads in the evolution of human thought. His courage in speaking about his ideas during times when it could be deadly to do so was remarkable, as was his unwillingness to accept any shackles on his mind. He sought to integrate his time’s most important knowledge by studying multiple disciplines to create an overarching understanding of the universe and of man’s role in it. The essence of his vision centered on liberating human thought from the constraints and dogmas of religion, thereby enabling individuals to freely explore reality and use the forces of nature for human flourishing and peace.

In 1876, because of a popular movement in Italy in support of Bruno, a statue of him was installed in Rome’s Campo de Fiori (Field of Flowers) on the spot where the Catholic Church burned Bruno as an “impenitent, obstinate, pertinacious heretic.”4 Today, the statue of a hooded, glowering Bruno stares at the Vatican in eternal, silent rebuke.

***

Giordano Bruno was born in 1548 into a modest family in the Kingdom of Naples. His birthplace, Nola, was a small village in the fertile hills beneath Cicada Mountain. As a young boy, Bruno loved to wander the hills and contemplate the stars at night. He often spoke of gazing at Mount Vesuvius, which he could see in the distance. His father, a soldier, and his mother, a homemaker, instilled in him a sense of curiosity and reverence for knowledge. Renaissance humanism, which emphasized classical learning (Greek and Roman), individual potential, and critical inquiry, was a significant part of Nola’s intellectual environment.

Nola was under Spanish rule at the time; the Spanish Habsburgs controlled the Kingdom of Naples. The Spanish crown enforced strict Catholic orthodoxy via the violent Inquisition, making Nola a dangerous place for radical thinkers such as Bruno.5 Though Nola itself was not a major intellectual hub, Naples—just fifteen miles away—was home to the University of Naples, one of the oldest universities in Europe. It had a strong tradition of Aristotelian thought, which influenced Bruno’s early education when he joined the Dominican Order of Naples in 1565 at the age of seventeen.

From an early age, Bruno displayed a keen intellect. The Dominicans introduced him to the teachings of Aristotle, Thomas Aquinas, and other classical philosophers. The Renaissance’s emphasis on inquiry and exploration ignited his passion for knowledge. Influenced by the works of Plato and Aristotle, Bruno began to question established beliefs, setting the stage for his future challenges to the teachings of the Catholic Church. He was ordained as a priest in 1572 at age twenty-four after completing his ecclesiastical studies. However, his devotion to reason and truth soon brought him into conflict with his religious teachers. He began to question dogma, such as the Trinity and the Virgin Birth; removed or hid religious images placed in his room; and started reading “forbidden” books, such as the works of Erasmus.6 These behaviors raised suspicion among his superiors; and in 1576, when he learned that he might face an Inquisition trial, he fled the monastery and abandoned his Dominican habit, becoming a wandering scholar across Europe.

The Nomadic Philosopher

Bruno’s first destination was Geneva, a city known for its Calvinist reformers and supposed tolerance of new ideas. Although Bruno was aware that John Calvin had executed the theologian and physician Michael Servetus for “heresy” in 1553, that did not stop him from speaking his mind. He had hoped to find protection among fellow critics of Catholic dogma, but it was not long before he found Calvinism just as rigid as the Church he had escaped. When Bruno openly criticized a respected professor, he was excommunicated and forced to move on.

In France, his fortunes improved briefly. Settling in Toulouse, he secured a doctorate in theology and lectured at the university for a time. But it was in Paris where he truly began to make his mark. His prodigious intellect and mastery of mnemonics—a technique for enhancing memory—earned him the patronage of King Henry III, who took an interest in the radical young thinker. With the king’s favor, Bruno published several of his early works, including The Shadows of Ideas and The Art of Memory, which showcased his unique ideas about enhancing memory as a way of improving one’s ability to retain knowledge and integrate facts about the natural world. One striking example from The Art of Memory is Bruno’s use of a “wheel of memory,” a conceptual diagram wherein ideas and facts are organized around a central wheel divided into segments, each linked to vivid, symbolic images. Bruno proposed that to retain and integrate knowledge about the natural world (e.g., celestial bodies, elements, or philosophical concepts), one should assign each piece of information to a specific segment of the wheel and pair it with a striking, emotionally charged image. These images act as mental “hooks” to aid recall of abstract or complex ideas.

Encouraged by his growing reputation, Bruno traveled to England in 1583 under the protection of the French ambassador, Michel de Castelnau. He lectured at Oxford University and boldly debated the conservative scholars who still clung to the outdated geocentric model of the cosmos, arguing instead for a boundless universe filled with infinite worlds—a notion that scandalized the academic community. He famously called Oxford “the widow of true learning” because of its dogmatic clinging to religious orthodoxy and traditional scholasticism.7 His most important works on cosmology, including On the Infinite Universe and Worlds, were written during this period, but his confrontational style made him enemies. By 1585, he had again worn out his welcome and was forced to leave, despite the intellectual recognition he had gained in England’s literary and philosophical circles—most notably from the highly respected soldier and poet Sir Philip Sidney.

Returning to mainland Europe, Bruno drifted through the courts of kings and the universities of Germany and central Europe, always searching for a place to teach freely. In Wittenberg, he found temporary stability and lectured at the university, though his unorthodox views remained controversial. In Prague, he gained an audience with Emperor Rudolf II after dedicating a book to him (a common Renaissance tactic to secure patronage). Bruno must have made a positive impression on Rudolf, because he was rewarded with the equivalent of a year’s wages.8 However, Rudolf offered no further patronage, and after a few months, Bruno moved to Helmstedt and enrolled in the local university, hoping to gain a teaching position. The university, Academia Julia, was a Lutheran institution known for its relatively progressive theological scholarship. However, soon after arriving and engaging in debates, he was excommunicated by the Lutherans—yet another rejection from the very type of institution that should have fostered his intellectual pursuits.9

Ideas and Major Works

Despite his nomadic lifestyle, Bruno produced a remarkable body of work, including dialogues, treatises, plays, and poems. His key texts, such as On the Infinite Universe and Worlds, articulated his theory of an unbounded cosmos. These writings were provocative, often using metaphor and allegory to challenge readers to reconsider their understanding of existence. Bruno was a proponent of Copernicus’s heliocentric theory, which posited that Earth revolves around the sun. This radical idea contradicted the geocentric model that the Church endorsed, which placed Earth at the center of the universe. Bruno expanded on the Copernican theory, positing an infinite universe with numerous worlds, each potentially inhabited.

Although Bruno’s works contain some elements of Neoplatonist mysticism (which is understandable given the context of his time), his philosophic ideas championed reason and empirical observation. He advocated a worldview that valued rational thinking, saying, “He who desires to philosophize . . . must not assume a position in a debate before he has listened to the various opinions and considered and compared the reasons for and against.”10

Bruno also warned against appeals to authority or consensus, saying that one should never “judge or take up a position” based on “the opinion of the majority, the age, merits, or prestige of the speaker concerned, but he must proceed according to the persuasion of an organic doctrine that adheres to real things, and to a truth that can be understood by the light of reason.”11

Bruno recognized that existence is axiomatic and made the point that anything outside the universe was by definition nonexistent: “The universe comprises all being in a totality; for nothing that exists is outside or beyond infinite being, as the latter has no outside or beyond.”12 This completely contradicted the Christian concept of a supernatural deity that created and controls a finite universe.

His twenty published works cover an astounding breadth of topics, including philosophy, cosmology, theology, mnemonics, and social satire. He conveyed his ideas in a variety of styles as well, including formal treatises, philosophic dialogues, satire, and poetry.

His first defense of the heliocentric theory is in his book The Ash Wednesday Supper (1584), a philosophic dialogue. Written during Bruno’s time in England, the work is structured as a conversation between several intellectuals, Bruno himself being one of the participants. The book presents Bruno’s theory that the Earth is not the center of the cosmos but merely one of many celestial bodies in an endless, dynamic universe. In it, Bruno criticized Oxford scholars and the Church for their unwillingness to accept new scientific and philosophical perspectives, portraying them as ignorant and dogmatic. Beyond astronomy, The Ash Wednesday Supper promotes intellectual freedom and the pursuit of truth through reason rather than blind adherence to authority. In a passage speaking about his own character, The Nolan, he writes,

Here, then, you see the man who has soared into the sky, entered the heavens, wandered among the stars, passed beyond the boundaries of the universe, effaced the imaginary barriers constituted by the first, the eighth, and tenth spheres, and many others they might wish to add on authority of false mathematics and distorted vision of the commonly accepted philosophy. By the light and sense of reason, and with the key of diligent inquiry, he has opened those cloisters of truth which it is given to us to open, stripped the veils and coverings from the face of nature, given eyes to the moles and sight to the blind who were unable to contemplate her image in the mirrors which reflect her on every side.13

Bruno intertwined Copernican thought with his own metaphysical ideas, suggesting that understanding nature requires a break from rigid traditions and a mind willing to accept new ideas. The work’s bold and often acerbic critique of established institutions contributed to Bruno’s growing reputation as a heretic.

His 1584 book, The Infinite Universe and Its Worlds, was a revolutionary work that not only supported heliocentrism but also proposed that the universe itself is infinite, with no fixed center, populated by countless suns and planets like our own. The idea of an infinite universe, with the earth floating freely in space, had been proposed by the Greek philosopher Anaximander (ca. 610–546 BCE).14 However, Bruno took this idea even further, arguing that the universe has no center at all and that countless worlds revolve around their own suns. Bruno further deduced that the countless other worlds he theorized could be inhabited by beings like or unlike humans, a concept virtually unheard of at the time. Although Bruno was not a scientist in the modern sense, his work was profoundly philosophic and logical. He defended Copernicus and extended his ideas deductively, saying, “If the Earth moves, why not other earths around other suns?” He drew from Copernican heliocentrism but went beyond it by thinking through the logical implications of what Copernicus had proposed. This led Bruno to conclude that the universe was far larger and more complex than Copernicus himself had thought:

There are countless suns and countless earths, all rotating around their suns in the same way as the seven planets of our system. We see only the suns because they are the largest bodies and are luminous, but their planets remain invisible to us because they are smaller and non-luminous.15

Scientists would later prove that Bruno’s amazing deductions were correct. Bruno rejected Aristotle and Ptolemy’s finite, hierarchical view of the cosmos, which regarded the “perfect and unchanging” heavens as separate from the “corruptible” Earth.16 Instead, he argued for a decentralized and dynamic universe governed by the same natural laws everywhere. Bruno’s conception of the universe had strong elements of Pantheism—he believed that the universe itself was a manifestation of God and that divinity was immanent in all creation (also an idea that had been common in pre-Socratic Greek philosophy).17 This contrasted sharply with the Catholic Church’s theological view of God as a transcendent being separate from the rest of the universe.

Bruno’s On Magic, written in the 1590s and published posthumously, is a philosophic treatise that explores his ideas about the nature of “magic,” its role in human understanding, and its connection to the natural world. Compared to its generally accepted meaning today, the connotation and understanding of the word “magic” were significantly different in the late 16th century. In the Renaissance, magic was a multifaceted concept rooted in natural philosophy, theology, and humanism and seen as a legitimate intellectual pursuit as opposed to mere illusionist tricks or supernatural nonsense. Bruno’s conception of “magic” is not about supernatural or occult practices but rather is rooted in his broader philosophy, emphasizing the universe’s interconnectedness, the power of the human mind, and the potential for humans to harness natural forces to shape their environment. Bruno distinguished between an idea he called “natural magic”—which he viewed as a legitimate, rational study of the forces and principles of nature—and “superstitious magic,” which he dismissed as irrational and tied to baseless beliefs. For example, he viewed magnets attracting iron or the moon’s influence on the tides as “natural magic.”

In his view, we use “magic” by understanding and manipulating causal connections. This idea resembles Francis Bacon’s observation that “nature, to be commanded, must be obeyed.”18 However, unlike Galileo and Bacon, Bruno focused heavily on deductive versus inductive reasoning. Bruno didn’t use induction in the scientific sense—collecting observations (e.g., star positions, planetary motions) to form a theory. He lacked instruments such as telescopes (Galileo’s came in 1609, after Bruno’s death) and didn’t record empirical data like Tycho Brahe. His “evidence” was intellectual—Copernicus’s model, ancient texts, and his own logic—not sensory.

Bruno presented the magician (or “Magus”) as a philosopher-scientist who seeks to uncover and master the hidden principles of nature—much like the scientists of today seek to understand the fundamental nature of reality. Bruno’s approach to “magic” was deeply rational and scientific for his time, seeing it as a means of extending human understanding rather than a form of mystical or religious practice. In fact, he viewed rational mastery of natural laws as a way to puncture the Church’s claim of miracles. Bruno’s “Magus” was much closer to an Edison, Tesla, or Einstein than to Jesus or the mythical Merlin of Arthurian legend.

Bruno was an expert in mnemonic techniques, and his works on memory demonstrate his interest in combining logic, imagination, and philosophy to enhance human understanding. In Bruno’s time, books were scarce and extremely valuable. The ability to memorize large amounts of information was essential for scholars and intellectuals who could not easily obtain written texts. Scholars, clergy, and philosophers needed to rely on their memory to preserve and transmit knowledge. Mnemonic techniques were considered an essential tool for education and for intellectual life, especially in an era when oral communication played a significant role in disseminating ideas.

In On the Shadows of Ideas (1582), Bruno explained how to use mnemonic techniques to recall and organize complex information. This work blends classical memory systems with his philosophic ideas. For example, he explains the classical memory trick of using vivid images by imagining a list of animals—lion, eagle, dolphin, snake, bull—each paired with a mythological figure such as Hercules wrestling the lion or Apollo riding the dolphin, making the figures easy to recall. He infuses this with his philosophy, turning the list into a reflection of the living universe, where these active gods mirror natural forces (such as strength for Hercules), blending practical recall with his pantheistic vision.

The Art of Memory (1582) is a detailed exposition of Bruno’s mnemonic techniques, showing how imagination and visualization can improve the mind’s ability to understand and retain concepts. For example, Bruno asks readers to memorize a list of virtues by picturing them as animated statues in a grand hall. He suggests imagining Justice as a towering woman in a flowing robe, blindfolded, holding scales that tip and sway as she strides forward. The idea is that her movement and vivid detail stretch the mind beyond simple recall to actively engage with the concept and thus improve retention.

Bruno believed that memory was not merely a capacity for recalling information but an active force for enlightenment and knowledge that could be enhanced using specific techniques. His system of mnemonics also involved visualization techniques, in which the mind arranges symbols, images, and concepts into a structured mental “memory palace” or “theater.” Bruno viewed the memory palace as a mental storage system and a way to expand knowledge, saying, “By the orderly arrangement of images in the mind, man strengthens his intellect and discovers the truths that lie beyond mere sensation.”19

Bruno’s ideas about memory were subversive because they suggested that knowledge and “divine” insight did not come from the Church or scripture but from within the human mind. His memory training system was a form of intellectual empowerment, teaching individuals to break free from dogma and examine reality for themselves. Bruno saw memory as a dynamic system for synthesizing new insights, enabling the mind to make connections beyond the stored data. Modern neural networks, through large-scale data training and continuous learning, similarly expand their knowledge base over time, making it a kind of digital successor to Bruno’s vision of infinite intellectual potential.

Bruno’s The Expulsion of the Triumphant Beast (1584) is an allegorical and philosophic dialogue that critiques religious dogma, moral corruption, and traditional (geocentric) cosmology. Written as a celestial debate among the gods of Olympus, the work reimagines the constellations as a symbolic stage for reforming human virtues and vices. The book challenges the hypocrisy of religious institutions and the rigid moral structures imposed by Christianity. It offers a vision of moral and intellectual progress based on reason, self-improvement, and respect for the laws of nature. Unfortunately, Bruno weaves in elements of Neoplatonism, suggesting that humans should align themselves with the divine order through knowledge and virtue rather than blind faith, but the book is nonetheless a powerful attack on the Christian hegemony of his day.

His portrayal of the gods expelling vices and replacing them with new, enlightened virtues symbolizes his call for philosophic and spiritual renewal. Bruno saw human potential as limitless when guided by reason rather than faith. He often used the sun as a metaphor for reason and enlightenment: “He is blind who does not see the sun, foolish who does not recognize it, ungrateful who is not thankful unto it.”20 A bold and provocative work, The Expulsion of the Triumphant Beast contributed to Bruno’s eventual persecution; its critiques of religious authority were considered deeply heretical by Church authorities.

Bruno’s growing body of work, combined with his notoriety and polarizing reputation as a thinker, inevitably set him on a collision course with the Catholic Church.

Betrayal and Inquisition

In 1591, weary of endless exile, Bruno made the fateful decision to return to Italy, perhaps believing that Venice, with its reputation for relative openness, might be a safe haven. He accepted an invitation from a Venetian nobleman, Giovanni Mocenigo, who wished to learn Bruno’s famed memory techniques and to drink from the well of his astonishing intellect. But this supposed benefactor soon turned against Bruno, betraying him to the Venetian Inquisition in 1592. It’s not clear whether Mocenigo acted on his own or he had been conspiring with the Church, but whatever his motive, he accused Bruno of spreading heresies that threatened the very foundation of the Church’s power.

From that moment on, Bruno’s fate was sealed. The Venetian authorities, eager to appease Rome, arrested him and threw him into a cold, damp cell with foul air, the first of many dungeons that would become his world for the remainder of his life. They then handed him over to the Roman Inquisition, and he was dragged in chains to Rome, where he faced the full wrath of the Church.21 Bruno, the man who had gazed at the stars and dreamed of infinite worlds, who had dared to say that the universe was not a prison of divine order but an endless expanse of possibility, now found himself trapped in a place where no light could reach him, where he would never again see the stars shine above him.

For eight long years, he suffered under the relentless cruelty of the Inquisition. He was not allowed legal counsel and had to defend himself. The Inquisition did not simply question him—they tried to break his body and his spirit. He was subjected to psychological and physical torment, interrogated over and over, his own words twisted and used against him. Among other things, he was accused of:

• heresy for rejecting the Trinity, the divinity of Christ, the doctrine of Virgin Birth, the doctrine of transubstantiation, and other dogmas such as eternal damnation.

• blasphemy for saying that God was not a distant ruler but present in all things—that divinity was within and around, not above.

• sedition for claiming that the Church was corrupt and that it had used faith as a tool of control.

• treason for saying that the universe was infinite, that the Earth was just another world among countless others—a mere speck in a vast cosmos.22

To the men who sat in judgment over him, Bruno’s greatest crime was not simply heresy—it was his very freedom. He refused to let them dictate what he could think, what he could say, or what he could believe. Over and over, they called him an “obstinate” heretic. But Bruno did not break. Amazingly, he stood against the darkness, even as it closed in around him. For eight years, they demanded that he recant. They offered him mercy—if only he would bow his head and surrender his mind. But Bruno refused. His soul was his own; his thoughts belonged to no man.

Bruno stood alone against the Catholic Church, which at the time was a deadly combination of religious mysticism and authoritarian statism—twin forces designed to suppress the individual mind and strangle human freedom. Bruno’s story is an essential reminder that faith and force often go hand in hand. Because faith cannot rationally persuade, it ultimately resorts to coercion—whether through social and moral pressure, religious persecution, censorship, or political tyranny.

At last, in 1600, under the authority of Cardinal Robert Bellarmine and with the blessing of Pope Clement VIII, the Inquisition made its final decision.23 Bruno was to be put to death. Upon pronouncing his sentence, his Inquisitors asked Bruno if he had anything to say. He lifted his head and, in a powerful voice that belied his physical suffering, said, “Perhaps your fear in passing this sentence upon me is greater than mine in receiving it.”24

Giordano Bruno was not only a genius thinker far ahead of his time, he was a rare soul with the courage of his convictions and an indomitable spirit. Unlike his accusers, he had no fear of hell:

When we consider the being and substance of that universe in which we are immutably set, we shall discover that neither we ourselves nor any substance doth suffer death, for nothing is in fact diminished in its substance, but all things, wandering through infinite space, undergo change of aspect.25

On February 17, 1600, a cold Ash Wednesday in Rome, the Inquisitors led a gaunt Bruno from his cell, his body weak but his spirit stronger than ever. They gagged him by driving a metal spike through his cheeks to pin his tongue, terrified that in his final moments he would speak the truth one last time and that his words might ignite rebellion. They marched him to Campo de Fiori, where Rome’s public executioners had prepared a pyre. Then they stripped him naked, bound him to a stake, and lit the fire at his feet.

As the flames rose and Bruno writhed in agony, the Church believed that it had won. It thought that it had erased him, silenced him, and burned away his obstinate defiance.

But it failed.

Bruno’s body turned to ash after his death, but his ideas burned brighter than ever. The universe did not shrink back into the Church’s narrow, ignorant vision. Instead, it expanded, just as Bruno had foretold. Centuries later, when modern science confirmed much of his thinking—when telescopes gazed into the endless cosmos he had imagined—the world finally saw what he had seen.

Giordano Bruno’s execution stands as one of the greatest crimes of Christianity—a perverse monument to its irrationality, fear, cruelty, and desperate need to crush what it cannot control. But Bruno lives on in the stars, in the infinite worlds beyond our own, in every mind that refuses to bow—in every mind that dares to think, to question, and to seek the truth.

This article appears in the Spring 2025 issue of The Objective Standard.

On May 4, 2024, “Woodstock for Capitalists” took place in Omaha, Nebraska. This is the nickname for the annual meeting of shareholders of Berkshire Hathaway, the company led by legendary investor Warren Buffett. Despite being a corporate event, it’s characterized by a festive, informal, and welcoming atmosphere similar to that of a comic book convention. However, in 2024, the mood was marred by a notable absence: Charles “Charlie” Munger, Buffett’s key partner for almost five decades, had died in November 2023. Although he was much more reserved than Buffett, his influence in the business world was no less significant. In fact, Bill Gates described him as the “broadest thinker I have ever encountered.”1

A Berkshire Hathaway investor once asked Munger to sum up the secret of his success in one word. He answered, “Rationality.”2 Indeed the rationality of many of Munger’s ideas makes them useful not only for investors but for anyone—and in many areas of life, from everyday things (studying, working, sleeping) to deciding on a career path.

Munger’s Life

Munger was born in Omaha in 1924. In the early 1940s, he studied mathematics at the University of Michigan but chose to leave early to join the U.S. Army during World War II. After his military service, he entered Harvard Law School (following in the footsteps of his father, who was a lawyer) and graduated in 1948. From there, he embarked on a successful career as a real estate lawyer in California.3

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He met Buffett in 1959 during a dinner hosted by a mutual friend.4 In that first meeting, both men discovered how aligned their views on life and business were. Influenced by Buffett and eager to become a money manager like him, Munger decided to leave law and dedicate himself to investment management. Between 1962 and 1975, he ran his own investment firm with extraordinary results—in the first year, he earned around $300,000 (in 1962 dollars) from one real estate deal. Then, in 1978, at Buffet’s insistence, he joined Berkshire Hathaway (BH) as second-in-command, which began a collaboration that would transform the financial world.5

When Buffett acquired BH in 1960, it was a failing textile business. But he transformed it into a diversified holding company with a wide range of assets and investments. Munger added a fresh perspective to BH using an investment approach based on grasping the factors that drive the long-term market performance of a given stock, share, and other asset. This approach boosted the company’s growth enormously. In 1978, BH’s market capitalization (the total value of a company’s shares) was $819.6 million (in 2023 dollars); in 2023 it was $775.65 billion.6 In other words, in his forty-five years of comanagement, the company’s value increased almost a thousandfold.

Munger also accumulated great personal wealth. When he died, he had a net worth of approximately $2.2 billion.7 This could have been even higher, but throughout his life he donated billions to various causes he deeply believed in, such as higher education and medical research.8

What was the key to his success? The answer is value investing, an approach developed in the 1930s by Columbia University professor and fund manager Benjamin Graham.9 Munger put his own stamp on this investment approach, making it deeper and more personal.

What Is Value Investing?

Value investing is based on the premise that the market price of a security (e.g., a stock) does not always reflect its long-term profitability potential, which value investors call its “intrinsic value.”10 Unlike traditional investing, which often focuses on short-term price movements, value investing emphasizes identifying securities that are undervalued relative to their fundamental worth, providing an opportunity for long-term gains.

To determine this long-term profitability potential, investors analyze factors that strongly influence its performance and its financial statements: income statement, balance sheet, and cash flow statement. This is called “fundamental analysis.” Like a detective, the value investor analyzes these “fundamentals,” which indicate the company’s ability to generate solid cash flow.

Imagine that Walmart stock is trading at $60 a share. An investor uses fundamental analysis to determine that, based on its fundamentals, people should value the stock at about $140. The difference between this so-called intrinsic value and the current market price is the “margin of safety.” This margin would be $80 ($140 minus $60)—the amount by which the investor estimates the stock is undervalued. If he is correct, and the market adjusts accordingly, he stands to make considerable gains. A large margin of safety indicates a relatively low risk to the investor.

Understanding the margin of safety helps explain how different types of investors react to changes in stock prices. Now suppose that a value investor and a “traditional investor” both buy Walmart’s stock at $60. Then the stock falls to $50. The average investor would likely panic, seeing this as a loss. The typical value investor, however, would likely remain calm because he knows that—assuming his original valuation of $140 was correct and no drastic changes have occurred—this price drop represents a temporary loss on paper, not a permanent reduction in the stock’s “intrinsic” value. Moreover, it increases the margin of safety for any additional shares purchased at the lower price. So, the value investor might even see this as an opportunity to increase his holdings, as the stock is now even more undervalued than before.

This undervaluation creates opportunity for the investor to profit because he has acquired a share at a lower price than he believes its profitability warrants. In this sense, as Munger points out, “All intelligent investing is value investing: acquiring more than you are paying for. You must value the business in order to value the stock.”11

Value investing is about finding undervalued companies—companies whose stock price is lower than the fundamentals of its business warrants. Although some shares in the market cost less than $1 (so-called penny stocks), these are typically attractive to speculative traders looking for quick gains rather than to value investors. They do not rush to buy them because they are looking for shares in solid companies with good financial prospects or, as Munger himself said, “buying wonderful businesses at fair prices.”12

The Objectivity of Value Investing

Value investing is based on objectively understanding both the investment world and the economic role of the investor.

Shortsighted investors, particularly those unconcerned with a company’s fundamentals, often misidentify its value. Those with more foresight, especially those who grasp the underlying causal factors that drive a business’s success, can thereby capitalize on these mistakes. Whereas those in the first group are prone to succumb to the “groupthink” pressures of crowd psychology, value investors are not. Thereby, they not only profit but help to “correct” market prices. Looking at the average price over time, we can imagine that “Mr. Market” (as Graham metaphorically called it) tends to become more rational, leading to better alignment between stock prices and the real value of companies. Setting the metaphor aside, the truth is that the most rational investors cause this alignment by putting their money where the demonstrable value is—and thereby profiting.

During the 1997–2001 dot-com bubble, there was a dizzying increase in the share prices of internet companies. This phenomenon was driven by investors who—seduced by fantasies of the supposed profitability of startups based on the then-new technology of the internet—bought shares at increasingly exorbitant prices without carefully evaluating the fundamentals of these businesses. Unlike value investors, who focus on long-term stability, these investors followed a speculative approach, driven by hype and short-term profit expectations. The reality was that most of these companies weren’t able to generate stable revenue, and they soon went bankrupt. As a result, investors lost significant amounts of money and confidence, sold the stocks en masse, and thus triggered a massive market correction as the overvalued stocks crashed back down. Tellingly, Munger and Buffett stayed out of this frenzy, and time proved them right.

Munger’s Thought Method

The ability to recognize the profitability potential of a business, even in the face of market fluctuations, is not an act of random intuition. It requires a rigorous analytical approach that enables the investor to discern relevant facts from distractions. Munger developed just such a method of thinking, one that anyone can benefit from, whether or not they do any sort of investing.

Munger called this system “practical thinking,” and it is based on five elements. Although he developed it to guide his decision making in the financial realm, it offers a useful model for tackling complex problems in any area of life.13

Simplify Problems14

Munger approached problems systematically, starting with the most obvious aspects. For example, when asked for advice on achieving financial security, he would strip down the issue to its most fundamental principle: “Spend less than you make; always be saving something.”15 By focusing on this simple principle, rather than proposing complex strategies or speculative investments, Munger made the path to financial stability clear and accessible for anyone willing to follow it. As he put it, “Buffett and I don’t leap seven-foot fences. Instead, we look for one-foot fences with big rewards on the other side.”16 This strategy was key to his success, “making the world easier” for him.

It also aligns with a fundamental truth about human cognition: Our conscious minds can only handle a limited amount of information at any given time. Whether dealing with sensory perceptions or abstract concepts, individuals must focus their attention on manageable pieces of reality. The cognitive power of human beings lies in our ability to reduce a vast amount of information to a minimal set of meaningful units, which facilitates decision making.17 By tackling the simplest, most critical parts first, Munger’s method reflects this principle, facilitating decision making while avoiding unnecessary complexity.

For example, imagine someone who wants to adopt a healthier lifestyle but feels overwhelmed by the complexity of diet plans, workout routines, and wellness trends. Instead of trying to change everything at once, he could simplify the process by focusing on the most fundamental actions: Drink more water and walk thirty minutes a day. Once these habits are in place, he can gradually build on them, making long-term progress without unnecessary stress.

By breaking down problems into their essential elements, whether in finance, health, or daily decision making, Munger’s approach helps individuals take meaningful action rather than getting stuck in analysis paralysis.

Numerical Fluency

The ability to handle mathematical concepts with ease and precision and to apply them to a wide variety of situations is numerical fluency.

Numerical fluency does not require the skill of a great mathematician, but it does mean mastering the fundamentals of arithmetic, algebra, and statistics. Munger said that it was enough to understand basic mathematical operations to effectively solve most problems. In a talk addressed to BH shareholders, he explained Coca-Cola’s business model and success using simple mathematical ideas, graspable even for an elementary-school child.

Munger observed that numerical fluency helps us approach problems more clearly—leading to better decisions in all areas of life, not just in investment and business. “Without numerical fluency,” he argued, “in the part of life most of us inhabit, you are like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest.”18

For example, imagine you’re at the supermarket on a very tight budget, and you need to buy groceries for the week. If you have a clear idea of prices and can do quick calculations in your head, you can decide whether it’s better to buy one large bag of flour or two small ones, or whether the “3 for 2” deal really saves you money. You can also shop around at other supermarkets and estimate which is more convenient.

Reverse Thinking

Munger stated that it was not enough to think forward about problems (i.e., to look at the steps or actions that will get you from the current situation to your desired goal). For example, if your goal is to improve your health, then the steps to follow are exercise, eat better, get enough sleep, and so on.

Munger held that you should also reflect on the mistakes or situations you want to avoid. He called this “reverse thinking.”19 In an investment context, instead of focusing solely on which stocks to buy, Munger might ask: What common errors do investors make that could lead to significant losses, such as chasing speculative trends or neglecting thorough research? By identifying these pitfalls, he could steer clear of risky decisions and make more rational investment choices.

This principle can also be applied more broadly. In the context of improving your health, instead of focusing only on what you should do, ask yourself: What actions would harm my progress, such as skipping workouts, eating poorly, or not getting enough sleep? By identifying and avoiding these behaviors, you can create a more comprehensive plan for success.

Instead of adding to the excessive enthusiasm of the dot-com bubble, investors like Munger relied on fundamental analysis to evaluate internet companies. They examined whether these businesses had the financial stability and profitability to justify their skyrocketing stock prices. Applying reverse reasoning, Munger also asked, “What factors could lead to these companies failing to deliver long-term value?” The answer was clear: Despite being built on fascinating ideas, many early internet companies lacked solid financial fundamentals, making them unsustainable and highly speculative investments. For Munger, this combination of analysis and reverse thinking highlighted that investing in such companies would be a bad idea. He dedicated himself to studying them objectively, focusing not just on the reasons to invest in a company but also on the reasons to avoid it. Instead of starting with optimism about potential returns, Munger asked, “What are the reasons you should not invest in this company?” By identifying potential risks, weaknesses, or flaws in the business model, he avoided decisions driven by enthusiasm alone and ensured that only the soundest opportunities made it into his portfolio.

Routinely Use the Basic Concepts of Different Disciplines

Munger was famous for using what he called “multiple mental models.” By “mental models,” he meant the concepts and ways of thinking that people use in different fields of study.

The concepts of different disciplines are not isolated entities, but in Munger’s opinion can and should be integrated into a latticework that enables us to understand the world in general and a given area, such as the stock market, in particular.20 Such integration requires connecting and organizing ideas into a coherent, comprehensive view of the world, observing how they relate to each other and form an interconnected whole. This process leads to a deeper, more complete understanding of reality and thus a stronger ability to make good decisions.

Consider an investor who uses mental models not only from economics or finance but also from a discipline such as psychology to assess an investment opportunity from multiple perspectives. Grasping and applying insights from psychology enables the investor to understand, for instance, the emotional factors that influence investors’ behavior, such as loss aversion or overconfidence. Likewise, a journalist familiar with history could use examples from that field to improve his analysis of current events.

This latticework strategy takes advantage of the fact that knowledge is contextual and is more useful when it is integrated, as opposed to being a disconnected mass of compartmentalized information. For example, a chef who focuses solely on cooking techniques without considering the nutritional value of ingredients or the cultural significance of certain dishes may create delicious meals but miss the opportunity to promote healthy eating or provide diners with a richer experience. By integrating knowledge from nutrition, culture, and culinary arts, the chef can enhance dining experiences and make a more meaningful impact on his customers.

Similarly, a teacher who understands not only his subject matter but also principles of psychology and communication can be far more effective than one who doesn’t. A math teacher, for example, who applies storytelling techniques from literature can make abstract concepts more engaging and memorable for students. Instead of simply explaining the Pythagorean theorem with numbers and formulas, he might tell the story of ancient Greek mathematicians and how the theorem was discovered, making the lesson both educational and captivating.

Identify “Lollapalooza Effects”

Lollapalooza effects occur when multiple cognitive biases, incentives, and psychological tendencies combine, amplifying their impact. The term comes from the Lollapalooza festival, which symbolizes the convergence of diverse forces into a single event.

For instance, consider a Tupperware party. At such events, several psychological principles come into play. First, there’s reciprocity, which suggests that people are more likely to make a purchase because they feel they are engaging in a mutually beneficial exchange with the hostess. Second, liking bias plays a role; we tend to respond more positively to requests from people we like, such as friends or neighbors. Finally, social proof increases the likelihood of a purchase when we observe others buying as well. These factors combine to create a powerful influence, significantly raising the probability that you’ll make a purchase at the party.

Lollapalooza effects exemplify the complexity and interaction of multiple factors in decision making, where different psychological or environmental influences combine to amplify each other and significantly alter behavior.21 To identify these effects, look for situations where multiple biases or influences are at play simultaneously, such as social proof, reciprocity, and liking bias in the example of a Tupperware party. Once you recognize these factors, you can use this understanding to anticipate how people might behave in similar scenarios and even influence decisions in your own life—whether you are selling a product, persuading others, or simply trying to avoid being swayed by manipulative tactics. Essentially, by recognizing Lollapalooza effects, you can make more informed decisions and avoid being caught off guard by the power of multiple forces acting together.

Conclusions

Unlike many other thinkers, Munger did not leave an extensive written legacy. Our knowledge of his thinking comes primarily from his talks and from books that were written about him. Yet, his wisdom extended far beyond finance. Whether you’re deciding which car to buy, which career to pursue, or how to think more clearly, Munger’s principles of rationality, mental models, and disciplined decision making offer invaluable guidance. More than just an investor, Munger was a thinker who shaped businesses, influenced countless investors, and indirectly impacted the lives of millions. His legacy is not just in wealth creation but in the way he taught people to approach problems, decisions, and life in general.

This article appears in the Spring 2025 issue of The Objective Standard.

Margaret Atwood’s classic dystopian novel, The Handmaid’s Tale, shows a population ground down by an authoritarian government. It depicts in depth the psychological effects of this regime on the main character, Offred—especially the destruction of her self-esteem. By examining this relationship, we can better understand the vital connection between liberty and emotional well-being.

In the book, the theocratic Republic of Gilead aims to limit people to designated roles in society. It forces citizens to wear the uniform of their government-appointed position. It assigns men jobs, and it places each woman into a household. It marries off young adults that the regime favors to government-approved spouses a dozen at a time. These dehumanizing practices are part of Gilead’s efforts to degrade individuals as much as possible to mold them into obedient citizens who submit to their leaders’ plans for population growth and territorial expansion.

These practices hinder each individual’s ability to form and maintain a moral character, a strong sense of self, and personal connections—all key components of forming strong self-esteem—and thereby maintaining Gilead’s iron grip on the country. As with many great works of fiction, The Handmaid’s Tale has a lot to teach us about the real world—in this case, partly because Atwood took inspiration from real-life tyrannical regimes. Here are some key lessons about self-esteem that we can derive from the book.

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Esteeming Yourself Requires Knowing That You’re Good

The most striking aspect of Gilead’s tyranny is its treatment of women. It enforces a system in which some women are systematically raped and forced to carry the resulting children to term while others are forced into household servitude. Facing a severely declining population, the Gileadean government attempted to solve the supposed problem by forcing many fertile women into the role of “Handmaids,” a euphemism for sex slaves. Each Handmaid is assigned by the Aunts (a group of nun-like women in charge of the other women) to a high-ranking man and given two tasks: the daily grocery shopping and the monthly Ceremony. During the latter, the head of her household (usually a Commander, a high-ranking officer in the government and military) attempts to impregnate her. The Ceremony is scheduled during the Handmaid’s peak fertility and features prayers, a prescribed position, and the presence of the Commander’s Wife.

This arrangement denies everyone involved the ability to act on their judgment in the most intimate area of life; even the Commanders can’t choose with whom they sleep. Savoring the joy of sex with someone who shares your values and sense of life is a celebration of your achievements and thus supportive of self-esteem; being forced into sex with a stranger—one the Handmaids aren’t even allowed to get to know—is humiliating.

This lack of choice isn’t limited to sex, however. In The Handmaid’s Tale, the government controls almost every aspect of a person’s life—from friendships to work to speech—and disobeying typically results in torture, imprisonment, or death. Under such restrictions, citizens are unable to build and maintain their moral character, which requires thinking for yourself and acting on your own judgment with integrity to your values.

In Gilead, citizens have few choices in how to respond to the dictatorship: they can obey and try to turn off their minds; obey outwardly but mentally resist; or physically resist in some way, accepting that this may mean serious punishment. They still face choices, but their choices are extremely limited by the government’s use of force. They may act bravely and rebel regardless of the consequences, deciding that it isn’t worth living a life so lacking in liberty. Or they may determine that an act of rebellion is unlikely to succeed and decide not to throw away their lives to no effect (which, depending on their context, may likewise be an act of integrity). Such decisions are serious moral dilemmas, but with a more limited range of options than that faced by free people. Free people can choose with whom to work and spend time and how to interact with those people, and the choices they make shape their character. People in Gilead simply don’t have most of those options.

Gileadeans are also unable to take genuine pride in their work. Virtually everyone in Gilead is assigned a role, and most people—especially women—are ordered to serve others, largely by performing menial tasks. Thus, most don’t regard the outcome of their efforts as genuinely valuable and so cannot experience the self-esteem that follows from knowing that their work is productive and meaningful. For others—mostly men—the work situation is arguably worse; their efforts create no value whatsoever but instead support the life-sucking regime, meaning that their time and energy are used to destroy, rather than produce, life-serving values.

The regime’s effect on self-esteem is especially vivid in the novel’s protagonist, Offred. Before the regime took over, she mused, “I used to think well of myself.”1 But at the “reeducation” center that trains women as Handmaids, she caves to the bullying and threats of the Aunts and blames a victim of rape for her suffering. After that, she can no longer say that she thinks well of herself.2 As Offred learns through this experience, to have strong self-esteem, you must believe that you are a morally good person, which enables you not only to feel good about yourself but also to deeply appreciate healthy relationships and other sources of joy. The reverse is also true; if you know, even subconsciously, that you are not a good person, you will not feel good about yourself or deserving of joy or others’ affection—this is the situation Offred finds herself in. For a real-world example, consider that a man who steals money and isn’t caught will live for the rest of his life with the knowledge that he took what wasn’t his. But an honest, hardworking man will always be able to take pride in what he has earned, even if others do not recognize his achievement.

In sum, if we want to esteem ourselves, we must make esteem-worthy decisions. In The Handmaid’s Tale, however, the Aunts and other authority figures create circumstances that put the Handmaids in a predicament similar to that of the thief. They cannot honestly earn their living, and they face heavy consequences if they act to achieve most other life-serving values.

The psychological consequences of this double-edged sword can manifest in extreme and unexpected ways. For instance, Offred finds herself longing to steal something from the sitting room of the house to which she’s assigned. Why? Not because she’s particularly fond of the object, but because she lacks the other key component of self-esteem: efficacy. Self-esteem is the knowledge not only that you are morally good and therefore deserve happiness, but also that you are efficacious and therefore deserve success—that you are able to deal with the world and right in how you do so.3 Efficacy is your ability to effect change in the world, which depends on the rationality of your goals and methods. Clearly, Offred cannot develop this in Gilead, given her inability to change her situation or accomplish much within it. Efficacy depends not only on specific skills, such as painting or coding (the Wives and Marthas are allowed to develop specific skills on this level), but the character traits that enable you to gain such skills, such as intelligence, determination, rationality, and work ethic—which nobody can develop consistently in Gilead. Because Offred has virtually no control over her life, she considers stealing something because “It would make me feel that I have power.” But, she concludes, “such a feeling would be an illusion.”4 Thankfully, those of us with greater liberty can avoid such temptations; we are free to develop a sense of efficacy through our careers, relationships, and hobbies.

In addition to erecting these barriers to developing efficacy and moral character, Gilead deliberately instills guilt in its citizens, especially women. One ubiquitous example is that the authorities blame (and teach citizens to blame) only women for being infertile if they don’t become pregnant, even though men are just as likely to be infertile given the rampant pollution that led to Gilead’s population decline.5 Women are made to feel like failures when they don’t conceive—they are told they’ve been judged unworthy by God. And if they fail to conceive enough times, they are sent to “the Colonies,” where they most likely will clean up radioactive waste and die young. Unearned guilt is toxic to self-esteem in any context, and a sure way to instill it is to teach someone that she is inferior if she doesn’t produce an outcome over which, in fact, she has no control.

Perhaps more egregious than instilling guilt for things outside a person’s control is instilling guilt for a crime committed against that person. The Gileadean authorities teach that women who are victims of rape (outside the context of the Ceremony) are to blame for their suffering. When one Handmaid-in-training shares her story of having been gang-raped as a teenager, the Aunts lead her classmates in declaring the horrific crime “her fault.”6 Offred recognizes that the regime deliberately tries to make women feel bad about themselves, but this knowledge doesn’t dampen her self-loathing. The guilt from making things worse for the poor girl eats away at her self-esteem, and she dwells on the incident.

Guilt is a powerful weapon used by those seeking to control others. People who are generally decent but feel guilty about something will accept all kinds of punishment for their wrongdoing (or supposed wrongdoing), even if it is disproportionate. Novelist Ayn Rand captured the idea eloquently through one of the villains in her magnum opus Atlas Shrugged:

There is no way to disarm any man . . . except through guilt. . . . If a man has ever stolen a dime, you can impose on him the punishment intended for a bank robber and he will take it. He’ll bear any form of misery, he’ll feel that he deserves no better. . . . He won’t defend himself. He won’t feel he’s worth it. He won’t fight.7

As though taking these words as a commandment from on high, the Gileadean regime is careful to implicate its citizens in its many crimes to ensure that they feel guilty—even if they somehow manage to follow all the strict religious laws and regulations. The most overt example of this is the practice of Particicution (a portmanteau of “participation” and “execution”), in which a “criminal” is turned over to the Handmaids for them to beat to death while the Wives watch.8 Usually, the women are told that the victim is guilty of a serious crime, such as rape—but most are, in fact, political prisoners. If a person participates in this grotesque exercise, how could she sleep at night? But if she doesn’t, she will be singled out and likely punished. They’re damned spiritually if they do and damned physically if they don’t.

Though The Handmaid’s Tale focuses heavily on the female characters’ experiences, the regime is hardly kind to men. Those who haven’t been assigned a Wife—low-ranking soldiers and government functionaries—aren’t allowed to have sex or masturbate; because both are natural urges, they of course either suffer the effects of repression if they comply or the fear of being caught and possibly guilt if they don’t.9 The guilt is unearned, of course, because sexual desire is a natural, healthy part of being human. The Commanders who have Wives face a slightly different problem: They are required to have sex outside of marriage. For men to whom marriage is sacred, this must cause enormous amount of guilt, compounded by their Wives’ jealousy and hurt; but only the few Commanders who helped set up the system actually chose that arrangement. Indeed, Offred’s Commander is so estranged from his Wife that he tries to befriend Offred to make up for the loss of companionship and conversation.

If a person has limited opportunities to make decisions that build or maintain his moral character, and if he accepts guilt for things that either aren’t bad or aren’t his fault, then he won’t believe that he is good. And if he doesn’t believe that, then his self-esteem will topple, and he won’t trust himself—leaving him even more susceptible to authorities who want to tell him how to live and what he should care about.

The ‘Self’ in ‘Self-Esteem’

In keeping with the Christian roots of the regime, the leaders of Gilead glorify suffering. For example, they don’t allow anesthetics during childbirth, citing a Bible verse claiming that sorrow and conception arise together and stating that “in pain you shall bring forth children.”10 They encourage women to see their suffering as promoting the “greater good” and punish them if they suggest otherwise. This is but one way the regime pushes people into repressing their desires—even such basic desires as avoiding pain—and silencing their expression of their values. Pursuing your values is vital for creating the life you want and building your self-esteem—but they must be your values, not somebody else’s, and certainly not values forced on you.

By contrast, women in Gilead are not allowed to work outside the home; even the Wives—the most respected of the women—are strictly limited both in what they can do and how they can do it. Women are not allowed to write, sing, or drive; they may only do what’s necessary for their mandated work and basic survival. In addition, Wives may pursue a few approved hobbies, such as gardening and knitting. Handmaids and Marthas, the women responsible for cooking and cleaning, must strictly obey the Wife with whom they live.11 The Gileadean regime objectifies women to the point that many people speak of “issuing” Wives and Handmaids to men.12 Those in power and their supporters treat women as mentally feeble and untrustworthy; for example, a lone woman’s testimony is not admissible as evidence in court.13 Women aren’t allowed to leave the house alone, supposedly for their safety. Also, they aren’t allowed to read—not even shop signs—catastrophically impairing their ability to think.

With so little to occupy her mind, Offred studies her room in minute detail, reminisces about her past, grieves the things she’s lost, muses about all the time she must wait around with nothing to do, and wishes for anything at all to think about. She even reflects at one point that pigs being fattened for slaughter are given balls to play with, and she wishes she had a similar kind of entertainment.14 A person’s ability to think enables her to learn skills, create values, effect change, and determine what’s right and wrong—and that sense of efficacy and belief in your moral worth are the core of self-esteem.

The regime’s restrictions forbid many other things essential to physical and mental health. Exercise more strenuous than walking is deemed unnecessary for women and thus banned; the only art permitted is a few statues and murals left from before the regime took power, plus the singing of hymns (by men only, of course). Such severe limitations not only suck the joy out of people’s lives, but they take away their ability to care for themselves, crippling their ability to demonstrate to themselves that they’re worthy of such care—a necessary component of self-esteem.

Life in Gilead is spartan and minimalist. Except for the Wives, women are forbidden to use cosmetics of any kind, and everyone must wear his or her assigned uniform all the time.15 These rules, as well as the strictly limited use of mirrors, are intended to sharply curtail concern with, or expression through, one’s appearance.16 In fact, a Handmaid’s uniform is about the only thing she’s allowed to notionally own. So not only is she barred from expressing her style, but she can’t enjoy the satisfaction that comes from having mementos of cherished memories or relationships—physical signs of a person’s values. Her bleak world serves as a reminder to cherish such possessions and opportunities to express ourselves.

Although all Gileadean women are treated like children, the Handmaids have it the worst; they are treated like breeding cattle. They aren’t even allowed to use their real names, showing how far they’re separated from their previous lives and personalities (the novel takes place early enough in the regime that most can remember a time before it). Instead, they are given names based on their Commander’s first name. The protagonist is known only as Offred, meaning “the Handmaid of Fred”; she meets others called Ofglen, Ofwarren, Ofkyle, and so on. Others are encouraged to see Handmaids only in relation to those they’re forced to serve, and a Handmaid’s assignment is changed every two years. This practice, along with the many ways in which people are censored, forces citizens and especially Handmaids to push their real thoughts and identities deep within themselves. Offred at one point reflects on the process of putting on this mask: “I compose myself. My self is now a thing I must compose, as one composes a speech. What I must present is a made thing, not something born.”17

The Wife in Offred’s household is Serena Joy, a former Christian political activist who once gave speeches and appeared on television. To Offred, she is cold, distant, and resentful—and it’s not hard to imagine why. Besides the intrusion into her marriage that the Ceremony represents, Serena (like all Wives) is confined to knitting and gardening, unable to pursue goals she cares about.18 Just as many bright children dread going to a traditional government school where their individual interests, skills, and needs are largely ignored, citizens in a society like Gilead—one that forces people into specific, rigid roles—nearly always grow to resent those roles and to derive little, if any, meaning from whatever skill they gain in their daily tasks. Serena’s bitterness is but one example of this in the novel.

The Republic of Gilead prevents relationships; dictates what people wear and how they spend their time; and both forces and emotionally manipulates people into outwardly conforming, rather than expressing their actual opinions, ideas, and desires. The Aunts even teach the future Handmaids that “to be seen is to be penetrated” and that modesty is a major virtue—except, of course, when serving “God” and Gilead via the Ceremony.19 Women in Gilead are expected to be silent and make decisions only at home; men are assigned to one of only a few rigid roles (soldier and bureaucrat are the most common). There’s no room for spontaneity, passion, or innovation. There’s no opportunity to create, produce, or act in ways that reflect or develop your true self.

In Gilead, the strict rules and moral browbeating push many to repress their emotions, thoughts, and desires, leading to a widespread lack of self-acceptance. And developing our self-esteem requires self-acceptance—how can we feel good about ourselves if we don’t accept who we are? That doesn’t mean approving of every aspect of ourselves (that’s narcissism). Rather, it means recognizing that we are the way we are and that we have done the things we’ve done (for Gileadeans, that includes the context of the force used against them). If instead, as is clearly the case in Gilead, a person feels that she must hide parts of herself—thoughts, feelings, or desires—she will start to feel deep down that she is not good enough, which is exactly what Offred goes through. Whether someone is not facing something that is wrong and needs correcting or is shunning a part of herself that is inconvenient, painful, or contrary to what she’s been taught is good, she’s not accepting all of herself. Whatever the cause, left unaddressed, her self-esteem will sink, as Offred’s does.

Connecting with Others

In Gilead, the government discourages friendships and makes romance next to impossible. Citizens hesitate to trust anyone, rarely if ever sharing sentiments that aren’t strictly orthodox because anyone could be an “Eye”—a spy for the government.20 Further, the authorities regard friendships formed before Gilead as “suspicious” because they consider that time as immoral and its remnants as corrupt.21 Making new friends is further complicated because people are allowed to interact only in limited, regimented ways. Guards even scold the Handmaids if they talk too much in the shops.22

This means that for women, home is the only place to get to know others. But Offred reflects that by the regime’s design, “In this house, we all envy each other something.”23 Envy doesn’t fully capture it, though. Most Marthas seem to envy the Handmaids’ ability to leave the house and talk to people outside it, and they also resent the Wives who order them around. Many Handmaids think (not without cause) that the others look down on them for accepting a position that requires them to have sex with whomever the Aunts decide (even though they could only choose between being a Handmaid or being a slave laborer in the Colonies). Some Handmaids, including Offred, envy Marthas for their comparatively simple, soothing work and resent the Wives who will raise their babies. One Handmaid gets upset when the Wife in her household names the baby she births.24 And Wives often resent the Handmaids’ intrusion into their marriages. Some also look down on the Marthas as lowly servants. In other words, the regime’s system is engineered to make deep relationships between women under the same roof nearly impossible.

Indeed, all healthy relationships (friendships, familial, and romantic relationships) are seriously hindered, and we see the resulting loneliness weighing down on Offred. Strong relationships, such as the ones she’d had before the new regime with her friend Moira and her husband, show us that we’re able to communicate and understand others, to support them, perhaps to make them laugh—in short, to add value to their lives while adding value to our own. This demonstrates that we’re efficacious, not only regarding things but interacting with rational people; Moira, for example, is an opinionated woman working with an organization that opposes the movement that became the new government. She and Offred had many moments of laughter, deep conversation, and simply being there for one another. Healthy relationships reward us with many such experiences that support strong self-esteem, from taking joy in each other’s accomplishments to being reminded of our strengths, and we should savor them. Such relationships reflect and embody one’s values—both of which Gilead’s leaders are intent on destroying.

One way that relationships can bolster self-esteem is through psychological visibility. We feel “seen” when someone whose judgment we respect fully recognizes and appreciates a part of our identity that’s important to us. Suppose you work hard on a project at work, making sure it meets the client’s needs perfectly. If your boss, whose expertise you admire, says only that “it’s nice,” not mentioning any of the aspects you think make it special, you will feel unseen. Conversely, if he praises those things, you will feel seen. Similarly, if your spouse praises you for aspects of yourself that you value, you will feel seen, and your marriage will benefit. But, of course, just as the Gileadean regime’s oppression hinders people from developing values, it thwarts the sort of relationships that could lead to psychological visibility based on those values.

Just as healthy relationships help build self-esteem, so strong self-esteem helps with forming healthy relationships. When someone has high self-esteem, he seeks to reach his potential and thrive—including seeking to build and maintain strong relationships with people who share his values and who will enrich his life (and he theirs). When someone has low self-esteem, he feels he must prove himself or justify his existence. For him, others aren’t whole, multifaceted individuals he can connect with but primarily sources of approval or disapproval, some external sign that he has a right to exist, however momentarily. Unsurprisingly, Gilead is full of such people. Offred observes of another Handmaid that she “was like a puppy that’s been kicked too often, by too many people, at random: she’d roll over for anyone, she’d tell anything, just for a moment of approbation.”25 Doubting herself at every turn, the Handmaid evaluates herself almost solely by how others respond to her as a substitute for self-approval.

Gilead presents another significant barrier to healthy relationships: Because people are seriously hindered in forming a moral character, they rarely respect themselves; but self-respect is the foundation of respect for others. Our views of human nature depend heavily on our own nature. We naturally tend to assume that others are like us until we have evidence to the contrary. (Psychologists call this “assumed similarity.”26) Cheaters assume that others are likely to cheat; honest people expect others to be honest, and so on. If we genuinely respect ourselves, we’re more likely to respect others. If we think we’re awful, we’re more likely to assume others are, too—and that if we can’t see it, they’re probably just good at hiding it. Offred, for example, often imagines others saying nasty, petty things.27 She’s not malicious; she simply finds it difficult to escape her own paradigm of thinking badly of others and so assumes others do the same.

Strong self-esteem and healthy relationships with others are reciprocal; nurturing each can help to support the other. Of course, that’s almost entirely moot when a regime is so authoritarian that it mostly prevents relationships altogether—highlighting the importance of fighting such regimes.

Liberty and Self-Esteem

As awful as Gilead sounds, perhaps the most horrifying part is that it’s not entirely made up. Atwood explained, “One of my rules was that I would not put any events into the book that had not already happened . . . nor any technology that was not already available. No imaginary gizmos, no imaginary laws, no imaginary atrocities.”28 The regime’s horrific policies can teach us about real-life tyranny and how it affects self-esteem because that’s what inspired them, from Soviet gulags, to the Nazis’ Lebensborn breeding program, to the Taliban’s restrictions on nearly every aspect of Afghan women’s lives.

As Atwood wrote in her introduction to the 2017 edition of the novel, the reeducation center for the Handmaids was designed to teach those women, among other things, “to think so poorly of themselves that they will accept their assigned fate and not rebel or run away.”29 People with low self-esteem are more willing to relinquish control over their lives because they don’t believe themselves capable of making good decisions. They view themselves as inefficacious or unworthy.

This is one crucial example of how the degree of self-esteem we have affects us in all areas of life; it establishes the limits of what we think is possible for and appropriate to us. It influences the goals we set, the people with whom we choose to spend time, the balance of rest to work we allow ourselves, and much more. Having high self-esteem sets up a virtuous cycle; those with strong self-esteem are more likely to persist longer at tasks, set ambitious goals, accurately assess their abilities, and expect respect in their relationships.30 As a result, such people are more likely to achieve ambitious goals and to build strong, healthy relationships, which gives them evidence of their efficacy and moral worth, which in turn supports their self-esteem—and the cycle continues. Moira always had a strong sense of herself and what she stood for; after being put in the same reeducation center as Offred, she is the only one Offred sees attempt a daring escape. Her confidence in her abilities and her values were strong enough that she felt that she deserved to escape and that she would be able to.

By contrast, those with low self-esteem end up in a vicious cycle. A person with low self-esteem is prone to self-sabotage, whether in one area or in life as a whole—perhaps by developing a drug or alcohol problem, or simply by not setting the kinds of goals or seeking the conditions necessary to achieve his potential. Those with low self-esteem tend to think, in effect, “I probably won’t get that promotion at work, or get the date with that girl, so why try?” and either don’t try at all or put in less effort than they’re capable of.31 Though a person with low self-esteem is not guaranteed to fail, it is more likely than if he had higher self-esteem. If he does succeed at something, he’s likely to suffer from impostor syndrome rather than enjoy the deserved satisfaction from his achievement.32 In relationships, a person with low self-esteem is more likely to accept poor treatment or to sabotage a good relationship because he feels, consciously or subconsciously, that he doesn’t deserve it. Offred, for example, doesn’t try to befriend the Marthas in her house because she believes it will be pointless. And at the political level, a person with low self-esteem is more likely to accept a tyrannical government because he believes, at least at some level, that his life is best managed by others.

Resisting being controlled requires confidence that one is right to do so and able to get by without that authority. This helps to explain why rebels against tyranny, whether real or fictional, are so inspiring: Their courage is founded on moral certainty, an aspect of self-esteem. Research supports this; for instance, a 2023 study found that “a strong sense of self . . . seemed to provide resilience and empower participants to navigate sexism and other injustice.”33 Yet in the society that Atwood depicts, most people accept to some degree that others should dictate their lives even though they’re miserable—and that there may be some benefits to it. People rarely resist even such nonsense the Handmaids being forbidden from drinking coffee. If you firmly hold that you alone can and should control your life, you will insist on doing so; if you don’t deeply believe that, you won’t.

A Message of Hope

Atwood depicted a dystopia that is chilling for a variety of reasons. But the story includes glimmers of hope that keep Offred from surrendering to despair and encourage her to hold onto her identity. Under a regime that would cut off a woman’s hand if she were caught writing, finding a message scratched in her closet is one such glimmer. The message reads, “Nolite te bastardes carborondorum”—scrambled Latin originally intended as a joke, but which means something like “Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”34 This idea helps her hold onto who she is and resist the regime’s effects on her sense of identity and self-esteem until she has the opportunity to take more drastic action to improve her situation.

As Offred takes courage from that message, so we can draw inspiration from her. Thankfully, most of us won’t ever have to deal with such terrible circumstances. Nonetheless, The Handmaid’s Tale offers many lessons about the roots of self-esteem and how to improve it. Perhaps most important, it illustrates the connection between self-esteem and liberty, inspiring us to hang onto the former so we don’t lose the latter.

This article appears in the Spring 2025 issue of The Objective Standard.

New York: John Lane, 1920
208pp, $10.95 (Warbler Classics paperback)

Agatha Christie’s writing career began with a bet. At the height of World War I, while Christie was working at a hospital dispensary, her sister Madge claimed that Christie would not be able to write a murder mystery novel in which the reader is given the same clues as the detective but is unable to correctly identify the murderer.1 Rising to the challenge, Christie wrote The Mysterious Affair at Styles. The novel won her the bet and marked the start of an extraordinary career, which helped Christie earn the title the “Queen of Crime.”

The Mysterious Affair at Styles stands out not only as Christie’s first contribution to the “whodunit” tradition but also as a celebration of human reason and the pursuit of truth. It is a thrilling literary adventure, filled with drama, suspicious characters, and epic twists.

The story is told from the perspective of Arthur Hastings, a former British Army officer during the war. After being released from duty, Hastings runs into his old friend, John Cavendish, who invites Hastings to come stay at his family’s manor, Styles Court. The property is owned by John’s mother, Emily Inglethorpe, who inherited it after her husband’s death.

Not all is tranquil at Styles, though, as Hastings quickly finds out; Emily has married a much younger man named Alfred, much to the dismay of the rest of the manor’s inhabitants. The controversial marriage, Hastings learns, is not the only source of drama within the household; in fact, many of the residents and guests have their own secrets.

One night, the whole household is awakened by Emily’s screams, but by the time the others can break into her locked bedroom and get a doctor, it is already too late. Emily has been poisoned, and everyone is a suspect. Hastings commissions his friend Hercule Poirot, an eccentric Belgian living in the nearby town after his escape from the war raging through his homeland, to help. Poirot had been a successful detective for the Belgian police before the war; and after Hastings informs him of the murder, he quickly sets out to identify the murderer and solve the mystery of Emily’s death.

Hastings is a loyal, trustworthy, and often amusing narrator. Similar to the way Arthur Conan Doyle uses Dr. Watson’s perspective in his Sherlock Holmes stories, Christie uses Hastings to describe the mystery while letting the reader try to figure it out along with the narrator. Hastings also offers some comic relief intermittently throughout the book, as he is prone to thinking rather highly of himself, resulting in him overestimating his own detective abilities and jumping to erroneous conclusions.

Christie is an expert at bringing the reader along for the ride. Reading The Mysterious Affair at Styles feels like solving a puzzle. Although the plot can get complex at times, and the many clues are quite difficult to keep track of without writing them down, Christie’s detailed storytelling brings the story to life. The mystery’s complexity also highlights Poirot’s extraordinary sleuthing abilities, a result of his strict adherence to deductive reasoning—or, as he calls it, using his “little gray cells.”

Poirot is a fascinating character and he is arguably one of the most lovable fictional detectives ever conceived. Christie describes him as a small man with a big mustache and a spotless appearance. Poirot also has a flair for drama, and he seems to get a kick out of revealing his theories in the most spectacular fashion. His commitment to finding the truth and the pride he takes in his discoveries are infectious. Poirot is especially good at understanding the motives and emotional states of the suspects. Compared to Sherlock Holmes, who primarily uses deductive reasoning based on physical evidence, Poirot offers a more well-rounded and, therefore, more engaging approach to his craft.

Poirot’s most exceptional characteristics are his dedication to uncovering the truth and his consistent application of reason. Not once does he let his emotions interfere with his ability to determine the truth. Poirot is completely committed to reason; at one point, he tells Hastings that “if the fact will not fit the theory—let the theory go” (83).

Although the book emphasizes the importance of truth and honesty, it does so by describing the events of the mystery rather than exploring the themes directly. The Mysterious Affair at Styles works well as a fast-paced whodunit, but it is not deeply philosophical. It is worth mentioning, however, that some of Christie’s later books are more profound. For example, And Then There Were None and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd offer deeper explorations into the natures and consequences of evil and guilt.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles is a fun, action-packed read that portrays the potency of reason and shows its value as a tool for understanding reality and discovering truth.

This article appears in the Spring 2025 issue of The Objective Standard.

Starring Kyle MacLachlan, Michael Ontkean, and Mädchen Amick
Distributed by Showtime Networks
Episodes: 48
Rated TV-MA

The clues are all there for a correct interpretation, and I keep saying that, in a lot of ways, it’s a straight-ahead story. There are only a few things that are a hair off. —David Lynch

Twin Peaks is a TV show that sometimes leaves viewers astonished and confused about what is happening on-screen and why. The action is broken up with surreal shots, such as a room full of people speaking in reverse, or an odd dwarf who breaks into a jerky, robotic dance—followed by a close-up of his mouth nastily chewing corn.

Without some familiarity with Lynch’s style, it’s easy to conclude that the series is full of weird stuff simply because Lynch is strange, that the show is purely sensational “modern” art, and that, therefore, one needn’t dig deeper into its ideas. To understand why that’s wrong, it’s necessary to consider the context in which the show was made.

In the late 1980s and early 1990s, American TV crackled with violence and murder. Many shows featured storylines in which gruesome crimes were investigated and resolved within a single episode. But what set this era apart was not just the prevalence of such content—it was the distinct tone, style, and cultural context in which it was presented.

Unlike earlier decades, such as the 1950s and 1960s, which saw the rise of episodic crime dramas, ’80s and ’90s TV embraced a darker, more visceral approach to storytelling. These shows delved into graphic details of violence, often lingering on gore and psychological trauma that pushed the boundaries of what previously had been socially acceptable on TV.

Shows from this era also lacked the serial storytelling that would define television from the late 1990s and 2000s. They featured stand-alone episodes rather than longer narratives and character arcs that would later become popular, meaning that the long-term consequences of the on-screen violence were rarely portrayed.

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Lynch commented on the consumable violence of the time: “Dark things have always existed, but they used to be in a proper balance with good, and life was slower. . . . Now it’s accelerated to where the anxiety level of people is in the stratosphere.”1 More and more people were readily consuming such depictions of cruelty as entertainment. Consequently, directors and studios were producing more (and more elaborate) depictions of brutality and murder.

Because of this trend, parents, educators, and advocacy groups became increasingly concerned about the impact of violent content on children and on society more broadly. Some began to push for regulation. As a result, the government intervened via the 1990 Television Violence Act, which forced TV studios to limit the amount of violence and gore in their shows—though it did not extend to film. (Although the government properly has no role in regulating media, the Act indicates the extent to which people were concerned about violence on television.)

Lynch didn’t want to stand still and observe the growing trend away from empathy and toward depictions of violence being regarded as entertaining in and of themselves. He felt an intense and unrelenting urgency to “restore balance” in the film industry—to tell more stories that used dark or negative subjects to emphasize positive ideas. He chose to make a show that, unlike many of the one-episode murder stories, illustrated that each killing isn’t forgotten after it’s resolved—it leaves an irreversible mark on the survivors.

And so Twin Peaks was born. From the first shot of victim Laura Palmer’s corpse until the beginning of season 2, no one knows who the killer is or how Laura was killed. Lynch shifted the emphasis from the question of “Who killed Laura Palmer?” to “Who was Laura Palmer?”

Twin Peaks portrayed emotional reactions rarely seen on television at the time: a police officer bawling at a murder scene, grieving parents going insane, and a whole town devastated by the loss of a girl they all knew. One of the main characters, FBI Agent Cooper, says to his colleague,

Murder is not a faceless event here. It is not a statistic to be tallied up at the end of the day. Laura Palmer’s death has affected each and every man, woman, and child because life has meaning here—every life. That’s a way of living that I thought had vanished from the earth, but it hasn’t, Albert. It’s right here in Twin Peaks.

TV that focuses on darkness without a positive purpose is likely to be unhealthy for viewers because it normalizes despair and impotence rather than highlighting rational values. Exploring evil in art can be healthy and life serving if the goal is to think, write, or speak about it toward positive ends. An artwork can use negative elements to convey a life-serving theme by demonstrating the inefficacy of evil (evil is fueled by irrationality and often force, which along with the importance of positive values, makes it inefficacious in the long run). Twin Peaks is just that kind of show.

Lynch makes extensive use of metaphor and symbolism. Although these elements don’t always move the story forward, they add depth and spice, inviting viewers to look for hidden meanings. For instance, owls play a significant role. An attentive viewer will likely notice not only the repeated phrase “owls are not what they seem” but also several references to these birds of prey.

The frequent references to owls in Twin Peaks trace back to a pylon that Lynch once saw that he thought looked like an owl. Because pylons distribute power, owls became a symbol to him of the studios’ ability to distribute glamorized TV violence.

This is just one example of the show’s extensive use of symbolism. With at least a basic knowledge of the initial idea and details to look for, the viewer can discover new layers of meaning in each episode.

Lynch also chose to use the electrical insulator Formica in the series, deliberately drawing attention to it. In one scene, the Man from Another Place (the dancing dwarf) sits at a table and abruptly declares that it’s made of Formica. The material’s nonconductive nature makes it a suitable choice for environments where electrical safety is a concern. In Twin Peaks, people’s safety from the dangers of TV—expressed through the metaphor of electrical power—is a key idea in the series.

The show’s main villain, Bob, embodies TV that is thoughtlessly or excessively dark, as does the God of TV Darkness, personified by a dwarf. Both characters represent negative voltage and are the foil to the Giant, who represents cinema’s illuminating force—the positive voltage (+V) that brings light to the dark screen (see figure 2).

One could write a book explaining all the nuances of Twin Peaks (and several people have). Every major element of the series is there for a reason. All the relationships between the characters and even many seemingly mundane background items convey meaning and hint at one or more of Lynch’s ideas about television programming.

Unfortunately, but quite expectedly, the studio didn’t share Lynch’s intentions. They were primarily interested in satisfying their customers’ clear demand: a resolution to the mystery.

This aggravated Lynch to the extent that he left his own show midway through season two, believing that the network’s insistence on revealing Laura Palmer’s killer compromised the show’s integrity. Lynch thought that unmasking the killer would “kill the goose that laid the golden eggs,” because, in his view, the fact that the mystery was unsolved was pivotal to the show’s moral idea. This decision diluted the series’ unique appeal and led to a decline in viewership.

Lynch was ultimately convinced to return to oversee the final episodes of the second season, after which he wrote the spin-off movie Fire Walk With Me. But he never got to continue the show in line with his original vision—that was, until twenty-five years later when Showtime revived it for a third season, promising Lynch complete creative control. Featuring most of the same actors as the earlier seasons, season three is the show’s pinnacle. Its superiority to the earlier seasons stems not only from Lynch’s freedom but largely from the additional life experience he gained during his absence from the show.

The moral, socially relevant themes; brilliant directorial work; rich cinematography; and plentiful, thought-provoking symbols, along with the intriguing plot, make Twin Peaks one of a kind. Lynch succeeded in creating a strong opposition to the destructive zeitgeist of American television. Leveraging the initial mystery, he presented a world that was coherent and intelligible within its historical context and that, even at its most surreal, never lost sight of what is important: the sanctity of life.

This article appears in the Spring 2025 issue of The Objective Standard.

Starring Blake Lively, Justin Baldoni, and Jenny Slate
Distributed by Sony Pictures Releasing
Running time: 130 minutes
Rated PG-13 for domestic violence, sexual content, and some strong language

Many of us struggle to understand why domestic abuse victims don’t simply end the relationship. Many abused partners stay for years, even when the abuse escalates. Colleen Hoover, whose mother was a victim of domestic abuse, says that she wrote her extremely popular novel It Ends with Us to compassionately explore the emotional turmoil of someone in an abusive situation and to answer the question, “Why didn’t she just leave?”1 The book, adapted for the big screen last year, has a number of problems that have made it the target of many valid criticisms, from its overly sympathetic portrayal of the abuser to its childish writing style.2 The movie improves on some but not all these issues.

The story focuses on the relationship between Lily Bloom (Blake Lively) and Ryle Kincaid (Justin Baldoni). Both are well-off young professionals; Lily opens a successful flower shop, and Ryle is a neurosurgeon. They fall in love and move in together, but things turn sour when Ryle becomes physically abusive toward Lily. The first two times, she lets him convince her that it was an accident—evading the difficult truth rather than accepting it and acting accordingly. After the third such instance, she flees their home and struggles to decide whether to divorce him—especially in light of her unplanned pregnancy.

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Hoover wanted to make the decision as difficult as possible for Lily. Lily thinks she loves Ryle, but she refuses to be like her mother, who continued to be abused by Lily’s father until his death. She doesn’t have financial pressure to stay with him because the shop she opened has begun to thrive. However, her mother, who doesn’t know about the abuse, loves Ryle, and Lily has become good friends with his sister and brother-in-law. And Ryle puts emotional pressure on her, explaining away his behavior as an anger problem related to childhood trauma that he’s in therapy to correct and claiming that he needs her. We see her, clearly distraught, talking through this issue with her sister-in-law and her mother.

But in both the book and the film, the audience doesn’t see why Lily would be in love with Ryle. His ambition to succeed in his chosen field is his only positive attribute; other than that, he exhibits red flags from the first time she meets him, and their courtship is short and shallow. The movie tries to soften his character; it shows the couple being goofy together at a bowling alley and omits a scene in which Ryle knocks on twenty-nine strangers’ apartment doors in an effort to find Lily’s apartment for the sole purpose of asking her to have sex with him.3 By contrast, in the book, Hoover presents Lily’s feelings for Ryle as almost causeless; they start to fall for each other the first time they meet.

The movie omits one other problem present in the book: Lily’s explicit refusal to morally condemn her abuser. In the book, she agrees with Ryle’s claim that “There is no such thing as bad people. We’re all just people who sometimes do bad things.”4 This, of course, is untrue; a person who repeatedly does bad things is a bad person, and a repeat perpetrator of domestic violence fits this description perfectly. Lively’s portrayal of the character is less morally mushy; though she still struggles with the decision whether to leave her child’s father, she doesn’t make any such relativistic claim about his morality.

Despite Lively’s star power, the film’s lovely floral visuals, and the novel’s status as one of the most-sold books of the past decade, the movie didn’t do as well at the box office as the studio expected. This was due partly to the movie’s marketing not sufficiently indicating the heavy subject matter and partly to the film being tainted by controversy.

Lively accused costar and director Baldoni of sexual harassment (both actors are married). At one point during filming, she even went to the studio with an ultimatum: She wouldn’t continue working on the film unless certain topics of conversation (such as pornography) and actions of Baldoni’s were prohibited. Baldoni and his team responded by alleging that Lively was trying to ruin his reputation and suing the New York Times on libel charges for publishing the story.5 No further evidence will be released until the trial (scheduled for 2026), so we don’t have all the facts to determine who is in the wrong here, but either way, it’s ironic and disappointing. If Baldoni has been wrongly accused, as he claims, then a man trying to bring light to a problem that mostly affects women has fallen victim to the #MeToo culture of “blame and shame first, ask for evidence later.” If Lively’s accusations are true, however, then a man making a movie about horrible treatment of women has himself treated the female star of that film horribly, which is equally disappointing and deeply wrong.

The serious problems with the book—Ryle’s stalking and Lily’s refusal to condemn him chief among them—raise the question of whether the book should have been adapted in the first place. Baldoni told an interviewer that he had been deeply moved by the book and wanted to make it into a movie in the hopes that it would inspire others to escape abusive situations. He explained that “hearing about all of the women and people who had read the book, who had then chosen to end the cycle of violence in their life and chosen a new path and how many lives the book saved” was key among his motivations.6 It’s true that a touching book that carefully handles difficult topics such as domestic violence can save lives. Sadly, It Ends with Us doesn’t fall into this category, given that the relationship is treated as causeless, and Ryle is portrayed relatively sympathetically. Hayat Bearat, interim director of the Domestic Violence Institute at Northeastern University, points out that the book makes it seem as though affection from the abuser is why victims don’t leave; further, she argues, the novel minimizes the domestic and sexual violence in the story.7 Despite the many domestic violence experts who have criticized the novel, Baldoni charged ahead.

Nevertheless, it’s clear that he was aware—at least on some level—of some issues, given how many are omitted from the film. As a result, the movie is some improvement over the book. The impressive visuals are a big stylistic step up over Hoover’s immature writing. More important for a story intended as a romance, the film both omits some of Ryle’s arrogance and stalkerish behavior and adds some positive interaction between Lily and him. That’s not sufficient to make Lily’s internal conflict truly compelling, and arguably not enough to achieve Baldoni’s goal in making the film, but it’s a step in the right direction.

This article appears in the Spring 2025 issue of The Objective Standard.

Traveling to different countries to speak at conferences is a big part of my work, and I love it. But when I was asked to speak at Ayn Rand Center Ukraine (ARCU)’s 2025 Intellectual Bootcamp in Kyiv, I was hesitant. I have enough Ukrainian friends to know that large parts of the country are safer than it appears in Western news coverage. Nonetheless, the real danger of frequent Russian air raids, the nationwide state of martial law, and the complexity of visiting a country with completely closed airspace were all off-putting.

What convinced me to go regardless was the remarkable spirit of the people organizing and attending the event. Although this would be my first time visiting Ukraine in person, I had previously spoken at several ARCU events remotely, my face and presentation projected onto a wall at the conference. Each time, I was impressed by the dedication of the people coming together in the middle of a war to sit in a shelter and discuss ideas for living better lives and advancing the cause of freedom. Not only were they not letting the war stop them from living their lives—they were proactively working to enhance their lives despite it. Their spirit embodies much of what I believe in, and it was clear to me that taking the comparatively small risk of going to join and support them was the right thing to do.

Now, looking back on the conference, I’m enormously thankful that I went. My goal in taking part was to inspire, educate, and motivate the attendees, but in truth it was they who inspired me. Here were people who took the ideas they believed in so seriously that they’d taken trains across a country constantly threatened by drone and missile attacks to discuss and promote those ideas. If they could display such dedication, how could I justify letting the trivial inconveniences of everyday life in the West hold me back from advancing my goals to the best of my ability?

Virtually all the young students I met at the Intellectual Bootcamp had a proactive, optimistic outlook. I see that kind of mentality in only a select few individuals at such events elsewhere. These were people who, faced with the massive threat to human life that is Putin’s war machine, were determined to embody the very human spirit that the invaders seek to crush. Their spirit reminds me of the stories I’ve heard of Britain during World War II—a culture of defiant positivity, of laughter in the face of tyranny, and of an unashamed commitment to living life.

Ukraine is one of the front lines in the fight not only for freedom but for the human spirit. That spirit was embodied beautifully in Ayn Rand Center Ukraine’s Intellectual Bootcamp. For all my trepidation before the trip, I am enormously glad I went, and I cannot wait for my next opportunity to benefit from spending time with such passionate advocates of freedom and human life.

• The People Promoting Life, Reason, and Liberty—Even in a War Zone

• Helen Keller’s Five Keys to Being Happy

• Why Does Hollywood Have an Originality Problem?

• Happy Birthday George Washington!

• Steve Jobs’s Philosophy of Life

Enjoy!

Thomas Walker-Werth
Managing Editor

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‘Hope for a Better World’

“TOS is essential to me maintaining my sanity, not to mention hope for a better world.” —John

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Copyright © 2025 The Objective Standard. All rights reserved.

Commenting on the lack of originality in Hollywood today has become cliché. It seems that most new movies are franchise entries, live-action remakes of animated films, adaptations of novels or video games, or based on historical figures or events.

Though great adaptations can bring a fresh perspective to an old story, films can be—and many of the best are—original works of art that stand on their own. This is, in part, because film is a different medium from books, plays, or video games; and stories carefully crafted for film have the potential to make full use of its capabilities. But more fundamentally, original films create a new artistic value of their own rather than adding to or retelling an existing story.

Counterintuitively, the overall percentage of scripts that are “original” (not based on real life, a written work, or another movie) has remained roughly constant since the 1980s. But two things have changed since then: first, the number of popular films that are sequels, prequels, spinoffs, remakes, or based on products (such as Barbie and the Lego films) has increased; and second, the percentage of box office revenue in the United States that original movies have earned has declined by almost half.1

Note: this chart counts franchise entries (sequels, prequels, and spinoffs) as “original” if they were not adapted from a book series, comic book, TV show, video game, toy, theme park ride, or other movie.

So, why are popular movies predominantly derivative? Perhaps because Hollywood executives face crushing pressure to maximize investor returns in the face of dropping cinema attendance (which may be worsened, in turn, because audiences are less incentivized to pay rising ticket prices to watch derivative films). As a result, studios favor movies that tie into already-popular franchises or brands over taking risks on new ideas.

But sometimes taking a risk is necessary to create films that are both artistically valuable and commercially successful. Now-iconic original films such as Star Wars, Back to the Future, and Toy Story were rejected many times as unlikely to succeed before a studio finally gave them a chance—and they were massive box-office hits, each coming in first or second place on the worldwide charts in their respective years of release.2

The high cost of star-studded, effects-heavy movies further increases the drive to guarantee the highest possible returns. Studios are spending piles of money on advertising to draw people back to the big screen in the face of competition from streaming platforms, social media, and online gaming—which further increases the box-office receipts needed to break even. For instance, the 2023 Barbie movie’s marketing budget was twice that of its production costs.3

It seems that many studios have chosen to focus on the concrete elements of what’s been “proven” to make a profit on all that expense: popular franchises, games, and toys; well-loved characters; and remakes of stories that did well at the box office in the past. The delightful How to Train Your Dragon is getting a live-action remake fifteen years after the animated version premiered to excellent reviews, making it the latest instance of two trends: an increasing percentage of movie releases being remakes and a decreasing amount of time between the original and the remake (the average is currently about twenty-five years).4

This approach makes a certain kind of sense; studios need to make money, so why not go with what has worked rather than take a risk? But there’s a fundamental problem: Production comes before consumption, or to put it another way, supply drives demand. As Steve Jobs put it, “A lot of times, people don’t know what they want until you show it to them.”5 This is especially true when it comes to art. Original art can take situations and people we wouldn’t expect to care about and make them deeply memorable because they represent important values. Or it can take a known situation or place and show us startling things about it that we had never noticed before. Though original scripts are a risk, they have given rise to many successful films featuring hero’s journeys against epic backdrops (Star Wars), heart-wrenching story arcs (The Blind Side), and new perspectives on the challenges of everyday life (Inside Out).

Of course, creatively adapted movies can add value to existing stories. Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy—considered a huge risk when it was originally made—is now justly regarded as a cinematic masterpiece. Though it wasn’t an original work, it stands out because of how Jackson took fantasy elements that, until then, hadn’t been translated on-screen and used them to create an unparalleled work of visual art of epic scope. In other words, the filmmakers’ innovation added value to a remarkable existing story, resulting in a uniquely cinematic experience and a feast for the senses that still retained much of the depth of the original story. Nonetheless, faithful film adaptations necessarily omit much from a rich book or series. As a result, much of the value—in particular, the characterization and the abstract themes—is usually diluted or even entirely omitted in an adaptation. By contrast, scripts crafted specifically for movies tend to be better at using the limited time frame and visual storytelling to convey their plots compellingly than does a novel condensed and adapted for film.

Art is powerful because it can condense a wealth of observations and thoughts into a single scene, character, or story line. An artist can convey a clear, shocking depiction of an abstract idea—of courage or cowardice, love or fear, redemption or revenge. Good artworks concretize such abstractions vividly and perceptually, evoking emotions and creating memorable examples that we can refer to in our lives. Art can help us through a tough time, encourage us to work for something we want, or simply give us a chance to look at a world full of our values and breathe. But for art to be that kind of spiritual fuel, it needs to present important and universal values—things everyone can relate to or at least understand. If movies simply make visual the abstractions that other artists have already concretized in characters, conflicts, and worlds (or give a slightly different visual form to films or plays created in the past) their utility as an art form is severely hampered. It’s as though rather than generating their own unique products, they’re merely offering cheap knockoffs, counterfeits, and hoping that nobody will notice.

Movies are a luxury, not a necessity; even those audience members who recognize the crucial role art plays in a full, thriving life will get their art elsewhere if the cinema continues to disappoint—and streaming services’ elaborate, often well-integrated TV series are a tempting alternative. Hollywood executives could learn a great deal from successful businesspeople such as Jobs, who on some level understand that wealth generation depends on creating something new and useful—the opposite of being a slave to what’s worked in the past. Creating original products (be they computers or films) based on universal needs and desires is the way to win hearts—and dollars.

Before the Industrial Revolution, human life was bleak. Men, women, and children had to do grueling manual labor all day to produce basic necessities. Aside from a privileged few, nobody had the time or energy to indulge in hobbies or produce other values. Most people were essentially confined to their hometowns, and the long-distance trade of goods was limited. Transportation was excruciatingly slow, exceedingly dangerous, and prohibitively expensive, limited to the speed and pulling power of a team of horses on a gravel road.1

Steam power changed all that. In half a century, it made possible a world of abundance. It enabled the automation of factories and mills, freeing up people’s time and increasing the availability of goods and necessities. It made efficient intercity transportation possible, empowering people to travel in search of new opportunities and to trade across great distances. It enabled progress in mining and manufacturing that drove development of new materials and technologies. Few innovations have ever had such a dramatic impact on human life.

The two men most often credited with the advent of steam power are James Watt, who perfected Thomas Newcomen’s prototypes into workable engines; and George Stephenson, who designed and built the first steam locomotives to haul passengers and freight between cities. Both men are heroes whose work improved the lives of millions. But an often-overlooked hero made a vital contribution to the development of the steam engine without which it could not have had the impact that it did: Richard Trevithick.

In the late 18th century, Watt had perfected an operational steam engine design, but it was huge; each of his engines filled an entire hall, and its cylinders were large enough to stand inside.2 These engines were pretty much only useful for powering large industrial machinery; Watt thought that an engine small enough to mount on wheels would explode because of the steam pressure required to drive it.3 Trevithick—still in his twenties and working in the mines of southwest England where space was at a premium—thought that he could build an engine capable of handling pressures up to ten times higher than Watt’s.4

Described by his schoolteachers as “disobedient, slow and obstinate,” Trevithick was a maverick who didn’t take “no” for an answer.5 He built his first working models of a high-pressure engine between 1797 and 1799, carefully designing them to avoid infringing on Watt’s patents and omitting some of the latter’s space-consuming components (such as a condenser on the exhaust).

Trevithick realized that his high-pressure engines would be small enough to mount on wheels, creating a self-powered vehicle. He built his first motorized “carriage,” named Puffing Devil, in 1801. It was ahead of its time, far too heavy and cumbersome for Cornwall’s unpaved roads designed for horse-drawn carts. Crossing gulleys and potholes often rendered it inoperable, and it ultimately crashed into a house. But it proved that a motorized carriage could work, and Trevithick realized that a similar vehicle running on rails could transform the mining industry by safely hauling loads far too heavy for horses. Accordingly, he patented a design for an engine that could run on a road or on rails.

He then produced a series of high-pressure engines, including commercial static engines and experimental mobile ones, learning from the performance of each to hone the design. A fatal explosion of one of his static engines in a mill (which he attributed to improper operation but that his critics attacked as proof of a flaw in his concept) encouraged him to add safety valves and pressure-testing procedures to his subsequent designs.6 In 1802, he built what would become the most important engine of his career—a static engine named Pen-y-Darren—although its significance would not become clear for another two years.

Although Trevithick designed Pen-y-Darren to power a Welsh ironworks, the works’ owner, Samuel Homfray, had him convert it into a locomotive to win a bet Homfray had made with another ironmaster. The object of the bet was to build the first locomotive capable of hauling ten tons of iron a distance of ten miles. Trevithick and Homfray tested the now-mobile Pen-y-Darren in 1804, hooking it up to wagons loaded with the iron as well as seventy men. The engine successfully pulled the load the whole ten miles and subsequently pulled a load of twenty-five tons, winning the bet and proving that Trevithick’s design worked and could replace horse power many times over.7

Unfortunately, much like the roads, the nascent railways of the time were designed for horse-drawn wagons and were not suited to such heavy loads. Iron rails regularly snapped under Trevithick’s engines, limiting customers’ interest in buying them. He attempted to demonstrate another engine—named Catch Me Who Can—on a circular track in London in 1808, offering passenger rides to demonstrate its speed capabilities, but the engine broke a rail and crashed, causing what little interest there was to evaporate.8

Convinced that he had sufficiently demonstrated the merits of the steam-powered locomotive, Trevithick was frustrated by the lack of interest. He moved on to other projects, designing machinery for industrial and maritime applications before departing Britain on an exploratory voyage.9 Not until 1824, while Trevithick was exploring South America, did another engineer—George Stephenson—design a locomotive, and a railway for it to run on, capable of conveying passengers from one city to another in comfort and safety.

Today, Stephenson is celebrated as the inventor of the steam locomotive, but it was Trevithick who pioneered and demonstrated the technology that Stephenson and others would develop further. A few people who have recognized Trevithick’s role have honored him by building replicas of his engines. They include Jim Rees, a curator of Beamish, the Living Museum of the North, who built a replica of Puffing Devil and described Trevithick as “perhaps the outstanding mechanical engineer of his generation.”10 The Welsh National Waterfront Museum in Swansea also houses a replica of Pen-y-Darren. These replicas are monuments to a hero who vastly improved human life by doggedly persevering to design and demonstrate high-pressure steam engines—and working steam locomotives—when many around him thought such machines were impossible.

Author’s note: This review includes spoilers.

The original series of Doctor Who was designed to teach children and adolescents about history and science through stories set alternately in the past and the future. It followed the titular alien Doctor—who has the ability to “regenerate” into a new form when mortally injured—and his companions on their adventures through time and space.1 It grew into the longest continuously running science-fiction TV series of all time, airing from 1963 to 1989. Although it later deviated from its educational mission to focus more on action, it continued to grapple with sophisticated ideas in both science and morality, promoting the values of exploration, curiosity, science, and respect for life and liberty. By its conclusion, it had become an icon of both science fiction and British culture.

Following an unsuccessful pilot for a new series in 1996, Doctor Who seemed to have had its day. But that changed in 2005 when Russell T. Davies launched a new, faster-paced version of the show with a bigger budget and improved visual effects. In its early seasons, this revival explored a wealth of historical periods and futuristic ideas, from the eruption of Mount Vesuvius to the last days of the solar system, and it featured more complex character drama than the original had. It also put a new, darker spin on the Doctor’s backstory by making him the last of his kind following an intergalactic war between his people—the Time Lords—and the xenophobic half-robot Daleks.

For many years, the revival enjoyed high ratings, but lately it has deteriorated in quality. Recent seasons have swapped the show’s optimistic, adventurous tone for a shallow focus on transitory social issues with weak writing and forgettable characters, and the show’s viewership has dropped as a result. Given the poor state of Doctor Who today, recent episodes are unlikely to entice new viewers. However, you may find that some of the episodes highlighted below offer more value and serve as better places to jump in.

“The Impossible Planet”/“The Satan Pit”

Following a rough start—including the sudden departure of the lead actor after only one season—the Doctor Who revival steadily improved in quality with the casting of David Tennant. The second season wasn’t as strong as what was to come, but it nonetheless contained some interesting, suspenseful, and even heart-wrenching stories. Chief among these is the two-part “The Impossible Planet”/“The Satan Pit,” in which the Doctor and his traveling companion, Rose, land on a planet somehow orbiting closer to a black hole than is physically possible, and they find a group of explorers from Earth trapped there. While the Doctor works to find out how this “impossible planet” exists and help the explorers escape, a powerful evil entity lurking deep within the planet’s interior begins to invade the minds of the people trapped on the surface.

As well as being a suspenseful mystery, this story is also a notable example of Doctor Who celebrating the values of exploration and bravery. After finding the explorers on this impossible planet, the Doctor is astonished, exclaiming, “Why did you come here? I’ll tell you why: Because it was there. Brilliant! . . . Human beings. You are amazing!”2

“Blink”

The show hit its stride in the third season, Tennant now settled into the role of the Doctor. The season boasts a number of standout episodes, including a visit to a puzzling dystopia in “Gridlock”; a novel spin on 1930s New York in the two-part “Daleks in Manhattan”/“Evolution of the Daleks”; and a truly disturbing vampiric mystery in “Human Nature”/“The Family of Blood.”

But the third season’s most memorable episode is undoubtedly “Blink.” Written by Stephen Moffat—known for penning many of Doctor Who’s most frightening episodes—“Blink” introduces the Weeping Angels, a race of statue-like winged creatures that can only move when they’re not being observed. But when they aren’t being watched, they can move across a room in the blink of an eye. They grasp their victims and send them to the past, devouring the “potential energy” of the lives those people would have lived. Faced with the threat of the Angels and armed only with a warning from the Doctor, a small group of people must escape and outwit the Angels to survive. “Blink” is a heart-stopping thriller that introduces one of the scariest, most original “monsters” of the series.

“Silence in the Library”/“Forest of the Dead”

Moffat’s contribution to the fourth season introduced another of his terrifyingly unique villains: the Vashta Nerada, a dark cloud of deadly microscopic organisms that looks like a shadow when it attaches to its victim. When a group of space-suited explorers visits an abandoned library on a dead planet, they are initially unaware of the threat, but before long they learn that anyone who has a second shadow doesn’t have long to live. Joined by the Doctor, they are quickly thrown into a race against time as the Vashta Nerada disguises itself in the space suits of its devoured victims and uses them to hunt the remaining explorers.

This story also introduces the character of River Song, a fellow time traveler whom the Doctor has never met but who claims to be his wife. This sets off one of the oddest relationship arcs ever seen in fiction: For reasons that only later become clear, each time they meet, the Doctor (as one would expect) knows her a little better, but she knows him a little less than she had before.

“The End of Time”

Following the end of the fourth season, Tennant rounded out his tenure as the Doctor with a series of specials, culminating in the two-part feature-length “The End of Time.” Since the first season, the revived Doctor Who had presented the Doctor as the only survivor of the time war between his people and the Daleks, but “The End of Time” reveals that his people, in fact, survived the war by hiding their entire planet. However, they are no longer the civilized race the Doctor once knew; they have been corrupted by the war into tyrants ready to wipe out all other life in the universe.

This epic conclusion to Tennant’s tenure shows the Doctor wrestling with his identity, struggling to say good-bye to his dearest friends, and ultimately facing the demise of his current form—one that he has grown to love.

“Vincent and the Doctor”

Following “The End of Time,” Doctor Who was at full strength. In season five, Moffatt took over from Davies as show runner and oversaw a move toward longer-form storytelling. This, together with the risky casting of the then-relatively unknown Matt Smith as the Doctor, kept the show interesting and original and helped it retain its large audience despite Tennant’s departure. The season included several powerful stand-alone stories, but its most notable entry is “Vincent and the Doctor,” in which the Doctor and his new assistant, Amy, visit the troubled Vincent Van Gogh. The episode shows how Van Gogh struggled to build a career as an artist and suffered from depression during his lifetime. Then, it uses Doctor Who’s time-travel premise to give him the utterly heartrending opportunity to discover how much his art affected people during the following century in a scene virtually guaranteed to make you cry.

“A Good Man Goes to War”

For the sixth season, Moffatt experimented with a new format, essentially telling one continuous story across all thirteen episodes. The season is an integrated mystery plot about the Doctor’s apparent death in the opening episode, the nature of his relationship with River Song, and the intentions of the Silence: a race of aliens whom people forget as soon as they look away from them. The season also featured a more cinematic style than ever before; a large portion of location filming was done in the United States to take advantage of dramatic scenery unavailable in the United Kingdom.

Although the whole season should be watched as a unit, “A Good Man Goes to War” is worth highlighting because it challenges one of Doctor Who’s most entrenched premises: the Doctor’s hatred of violence. Although he does reluctantly use violence when necessary, the Doctor—an avowed lover of life in all its forms—always tries to find a nonviolent solution to any conflict or situation. But when Amy is kidnapped by an alien force, he goes on the warpath, joining Amy’s husband, Rory, to assemble an army and rescue her. Seeing such militarism from the usually nonviolent, life-loving Doctor lends enormous weight to the story. As River Song at one point narrates, “Demons run when a good man goes to war.”3

“Asylum of the Daleks”

For the seventh season, Moffatt doubled down on the cinematic style established in season six, treating each episode as a miniature movie complete with its own poster and epic cinematography to match. Many of these stories are worth highlighting, but the opening episode, “Asylum of the Daleks,” is especially interesting on several levels. The titular asylum, where the Doctor has been trapped, houses a group of Daleks so insane with anger and paranoia that even the Nazi-like Dalek leadership deems it necessary to imprison them on a faraway planet. What’s most interesting, however, is the introduction of Oswin, a woman apparently trapped in the asylum who is indiscernible from another woman the Doctor met in the previous story. As the Doctor works to rescue her and escape the asylum, he discovers a shocking secret about Oswin’s identity that has ramifications for the next several seasons.

“The Day of the Doctor”

Arguably the high point of the entire revived run of Doctor Who is its fiftieth anniversary special, “The Day of the Doctor.” This feature-length episode brings back David Tennant alongside Matt Smith, reviving the original show’s tradition of bringing different incarnations of the Doctor together for anniversary episodes, enabling audiences to see their differences played out in contrast. More important, the story finally answers a question that has been hanging over the revived series since it began: What did the Doctor do during the time war?

In addressing this, “The Day of the Doctor” does something quite unexpected—it adds a new incarnation of the Doctor into the show’s history: the War Doctor. This incarnation, played by John Hurt, had to commit such acts of destruction during the war that the Doctor subsequently erased him from his memory. “The Day of the Doctor” sees the three versions of our hero jointly face this reality as the time war is suddenly reignited. Despite the dark setting, this decidedly upbeat story ably concludes many of the show’s most interesting storylines and celebrates its half-century anniversary in fitting style.

“The Magician’s Apprentice”/“The Witch’s Familiar”

When Smith left Doctor Who after the fiftieth anniversary, the show gained a highly acclaimed lead actor: Peter Capaldi. Unfortunately, despite Capaldi bringing a new level of gravitas to the role, the writing began to deteriorate during his tenure, and few of these stories stand out like those starring Smith and Tennant. A welcome exception, however, is the two-part season nine opener, “The Magician’s Apprentice”/“The Witch’s Familiar.” It pits the Doctor against Davros, the deranged creator of the genocidal Daleks. Unlike previous Davros stories, which mostly portrayed him as a through-and-through villain, this story shows Davros in a far more vulnerable light. We see him both as a child in a time of planetwide war and as a struggling old man reflecting on his lifetime of destruction. The Doctor’s powerful sense of compassion leads him to sympathize even with his mortal enemy—a mistake that Davros is poised to take advantage of.

***

Capaldi left Doctor Who after its tenth season, by which point the show had already lost much of its characteristic charm and its traditional values of heroism, adventure, and thoughtfulness. The casting of Jodie Whitaker as the first female Doctor was marred by a marked move toward stories that propagandized for the writers’ political and social ideas. Although Whitaker’s final series—a self-contained five-part arc titled “Flux,” followed by two specials—delivered a momentary reprieve with some fairly interesting stories, the quality of the show dropped even further following her departure. The sixtieth anniversary specials featuring Tennant’s return and the subsequent series starring Ncuti Gatwa are virtually unwatchable.

In this bleak period for Doctor Who, during which the show’s quality and its ratings seem to be in a race to the bottom, the revived show’s golden era provides a welcome escape to a better time. Between its third and seventh seasons, the Doctor Who revival delivered episode after episode of fascinating sci-fi concepts, heroic stories, captivating characters, and hard-hitting moral questions. Hopefully, one day, the show can recapture that spirit, but until then, we’ll have those classic episodes.

Songwriters today face a massive problem, or so it seems. The vast majority of popular songs are love songs or some variant—a trend that has been building for a thousand years or more, at least since 11th-century troubadours swooning about courtly love were all the rage. And from the Beatles to Taylor Swift, it’s common for modern artists to release whole albums virtually confined to the subject of romance. So, how can anyone argue with the common refrain, among musicians and critics alike, that “it’s all been done before”?

If you’re Swift, the answer is to come up with ever more out-there metaphors. Her latest release features a track likening her beloved to an alien who abducted her, then left her naked in a field.

Another option is to opt out. Indeed, Sara Bareilles showed that doing so explicitly—singing “I’m not gonna write you a love song ’cause you asked for it, ’cause you need one”—can itself make for a wonderful and successful song. Not that there’s anything wrong with love songs, of course. But among the greatest musical innovators are those who have seen that there’s a whole world out there beyond the changing weather of one’s heart. Undoubtedly at the top of that list, in terms of both artistic and commercial achievement, is Mark Knopfler, whose Billboard chart-topping hits, funny enough, have all been about musicians—or about people talking about musicians.

Knopfler’s outside-the-box success certainly has something to do with his unique pedigree.

Like many of history’s notable novelists—Charles Dickens, Mark Twain, Ernest Hemingway, and more—one of Knopfler’s first jobs was as a newspaper reporter, a role like no other for attuning one’s ear to attention-grabbing stories and telling details. And for three years, while his band Dire Straits was in its infancy, he paid the bills by lecturing on English at Loughton College. Surely, teaching students about the language and its master practitioners didn’t detract from his efforts to conjure believable characters and novel situations in the span of radio-friendly pop songs.

The band’s first major hit, “Sultans of Swing,” was not only one of the all-time greatest guitar songs. It managed to sketch out a cast the likes of which most could never have imagined appearing in a multiplatinum-selling song: amateur musicians going nowhere fast but enjoying their time in the local spotlight. Knopfler’s journalistic attention to his surroundings was most handsomely rewarded when he wrote a song about an appliance retailer he’d overheard talking about the posh life of rock stars. However unexpectedly, “Money for Nothing” paved the way for a more than 230-show world tour, so breakneck and exhausting that it ultimately contributed to the band’s demise.

But in the forty years since that song showed how unique (and unromantic) a hit can be, Knopfler has continued honing his craft, writing ten movie soundtracks and another ten full-length albums. In the first three months of 2024 alone, he put out an instrumental single (“Going Home”), a new album (One Deep River), and a brilliant four-song EP (The Boy).

“Going Home” is the theme he wrote for the 1983 film Local Hero. Knopfler rerecorded it—with contributions from more than sixty of today’s biggest names in music, including more than fifty top-tier guitarists—to raise money for the Teenage Cancer Trust. It features Ringo Starr on drums, and the animated video for the song indicates whose guitar parts are whose, crediting everyone from Hank Marvin (one of Knopfler’s earliest inspirations) and the late greats Duane Eddy and Jeff Beck, to Steve Lukather, Tony Iommi, Eric Clapton, and Joe Bonamassa. Amazingly, despite the dozens of guitarists, the track remains musical, perhaps overindulging only in length at more than ten minutes.1

Standout tracks on Knopfler’s new full-length album, One Deep River, include “Scavenger’s Yard” and “Tunnel 13”—both convincing portraits of schemers and thieves—and perhaps most moving, “Sweeter Than the Rain,” an ode to those whose often unsavory job is to bring such bandits to justice. Sparse and pensive, like the mind of a man whose only companions are his horse and his gun, this last tells the tale of an Old West vigilante tasked with throwing out society’s trash:

If you should hearken to the devil’s bidding

Perchance you’ll bring me work to do

It may not be my heart’s true calling

But I will surely come for you

To you who live by rape and plunder

I’ll shoot or hang with scant remorse

My Old Reliable the avenging thunder

Else my rope and faithful horse

Your late companion in haste repented

I had him take a ride with me

Through this poor country he had so tormented

Until we came to the highest tree

Also moving is “Black Tie Jobs.” Pulling from Knopfler’s reporter days (as he’s done before, particularly effectively with “Basil”), it conveys, in a few short minutes, the unhappy lot of an obituary writer.

Stretching the palette of subjects ever further, Knopfler is at the height of his game with his latest release, the four-song EP The Boy. Unveiled on Record Store Day, it gives four different perspectives on, of all things, boxing (a topic Knopfler has likewise written beautifully about in “Broken Bones”). The depth of characters and breadth of stories make it easy to mistake for a TV-show soundtrack. Complete with the sounds of cheering crowds and fifties-era flashbulbs, the opener, “Mr. Solomons Said,” tells of a boxer-turned-informant for Solomons, apparently a sly, powerful talent scout who made a fortune betting on fights.

Daytimes I’ll make the rounds

In every caff and every pub in this part of town

There’s a mug or a pug

And always someone blathering

It’s gossip calypso all day long

Who’s the money going on

Who’s been training wrong

Got hurt or struggling

Well I might have a couple with a cornerman

The one with the sponge and bucket

I’ve maybe got a bottle for a club doorman

Tickets for a waitress in my pocket

“The Boy” is the sad story of a father whose son left early to join the sport, lured by money and pomp, to make his living punching and being punched. With bagpipe-inspired fiddle and guitar lines, “All Comers” is the most upbeat of the four, glimpsing the old-time fairground practice of allowing challengers from the crowd to step into the ring with a professional boxer. Those still on their feet after three rounds got paid.

“The thing is,” Knopfler says of his craft, “if you’ve energized somebody . . . or you’ve sensitized somebody, you’ve made a difference.” In a body of work spanning nearly five decades, the Sultan of Song has continued to do just that: sensitizing listeners to the drama of the oft overlooked. “It’s a creative act,” he says, “you drop it in the well. The ripples go out and you never know what’s going to come back.” What’s come back in his case is a resounding “no” to the idea that “it’s all been done before.”2

Welcome to the Winter 2024 issue of The Objective Standard.

While attending LevelUp 2024 in Atlanta earlier this year, I went for a walk to explore the area. The conference hotel was linked to several other buildings by an elevated, air-conditioned walkway—ideal in Atlanta’s June heat—so I headed across to see where it led. On the other side, I found one of the most dramatic indoor spaces I’ve ever encountered: the towering forty-eight-story atrium of the Marriott Marquis hotel, designed by Atlanta native John C. Portman. Further along was his earlier Hyatt Regency hotel, which also boasted a voluminous atrium replete with balconies, shining glass elevators, and towering sculptures. Determined to learn more about the man who had designed these phenomenal buildings, I started researching him—and discovered a renegade architect who was shocked by the “sterile, inhuman” style of his day and made it his mission to instead design buildings that people would enjoy using and visiting. In “‘Make It Something That Enhances Life’: The Architectural Philosophy of John C. Portman,” I examine some of Portman’s most exceptional buildings in the United States and beyond, his distinctive approach to architecture and business, and the individualism that fueled his many achievements.

Such individualism—and the individual rights that are supposed to protect it at the political level—have long been under attack. Unfortunately, those who speak out to defend freedom, individual rights, and capitalism often underestimate the philosophic depth of their opponents’ arguments. They make practical, economic arguments for capitalism, failing to answer the many moral and epistemological arguments arrayed against them. This is “worse than futile,” writes Jon Hersey, “because it convinces those who matter in such a setting—the audience—that advocates of freedom cannot be taken seriously, that all the intellectual power in today’s world is on the side of statists who deny any factual basis for individual rights and seek to violate those rights in sundry ways.” In “Ayn Rand and the Future of Freedom,” Hersey outlines several key philosophic problems and their political consequences, the failures of past thinkers to resolve these problems, and how Rand succeeded.

The shorts in this issue are:

• “The Obscenity of Banning Books” by Angelica Walker-Werth;

• “Dreaming of America: The Art of Hiroshi Nagai” by Ligeia Rose;

• “Mark Knopfler: Sultan of Song” by Jon Hersey_._

The reviews in this issue are:

• Challenger: A True Story of Heroism and Disaster on the Edge of Space by Adam Higginbotham, reviewed by Timothy Sandefur;

• Star Trek: Prodigy, created by Kevin and Dan Hageman, reviewed by me.

I hope you enjoy the issue!

Whatever I do, it’s mine. —John C. Portman Jr.1

Few architects have had so profound an impact on a city as John C. Portman Jr. had on his hometown of Atlanta. In his fourteen-block redevelopment of the city’s downtown, he built two of the most spectacular hotels America has ever seen, revolutionizing hotel architecture in the process.

But Portman’s influence extends far beyond both Atlanta and hotel architecture. He transformed the downtowns of several American cities with his huge, interconnected developments before going on to create similarly impactful projects in Singapore and China. Throughout his seven-decade career, Portman exercised near-complete control over the design and construction of his buildings by going beyond the traditional role of an architect and working as the developer, financier, and marketer of his projects.

In so doing, he worked to implement his own ideas about how American cities should be designed through the planning of his buildings and the spaces between them. His maverick approach to architecture—and the nature of the buildings he built—attracted considerable criticism from his fellow architects and critics, yet the vast majority of his buildings were hugely successful and continue to attract visitors to this day.

‘The Architect as Developer’: An Integrated Approach

When Portman’s high-school technical drawing teacher suggested that he might be interested in architecture, Portman “didn’t even know how to spell it.”2 But he took the teacher’s advice, explored the subject, and rapidly developed an affinity for it. After a period in the navy during WWII, he studied architecture at the Georgia Institute of Technology, graduating in 1950 and going to work at the firm of Stevens and Wilkinson.

In the same year, he met one of his architectural heroes, who introduced him to a philosophic way of approaching the subject. Portman recounted, “I was fortunate to meet Frank Lloyd Wright in 1950. He turned me on to philosophy by saying, ‘Philosophy is a handmaiden of serious and meaningful architecture. Young man, go seek Emerson.’” Portman did. He recalled that over the following three years, “I poured myself into philosophy in my free moments.”3

The element of self-reliance in Emerson’s thought deeply affected Portman, who longed to produce buildings that were uniquely his. So, after obtaining his architectural license in 1953, he went into business with his former teacher, Griffith Edwards. “I opened my own office alone with no work, . . . and I struggled for three years with small commissions—houses, schoolroom additions, remodeling.”4 Portman longed to do bigger jobs, which would give him the chance to combine three elements from three of his influences at the time: the “humanity” of Wright’s “organic approach,” the grander-scale vision of Le Corbusier, and the geometric precision of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe.

Leaving Edwards to handle the administrative side of the business, Portman began looking for opportunities to express himself architecturally.

None were forthcoming, so he created his own: He entered into an arrangement with a developer who would front the cash to buy a plot of land—at the time, the largest single plot ever bought in downtown Atlanta. In return, Portman would design and build an indoor wholesale market on the site to make back the purchase cost. Design in hand, he took out a mortgage, using the land value as capital to back a loan for the construction cost of the market.5 This was the genesis of the Atlanta Merchandise Mart, later known as AmericasMart, a huge indoor wholesale market that would ultimately total seven million square feet. Portman designed a twenty-two-story concrete cube filled with circular sales floors to maximize space for exhibitors to sell products and for buyers to move easily between displays. He worked with fellow architect Trammell Crow, who had pioneered the concept of a trade hall with a large atrium-like central space in his Dallas Market Center, built only a few years earlier in 1957. Crow and Portman would collaborate on numerous subsequent projects.

Externally, the Merchandise Mart is somewhat bleak, reflecting the influence of Corbusier’s and Mies’s utilitarian style on Portman at the time. Internally, however, it exhibited one of Portman’s distinctive architectural traits: a design approach focused on the comfort and convenience of the building’s intended users. He lamented the fact that architects, in their efforts to outdo each other with every new building, “forgot about the little guy who’s going to use it.”6

The original Merchandise Mart building (right), subsequently joined to a newer addition by an array of enclosed “skybridges” enabling easy movement between the two parts of the market at different levels.

In 1961, just as the Merchandise Mart was approaching completion, Portman visited Brasilia, the new Brazilian capital city then under construction. The experience radically changed his perspective on modern architecture. The bleak, unwelcoming design of the government-planned city with its windswept concrete plateaus punctuated by overbearing Soviet-style housing blocks shocked him. “I approached Brasilia with great anticipation, tremendous enthusiasm. Here was the largest thing done in the world by world-renowned architects and planners, and I just couldn’t wait to get there.” But the visit was a wake-up call. “I was never so shocked and disappointed in my life. It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water in my face.”7 The city, he recounted, “was the most sterile, inhuman environment that I have ever witnessed.” The buildings “didn’t have life, and that bothered me very much.” Returning from the trip, he “began to think that architecture must have as its base and fundamental raison d’etre a function and a purpose for human existence . . . if it can’t exist as a beneficial effect on human life then it shouldn’t exist at all.” Reflecting on his own work, he thought, “I’ve got to make it something that enhances life.”8

That wasn’t easy to do. However much effort an architect puts into his designs, other parties in the development process (developers, financiers, operators, and city governments) can exert influence to water down his plans. Backers and stakeholders may even replace an architect if he is unwilling to compromise. Portman, intent on seeing through his vision for a more human-focused modernism, came up with an unorthodox solution based on his success with the Merchandise Mart: He could take on the roles of developer and financier as well as architect. As he explained, “I’m first an architect. I’m a developer because I wanted to be a certain kind of architect. I wanted to do things that I wanted to do, and I wanted to have a greater say-so in what I did and a greater control . . . over my own future.”9

This was a radical proposition—one that the architectural establishment was not ready to accept. Portman “incurred the mistrust of critics and his fellow professionals, in particular for combining the role of developer and architect,” remarks architecture commentator Rowan Moore. “He was dangerously conflicted, they thought,” because they held that architects should be focused on art, not on business.10 His fellow architectural renegade Morris Lapidus stated that Portman “extended the boundaries of the architect’s endeavor . . . beyond the imagination of most professionals trained in architecture.”11 But, to Portman, it was simply a means to an end:

I am . . . primarily interested in the design and the creativity of architecture. I have done all these other things [financing, real estate development, etc.] not because I enjoy them that much but because it was a price to pay in order to get in the position to do the things that I wanted to do and to do meaningful and significant things, and not just to be doing something that somebody rang me up on the phone and asked me to.12

Portman’s approach gave him the freedom to design his buildings his own way, and as a result, they do not reflect the “international style” of minimalist, rectilinear steel and glass common among other American architects at the time.

Shortly after returning from Brasilia, Portman made another trip, this time to Sweden and Finland, where he was impressed by developments that included elevated walkways that enabled pedestrians to move between the buildings without having to cross traffic. “While I was in the city square of Vallingby,” he recounted,

I saw a woman pushing a baby carriage across a bridge spanning a freeway coming into the city center. The rapid transit system was underneath the city center. Everything was separated, and you saw children in the city. . . . This seemed to be so humane. Here was a pedestrian village, and the housing was laid out in such a way that people could stroll into this city square. I was very impressed by the planning and the humanity of it all.13

He thought he could integrate this concept with high-quality architecture to create “a new kind of human environment” in American downtowns. Unlike the buildings of many modern architects, whom Portman considered “intellectually bankrupt,” he designed his for “the little man” who would use them daily. He regarded many in his profession as practicing “architecture without philosophy, architecture as collage, architecture as stage set, architecture as parasite of historical form, architecture as whimsy, fantasy, architecture as form not space, architecture as mannerism, architecture as pastiche absurdity.”14 Portman designed the Mart to avoid all these traps and instead be an original building designed around a principle of the ease of use, ease of movement, and comfort of the end user.

Portman had always intended the Merchandise Mart to be the first part of a wider project to rebuild, as one integrated development, a large chunk of Atlanta’s then-lifeless downtown. That project—which became known as Peachtree Center—would be his opportunity to implement his new ideas about urban design and pedestrian movement. Reflecting on Brasilia’s failings and his work on the Merchandise Mart, Portman reasoned,

We had just inserted into the community the biggest building in the southeastern part of the United States, and it didn’t make sense to stay focused on just that without thinking about what’s going to go on up and down the street and across the way. And that thinking came from raising my level of awareness from a building to a city and thinking in city terms and community terms as well as building terms.15

And so, Portman planned Peachtree Center as the Mart was being completed. Given Atlanta’s heat and humidity, he designed the complex—which would ultimately grow to span fourteen city blocks—as a network of interconnected indoor spaces joined by enclosed, elevated walkways called “skybridges.” The network included markets, hotels, restaurants, and 1.5 million square feet of office space, making Peachtree Center an exemplar of mixed-use development. Portman—in contrast to government planners, who favor breaking cities into zones of different uses—recognized that people actually prefer that a mixture of different activities be available within a walkable distance:

If you walk from seven to ten minutes and draw a radius, you will be amazed at what a tremendous area that would encompass and, within that radius—if it were properly planned in a way that would involve human life from every aspect [living, working, recreation, etc.]—we could have a more convenient, a more human, type of life.16

Portman designed the center’s buildings to sit atop mostly windowless “podium” bases with servicing and vehicle access at street level. The public entrances and lobbies are above these, joined by skybridges over the streets, creating an elevated pedestrian network.

One key reason Portman kept this network above street level was that during the 1960s, the city of Atlanta had proposed a radical plan to rearrange the downtown streets. Public transit, general traffic, and pedestrians each would flow on different levels. Portman designed his buildings with this in mind, leaving the street level for vehicles and putting all pedestrian routes at second-floor level, where he expected the public walkways to be. But the city government abandoned the plan, leaving Peachtree Center as an island of interconnected second-floor spaces without many points of connection to the surrounding streets. Peachtree also had no outward-facing units for businesses; aside from service and car entrances, the buildings present bare concrete walls to the streets at ground level. Critics attacked Portman for this design, including Georgia Tech professor Catherine Ross, who called his buildings “fortresses with concrete facades in downtowns that separate citizens from the city.”17

This disconnect meant that businesspeople and visitors used the center’s internal walkways instead of the streets, rather than—as Portman intended—using the two as a single, integrated network. As a result, the streets have little pedestrian activity. This, combined with poor maintenance, contributed to some streets becoming untidy havens for criminals, further deterring people from using them.

Indeed, a main criticism of Portman’s Peachtree design (and some of his later work) is that his building/street-disconnect led to unsafe streets by separating his wealthy clientele from the downtown poor and abandoning the streets to the latter. Whether and to what extent this is true, it disregards the fact that this disconnect was not Portman’s intention. Portman held that buildings should be integrated into a functioning city, not isolated in the way Peachtree Center became. His intention was to keep the downtown streets—which wealthier residents had left in their flight to the suburbs—active by bringing businesses and their customers back to them. “I just couldn’t see abandoning the cities to the poor. . . . I want to bring the middle class back.”18

As the Merchandise Mart and Peachtree Center grew and became financially successful, Portman started designing a new home for himself in Atlanta that would embody his emerging ideas. He named it “Entelechy,” referring to an ancient Greek concept from the writings of Aristotle, broadly meaning the realization of potential. The house had a ground floor consisting of one large space interspersed with several “exploded columns.” These look outwardly like regular columns, but each actually consists of four curved floor-to-ceiling supports, outlining circular spaces within them. Inside the “columns” are stairwells or small nook-like spaces for working, cooking, and so on. With this design, Portman sought to emphasize the column—which he regarded as the key element of architecture—and to create a home that is at once open plan and subdivided into units with a measure of privacy.

Portman’s Trademark: The Birth of the Atrium Hotel

By 1965, with the Merchandise Mart in operation, Portman found that the existing hotels in the area could not accommodate the two hundred thousand buyers and sellers traveling there each year. In keeping with his integrated approach, he decided to address this problem by going into the hotel business—but with a twist. At the time, hotel operators typically favored buildings with narrow walkways between densely packed rooms, leading to and from a compact lobby. They were designed to cram in as many rooms as possible. Hotel operators liked this established model, which they thought maximized their income, and they didn’t want to change.

But Portman had a different idea, based on his recent experience designing Antoine Graves, a public housing project in the Atlanta suburbs (the only public housing project Portman ever undertook). There, he had wanted to avoid the trend of designing public housing that was “just sort of warehousing people.”19 Rather, he looked at how those in the project’s target demographic (low-income elderly people) lived. Observing that they spent a lot of their time outside on porches and socializing with neighbors, he designed Antoine with a large interior atrium, similar to what Crow had used for the Dallas Market Center. He designed the apartments to face inward toward the atrium, fringed with balcony walkways circling the large, light-filled central space. Here, residents could socialize not far from their rooms but with the feeling of being outdoors. The atrium design also helped cool the building (no public housing had air conditioning at the time); warm air rose to vents in the atrium roof, creating a breeze that added to the outdoor feel. This design reflected Portman’s human-centric approach, evolving out of his consideration of the residents’ psychological as well as physical comfort.

For his new downtown hotel, Portman decided to employ the same atrium concept, but on a larger scale, to create a space that combined the benefits of indoor and outdoor environments. “We decided to explode the hotel—to open it up and create a tremendous interior volume, which would give the feeling almost of a resort even though it’s . . . on the busiest street of the city.”20 Whereas the atrium at Antoine served as a residential meeting space, the hotel atrium would serve as a commercial space for shops, restaurants, and businesses—like a public square but within the hotel. Because Portman thought that exposure to nature was important for mental health, the upper-floor balconies would be decorated with plants, and the atrium would even have an aviary, all giving the impression of an outdoor environment.

Creating such a grand atrium meant giving up a huge volume of the building’s interior to non-income-generating space, which many hotel operators thought would make it unviable. But Portman expected that the experience of being in the large atrium and the availability of a range of services within it would attract visitors and make up for the lost income. He was well aware of the need for architecture to be practical, remarking, “You can have the greatest vision in the world, but if you can’t marry pragmatics to it and make it a reality, it’s a daydream. So you have always got to somehow bring these things together . . . without denigrating the vision. . . . You have to think of it holistically.”21

Portman, in his characteristic manner, acquired the site for the hotel, convinced investors to back it, and oversaw the construction himself. But once it was finished, he struggled to market it to hoteliers used to traditional designs. At one point, Conrad Hilton toured the building and reportedly said, “This concrete monstrosity will never fly.”22 Portman refused to compromise by altering the building, but financial backers began to pull out, and it looked as though the project would become a white elephant. Fortunately, Chicago’s Pritzker family, who had recently acquired a little-known chain of airport hotels called Hyatt, saw in Portman’s radical design an opportunity to loudly announce Hyatt’s arrival into the downtown hotel business. The Hyatt Regency opened in 1967 and immediately became one of Atlanta’s most visited attractions, drawing fourteen thousand visitors in its first week and boasting an average 90 percent occupancy rate in the first three months. The Hyatt company adopted Portman’s design as a blueprint and proceeded to open twenty-six more atrium hotels over the next twenty years.23

Entering the Atlanta Hyatt’s atrium from one of the skybridges, one is immediately struck by the sheer volume of the twenty-two-story space, which was the largest hotel lobby in the world when it opened.24 Portman further emphasized its scale in several ways. First, the entrance walkways are quite small and have low ceilings, making the contrast with the soaring atrium more striking. Reportedly, the Hyatt staff named one of the entrances “profanity corner” in light of how visitors would regularly stroll into the atrium and exclaim in amazement as they looked up. But what really stresses the atrium’s height is something that would become a trademark of Portman’s buildings: Upon entering, one’s eyes are immediately drawn skyward by stylish, art deco elevators running up a prominent shaft right to the ceiling. These highlight the vertical nature of the space, connecting the upper levels to the atrium floor visually as well as practically. The elevators even go through the atrium ceiling, creating an impression of continuing out into the sky. In reality, they travel to a rotating, saucer-shaped restaurant above the hotel’s rooftop, which can be glimpsed through a circular window in the atrium ceiling.

In 1968, following the Atlanta Hyatt’s success and Edwards’s retirement, Portman founded his own practice, Portman and Associates. He ran the business with “no chain of command,” invited his staff’s criticisms of his ideas, and directly involved himself in all the company’s operations. Discussing Portman’s approach, one associate remarked that he “prefers to go to the part of the building where the work is being done rather than have the work brought to him.”25

As further expansion of Peachtree Center continued, hotel operators and other businesses across the country began to notice the buzz around the Atlanta Hyatt and the growing Peachtree Center complex connected to it. As a result, Portman began to receive more commissions outside Atlanta, including major downtown renewals in two other struggling American cities.

Reaching New Heights

In 1971, Portman began working on an urban renewal project markedly different from Peachtree Center: the Embarcadero Center in San Francisco. Once again, he planned the complex—spanning seven city blocks—as one integrated unit; and once again, a Hyatt Regency hotel would be one of the major components. However, San Francisco’s smaller block size, plus other site constraints, led Portman to design the hotel with a triangular footprint rather than the square layout of the Atlanta Hyatt. Whereas the Atlanta Hyatt’s atrium walls are vertical, the San Francisco Hyatt features floors stepping into the atrium on one side. Unlike the Atlanta Hyatt’s prominent elevators, those of the San Francisco Hyatt are tucked away in a corner. The result of all this is still a stunning space, with a sloping wall of balconies seeming to hover over one’s head, but the less prominent elevators and compressed dimensions of the atrium make it less impactful than the Atlanta Hyatt.

In connecting the Hyatt to the rest of Embarcadero Center, Portman decided to use open-air walkways rather than enclosed skybridges like Peachtree Center. San Francisco, with its more hospitable climate and more established downtown, already had an active street economy into which Portman hoped to connect Embarcadero Center. He intended the complex to function as a “little village,” combining public and private spaces at both ground and higher levels. Portman sought to change the typical American downtown, which he thought was disintegrated because of the dominance of the car and a lack of spaces just for people, like those he had seen in Sweden:

Our cities are dispersed and fragmented, caused by the wheel. Our cities grew up in the beginning with a one-story building and a crossroads. . . . Then it had a two- and a three-story building, then a four-story building—same sidewalk, same street. Then a fifty-story building, same sidewalk, same street. The infrastructure never changed. The density grew and grew and grew. The resulting effect: dehumanization. No place for people.26

Aiming to fix this, Portman conceived of a modern environment that would replicate the walkability of traditional European cities but in a way suited to a city of skyscrapers. He planned to make it easy for people to walk between business and residential areas by including public walkways and open spaces inside buildings on higher floors. Accordingly, Embarcadero Center includes a number of open indoor spaces designed to function as vibrant public squares, which he intended to be more active and attractive than the often-lifeless public squares—typically surrounded by car-dominated streets—found in many American downtowns.

The design of Embarcadero Center was somewhat influenced by David Rockefeller’s involvement in the project. In particular, the open spaces feature sculptures reminiscent of Rockefeller Center in New York, which led some locals to nickname the Embarcadero Center “Rockefeller Center West.” While planning the center, Portman and Rockefeller budgeted $1 million for artworks.27

As Embarcadero Center was built out through the 1970s, Portman took on several smaller, stand-alone projects, including the Fort Worth National Bank and a wholesale market in Brussels—his first major project outside the United States. Perhaps the most notable of these projects, however, was the Westin Bonaventure hotel in Los Angeles. Although it was not part of a larger master plan, Portman designed the Westin to be connected to all four surrounding blocks by skybridges, showing that his pedestrian movement model could work even without the neighboring blocks being under common ownership.

The Westin was a significant departure from Portman’s previous architectural style. Rather than the cubic designs he had become known for, it features four cylindrical towers set around a larger central tower. The outer towers stand at the corners of the block, surrounding the central tower like the boosters of a rocket. At ground level, a glass-roofed atrium connects all five towers. Standing inside, one sees four elevator shafts erupting out of the atrium roof and gliding up between the central tower and each of the four outer towers. These, along with the atrium, connect the five towers into one integrated building and also enhance privacy by ensuring that there are no direct sightlines between rooms in adjacent towers—a further example of Portman’s attention to the needs of his buildings’ ultimate users.

Whereas much of Portman’s earlier work presented triumphant, awe-inspiring interior spaces within rather unassuming exteriors, the Los Angeles Westin marks the point when Portman’s exterior designs became just as magnificent. The “wow” factor one experiences in the Atlanta Hyatt’s atrium can be enjoyed from outside the Westin. Portman used a similar cylindrical design for the single tower of his 1976 Atlanta Westin (also connected to Peachtree Center). There, in order to fit a large ground-floor atrium and twelve hundred rooms into a small site, Portman placed the hotel rooms above the atrium. The atrium is dominated by support columns for the tower above, creating a sense of strength and a throwback to Portman’s focus on columns from Entelechy. Portman contended that his design was the world’s tallest hotel at the time.28

But he would also use the design of the Los Angeles Westin as the blueprint for a much larger development—his third large-scale urban renewal project.

When Henry Ford II teamed up with other Detroit business leaders to form Detroit Renaissance, a project to revive the struggling city’s nearly abandoned downtown, they settled on Portman to oversee it. For the $337-million complex, Portman created what is essentially a scaled-up version of the Westin Bonaventure, with the central tower extended to seventy-three stories (more than double the Westin’s thirty-three) and all five towers approximately doubled in diameter. He made the outer towers square in profile—albeit with rounded turrets in a throwback to the Westin’s cylindrical design—and spaced the towers out further, connected by lower-level buildings and walkways. To finish this “city within a city,” which would have its own walkway system and 5.5 million square feet of floor space, he added two additional towers next to (but still integrated with) the main five-tower cluster.

Upon opening in 1977, the Renaissance Center transformed the Detroit skyline and brought a host of conventions and other events to the city. The building, arguably Portman’s most outwardly impressive creation, appeared in a striking illustration on the cover of Transformations in Modern Architecture, a 1979 book published by New York’s Museum of Modern Art showcasing the latest modern architecture in America.29 Although the choice to put it on the cover drew some criticism, at least someone in the architectural establishment had finally recognized Portman’s contribution to the field.

Whereas in the 1960s large-scale “urban renewal” projects were typically funded and managed by the federal government, Portman refused government funding and delivered his American urban renewals—Peachtree Center, Embarcadero Center, and Renaissance Center—using private funding (although the land for Embarcadero Center was acquired at a discount from the government-owned San Francisco Redevelopment Agency). When his partners tried to pursue state funding for Peachtree Center, Portman instead found private backers, which gave him much more control over the development. Regarding the Merchandise Mart, Irene Way writes in Atlanta Studies:

Unlike with federal-funded urban renewal, Portman did not have to submit a federal application for a renewal project approval, nor did he have to wait for approval of preliminary or execution plans. Portman could also hire whom he wanted, without oversight from officials on the local, state, and federal level, and did not have to wait on disbursement of federal funding. Portman’s relative autonomy with the Mart construction meant that the Mart was completed much faster than the city’s three earliest federal urban renewal sites.30

The result was a much higher quality end product than those of federal urban renewal projects, and opting for private funding incentivized him to create developments that would remain viable on their own without government aid. Reflecting on Peachtree Center in 1982, Portman remarked:

It’s been what we call a “private enterprise urban renewal program.” There’s not one dollar of local, state, or federal funds involved in this development today. It has a value of over three quarters of a billion [dollars], and there’s not one cent of government aid involved. It’s all been done on a private basis and each building—even though it’s part of a master plan—has been developed as a free-standing economic entity.31

Following the completion of the final parts of Renaissance Center in 1981, Portman partnered with one of America’s most prestigious hotel chains to develop two new hotels—one fronting New York’s Times Square and the other in his native Atlanta. The former was a source of great trouble for him, but the latter would become what is, without doubt, the triumph of Portman’s career and one of the finest buildings of the 20th century.

Trouble in New York

Portman had long wanted to build in New York City, and he had been planning a hotel there since the early 1970s, when local real estate developer Robert Sharp approached him after he had “stayed up half the night looking around” during a visit to the Hyatt Regency Atlanta.32 Portman originally partnered with Westin to develop and operate the planned New York hotel, but he ran into a series of difficulties as local politicians and campaigners tried to block the project and preserve theaters on the site. A financial crisis in New York also froze the project for a while, but it eventually got going again in 1981, now partnering with Marriott instead.

Portman intended the building to be a breath of fresh air in the bustling heart of New York City, which, according to New York Times writer William E. Geist, was “the most claustrophobic city Portman had ever seen.”33 He initially designed it with a large plaza facing Broadway but removed it due to public opposition. The interior, however, retained Portman’s characteristic openness, with an atrium clearly modeled on the Atlanta Hyatt. That prospect was enough to secure the hotel three hundred thousand bookings ahead of its 1984 opening.34 In late 1983, businessman Edward Woodyard even booked a room for New Year’s Eve 1999, which he ultimately fulfilled.35 Portman ensured that he had a stake in the operation; he worked with Marriott to set up their jointly owned Marriott Marquis brand to run the hotel—a further example of Portman’s integration of business and architecture.

The New York Marriott Marquis is an exceptional building in its own right—it even contains a theater on its ground level—but its main value was in bringing Portman’s existing atrium concept to New York, although at the substantial cost of years spent negotiating with campaigners and city politicians. The Marriott’s atrium is also a little less open than the Atlanta Hyatt’s thanks to the inward-stepping floors on the upper levels, which create a sense of overhanging mass akin to the San Francisco Hyatt. The building’s exterior is also not especially attractive, perhaps a reflection of its traumatic birth in a mire of controversy and planning constraints.

Portman’s Masterwork

Not so for the Atlanta Marriott Marquis. There, the development was integrated into Portman’s existing Peachtree Center, and he had a much easier time building Marriott a suitably grand hotel in Atlanta’s much less regulated planning environment. The setting was perfect for Portman to design the most exceptional building of his career—a forty-eight-story hotel with a towering atrium running the entire height of the building—the world’s tallest atrium until beaten by Dubai’s Burj al Arab in 1999. Borrowing a little from Wright’s “organic architecture” approach, Portman designed the tower with a bulging base that curves into sloping upper walls, giving the atrium a flowing, cave-like quality. (The bulging form led locals to nickname the building “The Coke Bottle,” which is appropriate given that Coca Cola has long had its global headquarters in the city.)

He then subdivided the atrium into two parts by placing the elevators in the middle. He also created openings in the atrium floor, giving several lower levels a direct view into the towering spectacle above. This arrangement enables people shopping or attending events on the lower floors to stroll to the center and feel the sensation of open space above them—a welcome relief after hours spent in a conference room.

One of the most striking features of the Atlanta Marriott is the structure of the walkway bridges that branch out from the elevator core and merge into the balconies. These walkways and balconies resemble a rib cage with “bones” emanating from a central “spine” and wrapping around the space in graceful curves, getting smaller as one looks up the building. The experience of wonder upon entering the Marriott atrium makes the neighboring Hyatt almost look small by comparison. At virtually any time of day, one can find visitors wandering the lobby with heads craned up in bewilderment at the spectacle, following the illuminated glass elevators as they glide up the spine of this living building.

Riding on the success of these projects, Portman designed himself a new home—Entelechy II—in the picturesque environs of Sea Island, Georgia. This was much larger than the original Entelechy and featured a huge roof covering most of the site, supported by conical columns similar to those of Portman’s Midnight Sun restaurant at Peachtree Center. The building looks more like a showroom or conference center than a house, and its maze of hedges and high walls effectively insulates it from its surroundings. The building clearly embodies the kind of private yet expansive environment Portman himself wanted to live in, and its grandeur is a fitting celebration of his success.

However, fortunes began to turn against Portman following completion of the two Marriott hotels. A major earthquake in San Francisco in 1989 killed the city’s economy overnight. A hotel that Portman had just built there (and that had withstood the quake) consequently opened with virtually no customers, and Embarcadero Center’s income dropped to nearly zero. Almost immediately afterward, the 1989–1990 real estate collapse wiped out much of Portman’s other income, putting him in mounting debt. During the crisis, there was no demand for Portman’s grand-scale projects in America. To rebuild his revenue stream and get building again, he turned his attention east. But unlike his mentor Wright, who had gone to Japan after his own personal tragedy, Portman looked toward a huge country with a rapidly growing, increasingly deregulated economy: China.

Looking East

Portman had some experience in East Asia already. He had designed Singapore’s Regent hotel in 1982, returning a few years later to design the Marina Square shopping center and the Marina Mandarin, Mandarin Oriental, and Pan Pacific hotels. All these featured Hyatt-esque atriums and elegant elevators, giving Singapore a cluster of Portman’s grand atrium buildings in close proximity.

For his debut project in China, however, he designed his fourth “city within a city”—the Shanghai Centre. The three-tower complex includes the “Portman Ritz-Carlton” hotel, a theater, apartments, several foreign consulates (including the U.S. consulate), and an exhibition center. Each of the three towers—arranged with the taller central tower set back and the other two functioning like forward wings—widens slightly at the upper floors. In this way, the buildings, which were among Shanghai’s first modern skyscrapers, echo the design of traditional Chinese structures while bringing a new modernism to the city.

Getting the Shanghai Centre off the ground required a great deal of negotiating with the Chinese government, much of which Portman’s son Jack, who lived in Hong Kong at the time, undertook. Portman’s existing connection with Chinese reformer Deng Xiaoping, who had stayed in the Peachtree Center during a visit to Atlanta in the 1970s, likely helped in getting the necessary government permissions and approvals. Nonetheless, even with private funding lined up and land acquired, Portman and his team were still constantly uncertain about whether the government would let the project proceed. But it did proceed—and succeed.

In short order, Chinese developers were trying to book Portman to bring his style to their cities. He designed his fifth large-scale integrated development in the form of Beijing’s Yintai Centre and reunited with Marriott to produce the JW Marriott Hotel in Shenzhen. His most distinctive work in China, however, is probably Shanghai’s Tomorrow Square tower. Containing another JW Marriott hotel and 255 high-end apartments, the sixty-three-story building (the eighth tallest in a city bursting with skyscrapers) is certainly eye-catching. It has a square profile with the top half rotated forty-five degrees, ending in a knifelike spiked pinnacle. Resembling a rocket poised for launch, Tomorrow Square’s futuristic appearance makes it an outlier among Portman’s high-profile works. Whereas many of his 1990s projects demonstrate the 1960s vintage of his design aesthetic, Tomorrow Square is a step into the future and fits perfectly into the science-fiction-like skyline of modern Shanghai.

Though to a Western viewer many of Portman’s Eastern projects seem either similar to his American works or underwhelming by comparison, they were groundbreaking and transformative in the local context. Unlike the Western architectural mainstream, the Chinese welcomed Portman and treated him like a hero, holding exhibitions in his honor and writing books on his works and style. Despite his impact on the downtowns of Atlanta, San Francisco, and Detroit, he said, “The Portman name is better known in China than it is in the United States.”36

Portman continued to work in America later in his life, adding one more outstanding building to Peachtree Center in 1992: the Truist Plaza, which features ground-level covered walkways around the building’s perimeter that finally tie Peachtree Center’s skybridges into Atlanta’s streets (at least in one area). The Truist building makes a much more pronounced impact on the Atlanta skyline than much of Portman’s earlier work, with its almost digital-looking blocky pyramid rooftop and four surrounding turrets, lending it the appearance of a church tower rendered in Minecraft. This is clearly a Portman for the 1990s, moving away from his traditional concrete exteriors in favor of a glass-and-steel look.

But the bulk of his later work was in the East—particularly China, where such cities as Shanghai, Shenzhen, and Beijing were rapidly becoming hotbeds of skyscraper construction in the then-booming Chinese economy. He moved from city to city and undertook projects in neighboring South Korea and Indonesia. He rarely stopped long anywhere, remarking, “I spend life looking forward . . . Once I’m finished with something, I’m somewhere else.”37

Portman’s Life and Legacy

Portman thought deeply about the end users of his buildings, and he designed accordingly. This focus attracted customers and made his developments hubs for revitalizing downtown areas in America and abroad. Paul Spreiregen, writing in Contemporary Architects, provides a helpful reflection on the impact of Portman’s buildings—not on critics, but on the people who really matter—the buildings’ users:

His work is the epitome of a successful blend of high finance and high-style architecture. . . . People who would seldom go to see architecture visit Portman buildings and show them off to their visitors. . . . His atriums are latter day urban forums. They are outfitted with shops, restaurants and lounges to assure a continuous vitality and animation, and they are spectacular in their vertical dimensions. He also has a commanding knowledge of the fiscal process of building development [enabling him to] withstand the severest forces of compromise. . . . He is stylish without being superficial, and his lines, colors, materials and spaces are of great elegance. His buildings furnish a “sense of place” in many American cities that are otherwise lacking in such attributes of sociability.38

Despite being an outsider to the architectural profession for much of his life, Portman was a powerful influence on American hotel design. This can be seen in the way hotel operators began asking for Portman-style atriums in their buildings, leading many practices to emulate his work. A few examples—all widely mistaken for Portman designs—include the Twinbrook Hilton in Washington, D.C., the Holiday Inn Singapore, the Hyatt Houston, and the Hilton Atlanta Downtown (which is connected by skybridge to the Marriott Marquis). American hotels were never the same after Portman; an expansive atrium lobby had become the expectation, thanks to him.

But despite everything that Portman achieved, many critics still shun his work. One of his defenders, writer and journalist Tom Wolfe, feared that Portman “will be thrown down the ‘memory hole.’ He’ll be forgotten because the people who write the history are in the intellectual compound, and Portman [didn’t] know how to play their game.”39 Indeed, books purporting to index great works of architecture, such as D. M. Field’s The World’s Greatest Architecture: Past & Present, don’t mention his name once. Even many straightforward compendiums of architecture lack an entry on him.

In his native Atlanta, thankfully, Portman is still highly regarded for his role in reviving the city and growing it into a top-tier center of commerce. In 1992, the Atlanta College of Art awarded him an honorary doctorate in fine arts, and his alma mater, Georgia Tech, gave him an honorary doctorate in 2012. Now running along the north side of Peachtree Center is John Portman Boulevard. Until his death in 2017, he was regularly welcomed back to the city for celebrations in his honor, and Atlanta’s many civic organizations still maintain extensive records of Portman’s works and speeches. Late in his life, Central Atlanta Progress—a private nonprofit that had worked with Portman on Peachtree Center—teamed up with Ben Loeterman Productions to honor Portman in a documentary, John Portman: A Life of Building. The film, which features interviews with Portman, his family, and his associates, celebrates not only his work but also his fortitude in overcoming challenges without compromising his vision.

John Portman designed buildings that amazed visitors and provided businesses with flexible, practical, and impactful spaces. His pathbreaking developments helped revive cities, drew investment, generated wealth, and created opportunities for millions of people. As one memorial put it, his designs took “people away from the congestion of urban life to . . . spaces that are open and uplifting to the human spirit.”40

Palm trees, beautiful beaches, vintage cars, sparkling pools, and skyscrapers reaching for an ultramarine, cloudless twilight sky. These all feature in the works of Japanese artist Hiroshi Nagai, whose evocative paintings were used for the covers of many 1980s Japanese pop albums. The somewhat nostalgic, dreamy realism of Nagai’s work has captivated many across the world, and more recently, has garnered renewed interest. Many see his serene paintings as a celebration of American prosperity and innovation.

Nagai was born on December 22, 1947, in Tokushima City. His father, an oil painter specializing in landscapes, inspired him to become an artist. Nagai later traveled to Tokyo to study art formally but was rejected from every institution he applied to. To support himself, he took a job as a TV set decorator and began working at his uncle’s design company to hone his illustration skills.

He credits two main events during the 1970s for cementing his unique style as an illustrator: a photorealism exhibition he attended and a forty-day tour of the United States he took with a dozen other artists.

During this visit, Nagai developed a lifelong love for America. He was captivated by the sun-drenched tropical scenery of the Pacific in Guam, Hawaii, and California. While flying over Los Angeles, he was surprised to see swimming pools everywhere, in hotels and residential backyards alike. “At the time,” he explained, “there were no such pools in Japan. I just loved America.”1

In the 1980s, Japan experienced unprecedented economic and artistic prosperity. Anime and manga became entertainment staples. The video game industry began to produce powerful new computer hardware and popular toys, such as action figures, stuffed animals, and other merchandise based on beloved characters. A new, lighthearted genre of music also emerged, dubbed “city pop.”

Resembling the sunshine pop of 1960s California, with roots in American jazz and rhythm and blues, this style reflected the optimism of Japan’s post–World War II economic boom and showcased the hopeful sense of life that now permeated the country.

It was around this time that Nagai began to find success. His California city scenes, luxurious pools, and tropical flora merged beautifully with the uplifting soundscape of city pop. One of his first projects to gain recognition was the record sleeve of A Long Vacation, the 1981 best-selling album by Eiichi Ohtaki.

Nagai also painted the same scene but at dusk. This version became the cover art for the subsequent album, A Long Vacation from Ladies, which featured several female singers covering all the songs from Ohtaki’s earlier album. Nagai went on to paint more than fifty album covers, establishing himself as a seminal part of the city pop genre.

Nagai’s retro style combines vivid detail with exaggerated perspective. He invents his settings by combining elements from magazines, catalogs, and travel brochures that are evocative of the locations he seeks to depict, then synthesizes these inputs, creating artworks that are integrated around his worldview. In this way, Nagai’s process attests to philosopher Ayn Rand’s description of art as “a selective re-creation of reality according to an artist’s metaphysical value-judgments.”2 Nagai carefully selects parts from his vast well of experience to transform into stunning, romanticized concretizations of his life-affirming outlook.

Nagai’s work is so precise and clear that some mistake it for digital renderings, but he paints entirely by hand. He uses acrylic and aerosol paints, starting in grayscale. His signature contrast between rich blues and jet black captures the brightness and dry heat of summer.

Nagai’s work has often been compared to that of British artist David Hockney. However, Hockney’s work focuses on showcasing the city of Los Angeles itself and its beauty. Nagai’s work is dreamier and more aspirational—it embodies his treasuring and longing for the beauty of America while living in Japan.

Sadly, the great prosperity of 1980s Japan came to an end in the 1990s, melting into what became known as the Lost Decade. The economy waned, hopes for a better future dwindled, and the playful optimism of city pop was replaced by pervasive melancholy, as people saw rewards for their efforts significantly diminish during the recession. The dismal artwork of Tetsuya Ishida, a painter active during the Lost Decade, reflected this phenomenon. His work often depicted young men—once full of love for their work—as cogs in machines, stripped of their individuality and robbed of their futures by an endless, horrifying mundanity.

During this time, viewers began to notice a liminal, mysterious quality in Nagai’s paintings. The beautiful emptiness of his landscapes evoked nostalgia—a yearning for the greatness of the past and an acknowledgment of the bleakness of the present.

The late 2000s, however, brought a revival of the city pop genre, and with it, even greater international interest in Nagai’s paintings. In 2020–2021, Nagai’s first international solo exhibition took place in Sydney, Australia. He said of the experience, “It is nice to see that I am not forgotten, that my old paintings are still in the minds of the young people.”3

We live in volatile times. Moral relativism runs rampant, especially in the arts and entertainment. The art we consume and surround ourselves with has a great impact on our mental well-being, and so much in our world today tends toward apathy and despair. In that gloomy sea, Nagai’s work is a beacon of optimism—a reminder of the beauty man is capable of creating and the serenity that is his to achieve.

Author’s note: The following is adapted from talks given to participants of the Students For Liberty Prometheus Fellowship.

Think about all the years you spent in school, all the books you read, all the facts you learned, all the things you know.

Or should I say, all the things you think you know. Are we actually capable of knowledge? Today, there is broad skepticism about whether knowledge and certainty are possible. Let’s review some of the common arguments and see where they lead.

How do you know you know anything? Isn’t “knowledge” based on perception? And isn’t perception relative to the perceiver? Perhaps there is broad consensus on some things, but for centuries—nay, millennia—the consensus said that Earth was the center of the universe. Consensus is no indicator of truth. We’re left with one person’s word against another; and if that’s all we have, we can’t be certain of or know anything.

And if we can’t tell true from false, then we can’t tell right from wrong either. When it comes to good and bad, it’s to each his own. For others, intifada, jihad, and honor killings might be good; for you or me, bad. For others, socialism or religious dictatorship might be good; for you or me, bad. If we’re incapable of knowledge, if our reasoning minds cannot grasp facts of reality, if everything is a matter of opinion or feelings, then we are essentially hopeless to work through our differences and settle disputes. Perhaps individuals or communities with different belief systems can coexist peacefully for a while. But ultimately, people will disagree, and when they abandon rational argument, many instead try to force their views on others. Hence, history—not to mention our world today—is a bloodbath of sectarian violence, religious wars, ethnic conflict, and so on. So much for “live and let live.”

Thus, the “solution” that many come to: Establish a dictator. Thomas Hobbes was right; we need to give a strong leader absolute authority over all things, so that he can rule over us and, hopefully, keep the peace.

That’s an apt description of what people thought during the 20th century, and what we got were the reigns of Lenin, Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini, and Mao. But, some may say, our leading minds have woken up since then. They’ve realized that there are “truths,” and they are knowable. However, “truths” are relative to one’s culture, race, class, sex, sexual orientation, waist size, and so forth. There is what’s true for black people, what’s true for white people, what’s true for Asian people, what’s true for Latin American people, and so on. There is what’s true for the rich, the middle-class, the poor. And our cognizance of how these “truths” overlap is a field of vigorous study and burgeoning “knowledge” in itself: intersectionality.

If you’ve spent any time on a college campus lately, then you know I’m not making up any of this. And, today, scores of influential intellectuals are committed to the view that “truths” and corresponding ideas of right and wrong are relative to one’s culture, race, gender, and so on. Witness, for instance, the Smithsonian bulletin that listed “objective, rational linear thinking” as an aspect of “whiteness and white culture.”1

According to this postmodernist line of thought, “knowledge” is simply that which a given group regards as “true,” in line with that group’s cultural norms. Collections of culturally relative truths form “discourses” or “metanarratives” about how the world works. The “discourse” of those with the most sociopolitical power sets the terms of debate in a given place and time, disqualifying alternate “forms of knowing” from impacting how society functions. In the terms of French philosopher Michel Foucault, those with the most “power-knowledge” thereby establish “regimes of truth.” As Helen Pluckrose and James Lindsay summarize, “In postmodern thinking, that which is known is only known within the cultural paradigm that produced the knowledge and is therefore representative of its systems of power. As a result, postmodernism regards knowledge as provincial and intrinsically political.”2

Therefore, on this theory, language is a form of “power,” and societies “systemically privilege” certain groups whose “discourses” and “metanarratives” dominate that system and subjugate minorities. Without even necessarily intending it, those of dominant groups organize society hierarchically, serving their own interests at the expense of all others. The moral and political implications of this theory are clear: Down with the oppressors—fight for the oppressed!

Who are the oppressors and the oppressed?

Unsurprisingly, as Pluckrose and Lindsay point out, postmodernists hold that the dominant systems today are “patriarchal, white supremacist, and heteronormative, and therefore necessarily grant unfair access to straight, white Western men and work to maintain that status quo by excluding the perspectives of women and racial and sexual minorities.”3 In this view, dominant ways of knowing and dealing with the world—including science, logic, objective reasoning, civility, rule of law, and property rights—were created by white males, and by using them, we unconsciously perpetuate the oppression of all other groups.

If language is a form of oppressive “power,” the implications are clear: It’s OK, in the “woke” postmodern view, to “cancel,” shout down, ban, or otherwise suppress the speech of those spouting the dominant “discourse”—because such speech is “violence,” and stopping it is “self-defense.”4 As one advocate of this view put it in an article for The Guardian, “The uncomfortable truth is that, sometimes, violence is the only answer left.” On this premise, violently stealing the property of “oppressors” is likewise considered an appropriate response. “When I use the word looting”—said Vicky Osterweil, author of In Defense of Looting, on National Public Radio—“I mean the mass expropriation of property, mass shoplifting during a moment of upheaval or riot. That’s the thing I’m defending. . . . Looting strikes at the heart of property, of whiteness and of the police.” Those who oppose looting, she continued, are motivated by “anti-Blackness and contempt for poor people who want to live a better life.”5

Although postmodernism was formulated by overtly leftist French intellectuals (who were also white males), many of its core tenets are perpetuated today not only by “woke” leftists but also by conservatives. “Marx is right to see that every society consists of cohesive classes or groups, and that political life everywhere is primarily about the power relations among different groups,” writes Yoram Hazony, de facto head of the National Conservative movement, in his book Conservatism: A Rediscovery.6  Hazony—whose National Conservatism conference has been keynoted by Ron DeSantis and has featured Senators Rick Scott, Marco Rubio, and Josh Hawley along with a slew of other prominent Republicans—attacks liberalism (the broad name for social systems based on liberty and individual rights), saying that it “is ultimately the theory that the state can be neutral. Stew in this false theory long enough and you end up believing that *you* yourself can be neutral.”7

In Hazony’s view, shared by many national conservatives, liberalism’s misguided attempt at political neutrality, including the very possibility of equality before the law, stems from its naive confidence in the reasoning power of man’s mind and from such bold pronouncements as the notion of universal individual rights. In truth, Hazony holds, no matter how seemingly all-encompassing our formulations of rights are, they always necessarily reflect the preferences of some dominant group. “Marx is right when he says that the dominant group tends to see its own preferred laws and policies as reflecting ‘reason’ or ‘nature,’ and works to disseminate its way of looking at things throughout society,” he writes, “so that various kinds of injustice and oppression tend to be obscured from view.”8 Thus, Hazony’s philosophy bears a striking resemblance to postmodernist “standpoint theory” indicated above, which holds, in effect, that what one regards as true depends on where one stands.

Marx erred, Hazony adds, primarily in thinking that dominant groups are always oppressive. Conservatism, in his view, seeks to conserve social unity by teaching those in power to make concessions to those lower in the social hierarchy. Hazony explains:

If it is possible for weaker groups to benefit from their position, and not just to be oppressed by it, then we have arrived at the possibility of a conservative society. This is a society in which there is a dominant class or loyalty group (or coalition of groups) which seeks to balance the benefits and the burdens of the existing order so as to avoid oppression and repair it where it arises.9

Such concessions are precisely what Hazony and other conservatives think “rights” refer to. Rights are not, as liberals (in the classical sense) would have it, protections sanctioning a person’s pursuit of values. Rather, they are claims to goods that a government grants to some at the expense of others. “Which goods can be made available is a practical matter that cannot be determined without trial and error in actual societies,” Hazony writes in The Virtue of Nationalism. “True rights, those that incur obligations on others to take action, are for this reason incalculable without reference to the constraints of real-world contexts.”10 For instance, he argues, a person’s right not to be drafted into the military depends on whether the military needs him. So, Hazony holds, governments must be pragmatic, granting certain groups “rights” to things as and when those things become available and align with the goal of conserving the nation.

Thus, Hazony aptly illustrates the political trajectory of philosophies that abandon the supposedly simpleminded Enlightenment-liberal view of man’s rational efficacy to formulate universal truths, including the foundational idea of “the liberal construction of the West,” which “assumes that there is only one principle at the base of legitimate political order: individual freedom.” He writes,

This is flattering to the individual, since it makes it seem as though the important choices are almost always his to decide. However, it is painfully lacking as a description of the empirical political world, in which mutual loyalties bind human beings into families, tribes, and nations, and each of us receives a certain religious and cultural inheritance as a consequence of being born into such collectives. It ignores the responsibilities that are intrinsic to both inherited and adopted membership in collectives of this kind, establishing demands on individuals that do not arise as a result of consent and do not disappear if consent is withheld.11

Many advocates of such supposedly “empirical” philosophies pay lip service to rights and even the existence of universal—albeit, supposedly unverifiable—truths. However, their fundamental skepticism necessarily leads them to construe rights as privileges to be meted out by government. Maybe the dominant group rules benignly to “conserve” the nation; maybe it does not. Either way, their skepticism leads in practice to a politics of: Political might equals “right.”

Many who accepted their professors’ view that “political life everywhere is primarily about the power relations among different groups” have spread their wings and left campuses. Now they are everywhere, setting HR policy at Fortune 500s; running prestigious cultural institutions, think tanks, and political action committees; and winning elections. And they are determined to implement their views of right and wrong, to correct imbalances of “power” by creating policies and passing laws that favor one group at the expense of others. In the process, they are dismantling what elements of freedom remain in the Western world.

For those who want to defend liberty, the problems run deep. Without moral knowledge—including knowledge of what societies properly must prohibit and of what people ought to be left free to do—there is little hope for securing individual rights and liberty. But we cannot validate our moral knowledge if we cannot validate our knowledge more generally—knowledge held in the form of concepts. And we cannot validate any knowledge if we cannot validate the perceptual evidence upon which all knowledge ultimately is based. So, if we want to effectively defend liberty against today’s skeptics, we need answers to their deep, philosophic arguments and claims.

As far as I’m aware, only one person in history has offered solutions to these pressing problems: Ayn Rand. What follows is an overview of several key philosophic problems, the ways in which past thinkers struggled to resolve them, and an indication of how Rand answered each. I won’t cover all her major philosophic achievements, just those most pertinent to the task of defending liberty. Nonetheless, given the nature of the topics we’ll cover—perception, conceptual knowledge, morality, and politics—our task will necessarily be demanding. And I have time only to summarize the issues and positions involved. But if you give me your attention, I think you’ll see how important each one of these issues is to a future of freedom and flourishing, if there is to be one. And if you follow the leads herein and study these issues and ideas for yourself, then—among many other benefits—you will no doubt vastly amplify your ability to defend liberty against the barbarians at the gate.

Saving Sense Perception from the Skeptics

Why do some people claim our senses can’t be trusted? Many of their arguments stem from confusions about optical illusions.

A stick appears bent in water. Or an entire city appears at a distance in the desert, but it isn’t where it appears to be. Conclusion: The senses give us erroneous information, so we can’t rely on them for knowledge of reality. So, each individual must simply go by his own view of things. As scholar of Greek philosophy W. K. C. Guthrie put it, “the way things appear to one man is the truth for him, and the way they appear to another is the truth for him. . . . Truth is purely relative.”12

What does this mean for how we should treat others and structure society? Guthrie continues, “Must we not suppose that justice and injustice, right and wrong, have an equally subjective and unreal existence? There can be in nature no absolute principles governing the relations between man and man. It is all a question of how you look at it.”13 “Because no one’s moral commandments are universally valid, they are not binding on anyone else,” writes professor and author Andrew Bernstein, explaining this view. “Society’s laws . . . are merely beliefs held by a group of people, no more necessary for a recalcitrant individual to accept or obey than if the state proclaimed we must embark on a quest to locate a cadre of winged fairies guzzling red wine on the dark side of the moon.”14 Thus, as the ancient Greek thinker Thrasymachus reportedly held: Might equals right.

The sensory skeptics have many such arguments, some of them more complex than others. For instance, what about the differences in perceptual experience between a color-blind man and a normal sighted man, or between the hearing impaired and those with normal hearing? The sense organs of some can differ quite dramatically from those of others. This causes enduring disparities in how different people experience the same things. And given this variability of the senses, how can we possibly hold that perception is a valid means of knowledge? For all we know, color blindness is just a particularly pronounced and obvious disparity. But perhaps we all perceive the same things in at least subtly different ways.

Aristotle offered many arguments against such skepticism. He held that under normal conditions, the senses give us direct knowledge of reality. Under abnormal conditions, we use our senses, along with careful reasoning, to determine the cause of any disparity, correct for it, and continue gaining knowledge and achieving our goals.

Suppose you always make a soup using the same recipe and love the savory flavor. However, today, the soup tastes bitter. Unless you are stirring for an argument, it’s unlikely you will conclude that the senses deceive us, that they can never be trusted, and that we are thus incapable of knowledge. Nor is it likely you will conclude that the recipe is bad, given that it’s yielded yummy soup many times before. Aristotle held that such responses are irrational.

What reaction would be rational? What might we do instead? Maybe we taste the separate ingredients to find out if any have gone bad. Or maybe we’re feeling a little ill, which, as we know from experience, can change how things taste. So, we have a spouse or family member taste the soup. In other words, whatever our course of action, we continue relying on sensory evidence to gather information so that we can isolate the cause and correct for it. (Here we have the basis of the scientific method, one of Aristotle’s greatest bequests to humanity.)

Aristotle recognized that our sense faculties rely on physical organs, each with a certain nature, and he readily acknowledged—indeed, emphasized—that changes in relevant causal factors can alter how we experience the world. But our senses don’t lie; they tell us, for instance, that a thing tastes the way it tastes in our specific circumstances. Problems arise not at the level of perception but of interpretation, especially when people wrongly identify an aspect of their perceptual experience as a characteristic of the thing itself—when they confuse the how of perception with the what. Insofar as we remain cognizant—and factor into our judgment—that our sensory experience is a function of things impinging on our sense organs under specific causal circumstances, we can avoid error. We err when we forget this and say, instead, that the soup just is bitter.15

There are no grounds, here, said Aristotle, for throwing out the evidence of the senses; sensory evidence is our means of detecting discrepancies, isolating their causes, and dealing with them. If a straight stick appears bent in water, a rational person does not thereafter distrust his eyes; instead, he reaches out and touches the stick, confirming that, indeed, just as his past experience testifies, straight sticks remain straight. He thus uses his other senses to investigate; further, he can use them to isolate what causes the stick to appear bent, which is precisely what scientists have since done: Water is denser than air, so light (and virtually everything but sound) travels more slowly through water than air. This change in speed bends (refracts) light at the water’s surface. Light reflecting from the stick and reaching our eyes is likewise bent at the water’s surface, causing part of the stick to appear where it is not—and thereby making it look bent.16

Aristotle also leveraged the law of noncontradiction in his response to sensory skeptics. The law, which he formulated, states that a thing cannot be both A and non-A at the same time and in the same respect (A standing for any quality). So, soup cannot be both bitter and not bitter at the same time and in the same respect. It can, as we’ve discussed, be bitter and not bitter at the same time in different respects: bitter to a sick person and not bitter to a healthy one. But underlying experience is one reality, and the facts of reality cannot contradict themselves. So, Aristotle said, we can—and, in fact, must—find ways to grasp reality and resolve seeming contradictions. Skeptics, by contrast, give up that quest, leaving the contradictions unresolved and concluding that what’s true for me may not be true for you. Thus, in the skeptic’s view, everything can be at the same time both true and false: true for some and false for others. But, said Aristotle, this position violates the law of noncontradiction—and it is thereby self-refuting: “For he who says that everything is true makes even the statement contrary to his own true, and therefore his own not true (for the contrary statement denies that it is true), while he who says everything is false makes himself also false.”17

Given this, skeptics cannot sensibly pronounce in favor of skepticism because they must break their skepticism in doing so; they must pronounce a truth claim about the way things are while denying the very possibility of truth claims. This is why Aristotle’s fellow Athenian, arch-skeptic Cratylus, “finally did not think it right to say anything.”18

Rand agreed with much of Aristotle’s analysis and built upon it.19 She distinguished between the object of perception (the thing one is perceiving) and the form of perception (the specific characteristics of that perception). When we perceive an object, that perception has a particular form, which is dependent on the means (the sensory faculty) by which we perceive it.

Suppose I ask you to close your eyes and hold out your hand. I drop something into your palm, and you feel a cold, hard, irregularly shaped object. We’ll call that form #1; the object, whatever it is, is such that when you feel it, it feels cold, hard, and irregularly shaped. I tell you to open your eyes, and now you see something shiny_,_ metallic, and flat, with a wide end and a narrow end, and with one smooth side and one jagged side. Call that form #2; the object is such that when you see it, it looks shiny, metallic, and flat, with one wide end and one narrow end, and with one smooth side and one jagged side. We grasp the same object, but the form in which we grasp it depends on the sensory faculties we use. Now, what if someone were crazy enough to say, “Your tactile perception says it’s cold and hard, but your visual perception says it’s shiny, metallic, and flat. The senses contradict one another, therefore we cannot trust them”? I can’t think of any skeptics who actually say this, because even they realize, if only implicitly, that it is the same one object grasped differently, leading to differences in the form of perception. These different forms, even they seem to realize, are not to be confused with the object itself.

Take a different example. My sense of smell is quite impoverished by comparison to my dog’s. Whereas dogs typically have more than one hundred million sensory receptors in their noses, humans typically have about six million—and I’m probably far below average. If I were to smell a key that you just handled, I likely would experience only the faintest smell of the metal itself. My dog’s nose, by contrast, gives him a wealth of sense data, including data about the people who have handled it. The form of my dog’s scent perceptions is quite different from mine. If I were to smell a telephone pole, I would perhaps perceive only the scent of wood. My dog, on the other hand, would smell the wood, the markings of whatever dogs have passed not only in the last few minutes or hours, but the last couple of days, and probably a whole lot more besides. From the scent of the markings, he could discern the gender of those other dogs, whether any were ill or in heat, and more.

It is irrational to conclude, from the fact that my dog’s scent perception has a different form than mine, that neither of our perceptions are perceptions of the world or are valid—or that all perception, because relative to the perceiver, is thus subjective. Indeed, for at least the past fifteen or twenty thousand years, people have recognized that a dog’s form of scent perception is different from man’s, that it is far more acute, and that dogs properly trained are incredibly useful for hunting and tracking. Nor should we conclude from this that the form of a man’s scent perception is invalid. Within his range of sensitivity, what man perceives is real. It is not subjective, not subject to whim or wish. His perception is the product of inexorable natural causes. Although he can attend to them more or less, he cannot will his perceptions to be different than they are. The entities involved are what they are, and the result is determined by the identities of those entities in action.

Likewise, a color-blind man perceives color in a different form than does a normal sighted man. Although the form of perception is relative to the perceiver, it is not subjective but objective, determined by the nature of the entities involved, none of which can act in contradiction to their identities. Thus, a stoplight acts on his senses in such a manner as to produce a color perception of brown, whereas the normal sighted man perceives it as red. The greater acuity of the latter does not invalidate the former any more than the dog’s scent perception invalidates a man’s. Different forms of perception can offer more or less data, but the data is reality. What all perceivers get, implicitly, is: The entity is of such a nature that when I perceive it, I perceive it in such-and-such a form.

A person who gets less information directly via the senses—whether because he is color-blind, myopic, hard of hearing, or what have you—must infer things that others directly perceive. A color-blind man does not merely ignore red lights. But instead of directly perceiving a light’s color and thereby grasping its meaning, he must infer its color and its meaning from its position on the traffic light. If it is the topmost or leftmost light on the signal, he infers that the light is such that normal-sighted people perceive it as red, and thus that it is a stoplight. If he’s in a new country where they buck the trend, then he observes that others are slowing down or stopping when, say, the bottom (or rightmost) light is illuminated, and he infers from this that this light indicates that he should stop.

Rand pointed out that differences in a man’s form of perception don’t lead him to different knowledge; they don’t keep him from understanding stoplights, never mind history, psychology, philosophy, physics, mathematics, engineering, and so on. Perception provides the basic data of experience, from which we abstract to form concepts and begin reasoning. Cognitively, we go from the concretes we perceive to abstract, universal knowledge. Ultimately, differences in perceptual form are superficial and do not impact one’s ability to abstract to form concepts, generalizations, or whole sciences.

Rand, too, saw that skeptics failed to recognize the distinction between the object of perception and the form of perception (or, in more Aristotelian terminology, between what they perceive and how they perceive it). They mistakenly interpreted different forms of perception as testimony of contradictory objects—testimony that therefore had to be thrown out. And unfortunately, most were not so consistent as Cratylus. Their legacy was an even more fundamental argument against the senses. It is as follows:

Our perceptions of external objects are processed (and thereby necessarily changed in some respect) by our sensory faculties.

The processed percept must be different from the external object itself.

Therefore, our senses don’t give us knowledge of the external world, only a sort of proxy.

And further, because we can’t access the world directly, we can’t assess the accuracy of that proxy. We are inextricably cut off from reality.20

That is, because the senses have a particular identity, they necessarily must impose that identity on everything we perceive. So, what we perceive is not reality as it really is, only reality as we happen to perceive it, through our limited, human modes of perception. As one commentator put it, we could perceive reality as it really is only via a “mirror-like mode of representation.”21

On this view, Rand observed, we could perceive reality only if our means of perception had no nature of their own, which means only if they had no identity. As she put it regarding Immanuel Kant’s philosophy, which relies heavily on this argument:

Man is limited to a consciousness of a specific nature, which perceives by specific means and no others, therefore, his consciousness is not valid; man is blind, because he has eyes—deaf, because he has ears—deluded, because he has a mind—and the things he perceives do not exist, because he perceives them.22

But only by virtue of a sensory faculty’s identity—the fact that it operates in a certain way—can it sense anything. The nature of every single existent is limited by the fact that it is something specific, has a specific identity, and can act only in accordance with its identity. This is known in philosophy as the law of identity; a thing is itself; A is A. It is a logical corollary of Aristotle’s law of noncontradiction. A thing cannot be A and non-A at the same time and in the same respect because A is A.

Rand recognized that it is this basic law of identity that sensory skeptics, therefore, take issue with. Requiring, as condition of their validity, that sensory faculties have no specific identity, is to demand that they be nothing in particular, that they operate by no particular means. But that is simply not how reality works. Take mirrors, for instance, a favorite analogy for how sensory skeptics think perception ought to work. Like everything that exists, mirrors have a specific identity. This enables them to reflect a portion of the electromagnetic spectrum. But some wavelengths are absorbed by the mirror, and others pass through it, just as X-rays pass through our bodily tissues. Mirrors, therefore, are limited by their identity and can’t, in the characteristic skeptic phrase, “reflect reality as it really is.”

Building on Aristotle’s ideas, Rand swept away the baseless arguments against the senses, holding that sensory evidence provides the foundation of all knowledge—the data from which we form concepts, the primary means by which we retain and communicate knowledge. Let’s move on now to concept formation and to Rand’s solution to a perennial and all-important problem in philosophy: the problem of universals.

Solving the Problem of Universals

Universals are our concepts, the building blocks of language, the general terms we use to refer to all the particulars we deal with on a daily basis. For instance, “dog” is a universal or concept that refers to all the different dogs that have ever existed, that currently exist, and that will exist in the future. But whereas we can see, touch, and hear particular dogs, the universal concept or classification “dog” is imperceptible; it’s an abstraction. But what exactly are abstractions?  How do we know that they are valid? Is there anything that unites specific things into classes, anything essentially similar about them, thus warranting our use of one concept to refer to all of them? Or are concepts mere arbitrary constructs? Are they relative to one’s group, serving as the basis of “discourses” and “metanarratives” that perpetuate one group’s dominance over others?

Philosophers have given a variety of different answers to such questions. Note, though, that if concepts are not based in factual reality, knowledge as we know it is impossible. We hold our knowledge primarily, if not exclusively, in conceptual form. So, if our concepts have no universally valid basis, neither then does any of that knowledge. The problem of universals is, therefore, the central problem of knowledge, and the central question of the branch of philosophy that studies how we know what we know: epistemology. Because so much hangs on it, it is, in a sense, the central question of philosophy as such.

And it is an all-important question for human life. When skeptics declare that we’re incapable of knowledge, you can certainly take the commonsense view that, “Of course we have knowledge. Look around you. Humans have flown to the moon, for god’s sake.” But when masses of people become convinced by skeptical arguments, we get widespread cultural relativism and devastation. To take a contemporary example, if we can’t know who has a rightful claim to political sovereignty over the area now governed by the state of Israel, then one’s decision to side with or against Israel is essentially arbitrary. If we have no knowledge, then we must simply go by feeling. And because, on this view, we can’t possibly reason with one another—reasoning requires concepts—our only recourse is to force our views on others. So, as far removed from our lives as the problem of universals and the broader “knowledge problem” may seem, these are, in fact, of life-or-death importance. As Voltaire so eloquently put it, “Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.” And those who want to advance freedom must also effectively diagnose and treat a culture in decay, which requires more than simply appealing to common sense. Freedom fighters must understand, at least in essentials, the nature of the skeptical arguments regarding concepts and knowledge and how to answer those arguments.

We’ve already dealt with one of the skeptical arguments: The senses deceive us, but they are the basis of all our concepts; so, our concepts are baseless. We’ve just seen how Rand dealt with this line of attack, so we can move on.

A host of other arguments have been put forth by thinkers broadly labeled “nominalists.” Their name stems from their position that there are no universals, only names we more-or-less arbitrarily ascribe to things. (“Nominalism” means “name-ism.’) Their arguments were responses (primarily) to two thinkers who defended universals: Plato and Aristotle.

Plato held that because universals are immaterial, nonspatial, unchanging, and supposedly represent the ideal of a given class of things, they must not derive from the material, spatial, changing, and imperfect concretes we perceive. Rather, it’s the other way around: There is, he supposed, another realm, over and above this one in which we live, a realm where universals reside. That is, they are actual entities, though unlike any we can imagine (given that they’re immaterial, nonspatial, etc.). He called these universals “Forms,” and they supposedly are the perfect forms of every universal class—the perfect apple, the perfect chair, the perfect dog—whereas the concrete instances of those forms that we perceive are something like the imperfect reflections of a distorted, fun-house mirror.

Aristotle demolished Plato’s arguments, pointing out that there is no evidence of such a realm, and that Plato wove the idea out of whole cloth merely to rationalize his conclusions. Universals are not independently existing entities, Aristotle said; rather, they are a means of regarding things, which focuses our attention on their similarities.

What makes similar things similar? Aristotle’s thoughts on this, and much of his work, has been lost to history. What remains, much of it speculated to be student notes, is difficult to understand, giving rise to many conflicting translations and interpretations. Although likely wrong, many interpret Aristotle as having meant that, as Aristotle scholar Gregory Salmieri summarized: “The particulars that fall under a universal do so in virtue of sharing some identical component or aspect, which exists independently of any thought or speech about the universal and provides a basis in reality for universal thought and speech.”23

On this interpretation, after encountering many things of the same type, we can abstract away their differences and focus on their similarities—those similarities being identical components or aspects shared by all things of a given kind.

How did nominalists respond? Let’s consider a couple of their most influential arguments. The first is what philosopher Leonard Peikoff humorously labels the “I can’t find it” argument. “I can’t find it” is a perfectly reasonable response to Plato’s theory of Forms, because, as Aristotle made clear, it’s a baseless theory, a myth without evidence. But they said the same in response to the common interpretation of Aristotle’s theory—that we simply focus our attention on a characteristic or attribute shared by all things of a given type. Take dogs again. If we ignore all their differences and look solely for their similarities, we can’t find any. We must ignore their height and weight, because they don’t all share exactly the same height or weight. Nor are they exactly the same color. Some dogs are three legged, so we must omit the number of legs as well, and with it, paws and claws. And so on. So, if we’re supposed to find the universal by omitting the differences between all the particulars, we’re left hopelessly looking and never finding anything that all dogs share.

Or take another influential nominalist argument, the “borderline case argument.” Where do we draw the line between green and blue? No matter how closely you examine the color spectrum, no definitive point marks the line between green and blue. There’s an area of transition that is more green than blue, and then more blue than green, but it is a perfect continuum. Where you draw the line is just a matter of choice. And so it goes for all distinctions, they argue.

All classifications, in this view, simply reflect a human choice to categorize things in a certain way, but no underlying facts necessitate such categorizations. It’s true, nominalists acknowledge, certain things have rough similarities that make certain groupings useful or convenient. But there’s nothing identical that all things of a supposed class share, and thus no basis to say that one classification is right and another wrong. If you want to make up the word “schnaw” to refer to Volkswagen Beetles from the 1940s, American presidents with last names beginning with the letter “C,” and the moons of Jupiter, that’s as valid as any other supposed “universal.” Perhaps the facts suggest some categories and not others, but reality doesn’t necessitate or rule out any. It’s all a matter of human choice. Words are subjective. And on this view, as you’d expect, definitions are subjective, as are generalizations, so they don’t express any actual knowledge. They merely tell us how someone has chosen to use words.

So, here we have the problem of universals. How did Rand solve it?

This is the most complex issue in all of philosophy, and the full detail of Rand’s answer is laid out in her longest nonfiction monograph, Introduction to Objectivist Epistemology. I suggest that you read it for the full explanation, but here I will give you the highlight reel, so to speak, while indulging in my favorite topic at the moment: my son, Leo.

Leo is sixteen months old and has learned to speak only a few words, but as he develops, I am watching the process of concept formation unfold. By about six or seven months old (long before he knew any words), he had developed an affinity for water bottles, and he would army-crawl long distances to get to them. At first, he only went for a certain type of water bottle, a disposable type we buy in bulk and that he sees us using most often. Some of these had their labels intact, whereas others had their labels torn off. The difference is quite obvious: a large bright blue label sheathing the entire bottom half of the bottle, versus no label, just transparent plastic. He could not miss the difference, but he went for both indiscriminately. His behavior testified to his recognition of certain facts: These objects, despite their differences in color, work the same way, serve the same purpose, have the same nature. Although they are different physical objects, they respond in the same way to various movements. Therefore, they are units of one and the same type or class, regardless of their differences in color. He recognized, in effect, that a bottle must have some color, but it may have any color, and so he omitted color from his developing concept of “bottle.” After all, color doesn’t impact the fact that they share an essential identity. Of course, all of this was unfolding wordlessly in Leo’s mind. In Rand’s view, a child’s developing concepts are at first held visually; the sight of the object—not a specific word—is what calls forth Leo’s growing understanding of what a bottle is and how it functions.

In time, he noticed us drinking from another type of water bottle, which has a very different shape. Whereas the first type is wide at one end and narrows at the other, the second is essentially a medium-sized cylinder with a short, narrow section at one end. It has a wide, green cap, as opposed to a narrow, white one, and instead of a removable blue label, it has a few white letters printed on the side. Leo began to hold out his arms and babble when he saw us drinking from this other sort of bottle, his unmistakable way of requesting an object that interests him, just as he had with the first type. When we gave him this latter type of bottle, he excitedly gripped it just as he had the first, and he chewed on the cap in a similar manner. His developing concept of “bottle”—which he still held only visually—had developed even further. He soon went on to gesture for, play with, chew on, and drink from a range of bottles with different shapes and colors, his behavior testifying to his recognition that these objects, despite their differences in color, shape, size, and so forth, work in same way, serve the same purpose, and thus share the same essential nature. He recognized, in effect, that a bottle must have some color, shape, size, and so forth, but it may have any of these, so long as it suits its purpose. His implicit, visual concept of “bottle” became more general, more universal, as he came to realize that a range of things can share essentially the same nature, serving the same purpose, despite superficial differences that don’t impede such use.

Throughout this growth process, his awareness of the essential similarity between different bottles has been heightened by his simultaneous awareness of the greater dissimilarities between all the bottles he’s encountered and, for instance, our cat. She has four legs, moves of her own accord, makes strange sounds, and resists being touched. Leo cannot pick her up, drink from her, use her as a teething toy, or bounce her across the floor. What this contrast further reveals are the commensurable characteristics of like objects, that is, characteristics that can be measured by a common unit. In some nonverbal form, Leo recognizes that all bottles have a certain function: a capacity for holding liquids. Obviously, he has no idea what ounces or milliliters are, but he recognizes that bottles hold liquid. Different-sized bottles hold different amounts, but they share a characteristic that can be measured and compared. And his recognition that cats and many other objects are not measurable in terms of liquid-carrying capacity helps illuminate that bottles have an identical quality that varies in quantity from bottle to bottle. He’s thus able to see sameness more clearly against a background of difference.

There’s much more to Rand’s theory of concept-formation, which is the exclusive topic of ITOE, which I heartily recommend. But what we have here is enough already to answer the nominalists. They say that when we strip away all the differences between two supposedly similar objects, nothing is left, no core similarities between things. Hence, in the search for universals, their conclusion is, “I can’t find it.”

Rand answered that, of course, it’s true that every individual thing is unique. Even mass-produced water bottles, which appear homogenous to the naked eye, can be shown under a microscope to have many differences. The sameness or identity is neither a semi-divine Form in another dimension nor something inherent in the object itself. Nominalists are right to attack Plato’s Forms, and they are on to something in their criticism of the common (mis)interpretation of Aristotle’s theory. That is, particulars don’t “fall under a universal . . . in virtue of sharing some identical component or aspect, which exists independently of any thought or speech about the universal.”24 Nor is the only alternative that universals or concepts are necessarily subjective, without basis in reality. Concepts are created by us for our human purposes. But concepts can only serve a purpose if they actually identify facts. Concepts do have utility, as even the nominalists acknowledge, but only because they are not mere arbitrary groupings; rather, a concept is a retainable recognition that certain things have identical qualities in varying quantities. Concepts leave out specific quantity measurements, holding on to the identical quality. So, our concepts are based in facts.

Rand, therefore, reached her idea of objectivity by overcoming two major hurdles that had tripped earlier thinkers. They had either failed to specify how we recognize essences or had speculated that we do so by finding some fundamental identical feature shared by all of the type. Their view (whether implicit or explicit) was that an identical characteristic had to be identical in every respect, including degree, and that one merely omits from the concept everything not identical. Because they took “identical in every respect” to mean identical in both quality and quantitative measure of that quality, they found nothing shared fully by any two things and concluded that concepts are subjective.

Rand’s first correction of prior theories of abstraction was to point out that homing in on the essence of a class does not require omitting qualities that happen to differ quantitatively. For instance, the concept “human” recognizes a fundamental similarity between all human beings, which differentiates them from all other types of beings: humans possess a rational faculty. In the context of forming this concept, it does not matter that some people are vastly smarter than others, or that some choose not to use their rational faculties. We form concepts by focusing on a fundamental, shared quality, and we omit the quantitative differences. Humans must have some capacity for rationality, but any degree of it is enough to be included in the concept. In other words, concept formation requires not attribute omission, but measurement omission.25

Rand’s second big correction to prior theories of abstraction was to reject what she identified as a widespread false alternative between intrinsicism and subjectivism, held implicitly or explicitly by nearly every major philosopher before her. Universals are not in objects, not intrinsic to them. Nor are universals merely in the mind, without basis in fact, and therefore, subjective. Rather, they are a mind’s recognition of the fact that objects share identical characteristics in differing quantitative measures. Legitimate concepts, therefore, are neither intrinsic nor subjective but objective—signifying in retainable, repeatable form, a mind’s grasp of reality_._ This, and as we’ll see, Rand’s answer to the philosophic problems concerning the nature of values, are the reasons her philosophy is called Objectivism.

Turning Morality into a Science

We’ve seen how Rand validated the evidence of our senses and clarified how proper concept formation leads to objective, conceptual knowledge of reality—two immensely important things that prior philosophers tried and failed to do for centuries. How did she fare regarding moral values? In addition to objective knowledge about such things as atoms, lenses, nutrition, and so on, are we capable of gaining objective knowledge of morality? If so, how? If not, where does that leave us, especially regarding liberty?

What is “the good”? With very few exceptions, thinkers through the ages have given essentially three answers: (1) The good is to serve the will of a divine being, (2) it is to serve “the group,” whether one’s family, church, community, country, class, race, or other collective, (3) “the good” is subjective, and each individual should follow his own whims.

Let’s look at each in the forms in which Rand first encountered them. Note that she decided at the age of nine that she wanted to be a novelist and to write books that would project a moral ideal for mankind—that would show heroes and heroines who know what the good life is and go about living it. She had to learn not only how to convey that ideal but also what that ideal is. Her quest led her to think deeply about morality, and she discovered that many widely accepted ethical ideals just don’t make sense. And because they’re irrational, they lead to misery and, often, to oppression.

The moral views that predominated in Russia throughout Rand’s childhood were religious. The Russian Orthodox Church broadcasted the view that the good consists in accepting a supposed moral duty to serve God’s will, which entails renouncing one’s own interests and devoting oneself to serving others—ideas which were reinforced in Rand’s home by her family’s Jewish beliefs. Although the Russian Orthodox Church held tremendous sway over the beliefs and actions of many Russians, the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917 brought a new amalgam of ethical and political ideas to center stage.

Vladimir Lenin, the most prominent mouthpiece for these ideas, fomented a communist revolution based on the theories of Karl Marx.26 Marx had taught that capitalists exploit workers, “alienating” them from their labor by keeping the fruits of that labor while paying them less than their work contributes. Thus, a few accumulate more and more at the expense of everyone else. The majority are relegated to a life of ever-increasing poverty. That is, until they—the starving and angry “proletariat”—finally overthrow their “bourgeois” oppressors, outlaw private property, and establish a dictatorship responsible for dividing things up according to government order and ensuring the people’s happiness.

After Russia’s czar stepped down in 1917, Lenin orchestrated a coup, establishing himself as head of Russia’s new communist dictatorship. Thus, the Leninist-Marxist view—which held that “the good” is synonymous with “the common good” or “the will of the majority”—became the law of the land when Rand was twelve. Like their Christian counterparts, communists preached self-sacrifice, holding that the ideal man readily forfeits any personal value or ambition in order to execute society’s demands and thereby serve “the common good.” Although the objects of self-sacrifice differed, Rand saw that both creeds were essentially similar. Both demanded that people renounce their values, either for God or for “society.” Both were variants of altruism, Latin for other-ism, which is the view that the moral purpose of your life is to live for others.

Further, Rand saw that both ultimately require that one take them on faith. Religion, of course, does so explicitly. It demands faith: belief in the absence of evidence, even in defiance of evidence and logic. And though not explicitly, communism likewise rests on faith, demanding sacrifice for the “greater good” without any evidence to show that human sacrifices lead to anyone’s good—indeed, in defiance of evidence that it does not. Religionists believe in God because they have faith—that is, feel—that he exists and that he demands their obedience; communists, although historically they’ve dressed up their views as “scientific socialism,” ultimately hold that people should serve the community because that’s what they feel people should do. But, of course, different people feel differently. Christians feel things to be true that communists feel to be false. Jews feel things to be true that Christians feel to be false, and so on for the hundreds of religions, sects, political movements, and more.

So, Rand recognized another fundamental similarity between the various moral ideas that surrounded her. Not only were both the church and the communists proponents of altruism, but both were also practitioners of subjectivism, the view that feelings are the means of discerning—or even of creating—facts.

Rand found a seeming alternative in the writings of the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. Nietzsche held that the ideal man has his own vision of what the world ought to be and boldly acts on it in defiance of opposing views, however widely held. In his view, the ideal man is not an altruist. He does not ask for his fellow man’s sanction or permission, nor does he concern himself with acting for their benefit. He does what he thinks is right, and he is ready to stand alone against everyone to uphold his own conception of how things ought to be. Rand was attracted to Nietzsche’s egoism—his insistence of living for oneself—which contrasted starkly with the altruism being preached all around her.

But as with religion and communism, she realized in time that Nietzsche, too, was a subjectivist. He held that the ideal man acts not on reason but on feelings. He does not establish his vision or goals rationally, based on facts, but, instead, on animalistic urges that well up from within him. These supposedly are sacred and not to be questioned, by him or anyone else: To the extent that he analyzes and evaluates his blind cravings, he corrupts his soul and degrades his moral stature.

So, Rand, at the start of her quest to define the ideal man and to lay out how he goes about living “the good life,” stepped into a field teeming with irrational ideas about how we should live our lives. And she saw firsthand what a moral code antithetical to reason leads to—most vividly in the case of Leninist-Marxism. After the Soviets came to power, she witnessed the country descend into poverty and oppression. Communists took control of the economy, assuming the prerogative to dispose of the individual’s life and property at its discretion, for “the good of the proletariat.” Businesses were seized from “bourgeois” owners, including Rand’s father, who owned a pharmacy.

As I’ve written elsewhere:

As productive activity was repressed, living conditions became unspeakably awful. Anything beyond the most basic commodities was impossible to find or unaffordable for the great majority of people—and even those basics were difficult to get. Ration cards were given to students and Communist Party members. Rand got one while studying history at Petrograd State University. Every week, she would stand in long lines, waiting to collect whatever the co-ops happened to be handing out. Her family, like many, lived at the level of bare subsistence, often surviving on millet, a seeded grass that most of us have only ever seen in bird food. Rand’s mother later recalled that they ate “cakes made of potato peelings, which to our hungry stomachs had seemed more delicious than the nectar of the Olympic gods.”

Perhaps the greatest indignities stemmed from the housing situation. As demand for urban housing grew, and buildings became unsafe due to lack of maintenance, the Communist regime passed the Domicile Norm, which dictated the amount of living space allowed per person. Government planners split up houses and apartments, assigning tenants and ordering owners to move into smaller and smaller portions of their own homes—essentially treating private residences as state-run dormitories. Not only were entire families forced to share a single kitchen and bathroom, but they often had to share these with complete strangers, a source of constant tension. And just a few years earlier, Rand and her family had enjoyed relative affluence.

But no contrast could have been more illustrative than that between the nation of her birth and the one she escaped to in 1926: the United States of America. In America, the individual’s right to his own life was recognized and largely protected—and this freedom had made possible an incredible standard of living. Rand wept when she saw New York City’s skyscrapers from the ship that brought her over—symbols of prosperity and progress, of ability unleashed and allowed to achieve greatness.27

Rand would go on to integrate a massive range of observations about history and humanity and to identify that true morality derives not from blind urges or supernatural deities but from facts of human nature. She recognized that to flourish, people must use reason to grasp those facts and act accordingly. A genuine, fact-based moral code, as one of her students later put it, “is the instruction manual in regard to proper care and use that did not come with man. It is the science of human self-preservation.”28 One might add, it is the science of human flourishing. Let’s look at what that science entails, according to Rand.

The Standard of Value

Rand did not start—as did virtually every philosopher before her—by asking what moral code we should accept. Rather, she wrote:

The first question that has to be answered, as a precondition of any attempt to define, to judge or to accept any specific system of ethics, is: Why does man need a code of values?

Let me stress this. The first question is not: What particular code of values should man accept? The first question is: Does man need values at all—and why?29

People only need ethics—“a code of values to guide man’s choices and actions,” as Rand put it—insofar as they need values. If they don’t need values, then they don’t need a code of values, either. So, what are values, and do people need them?

Rand observed that all living things face a basic alternative: life or death. To remain alive, an organism must attain certain values. Plants, for instance, need a certain amount of water, nutrients, and light. They grow roots to absorb water and minerals from the soil and leaves to capture heat and light from the sun. Animals likewise need certain values to stay alive. My dogs need food and water; they need to maintain a certain body temperature, neither too hot nor too cold, and so on. And the same broad points apply to humans; we need certain values to live and thrive, and these needs stem from our nature as human beings.

So, Rand pointed out, all life depends on values. And the reverse is true, too. If an organism perishes, so does its capacity to value; once it dies, nothing can be of value to it. Life is what makes values necessary—and life is what makes values possible. Neither a rock nor a rubber tire can have any values; they don’t face an alternative of life or death, so nothing can help or hinder them; nothing is good or bad for them—only for us living creatures.

Good and bad, therefore, are not subjective notions dependent on a person’s whims or preferences. Communism is not good for some and bad for others, just based on what they happen to like. Nor are “good” and “bad” merely the products of supernatural dictates. Rather, Rand showed, the objective meaning of “good” and “bad” stems from the natural requirements of an organism’s life.

The factual requirements of an organism’s life provide an objective standard of value, of good and bad. These requirements are not up to anyone’s arbitrary preferences or faith. The good is that which furthers life; the bad is that which harms it. As Rand put it in Atlas Shrugged, “All that which is proper to the life of a rational being is the good; all that which destroys it is the evil.”30

Reason

Next, Rand recognized that, unlike other living things, man’s basic means of living is reason. A sunflower or an eggplant grows automatically and without consciousness to reach the sunlight and nutrients it needs. A squirrel or a whale can rely largely on instinct, a sort of nonconceptual awareness baked into the consciousness of these animals. But man has no automatic means of attaining the values he needs. The human mind enables us to pursue a massively broader range of values than other animals (or plants)—we can build skyscrapers and airplanes and practice medicine, for instance—but attaining even our basic values requires thought and action.

We are not born with knowledge, and we don’t acquire it automatically. To acquire it, we must observe reality and think. We can’t distinguish food from poison without observation and thought. We can’t build a teepee or a hut, or even seek out a cave, without observation and thought. We can’t discern a friendly coworker from a sniping opportunist without observation and thought. And we can’t invent electric lightbulbs or conduct triple bypass surgery without observation and thought. Unlike other animals, a human being lives by the work of his reasoning mind. Nothing is more important to our ability to survive and thrive than keeping our minds connected to reality via observation and rational thought, and that requires ongoing conscious effort.

This is also the reason man needs “a code of values to guide his choices and actions.” As we’ve discussed, we gain and retain knowledge in the form of concepts, and we use concepts to identify principles—statements of fundamental truths by which we can guide our actions. Just as people must use their minds to identify, say, the engineering principles by which to build a sturdy bridge, so they must use their minds to identify the principles by which to build a flourishing life. Just as we aren’t born with the former, so we aren’t born with the latter; and we don’t acquire such knowledge—or apply it—automatically. The proper purpose of ethics, therefore, is to help us identify and retain the broadest truths about what we must do to live and thrive. To repeat: “It is the science of human self-preservation.”31

Because reason is man’s “survival instrument,” said Rand—because man’s life is the standard of value, and because everything required to sustain it depends on his use of reason—rationality is the primary, most fundamental virtue. It is the basic virtue that enables us to gain all the values we need to live. To the extent that we stop using our reasoning minds, we put our lives and ability to flourish in jeopardy. In fact, the entirety not only of Rand’s ethics but of her philosophy of Objectivism can be boiled down to two simple words: Be rational. Everything that human flourishing depends on flows from the virtue of being rational.

Independence versus Second-Handedness

Can others think with our minds? Clearly, no. It is up to each individual to keep his mind connected to reality, Rand observed. People can and thankfully do share ideas and collaborate, she wrote, but

The mind is an attribute of the individual. There is no such thing as a collective brain. There is no such thing as a collective thought. An agreement reached by a group of men is only a compromise or an average drawn upon many individual thoughts. It is a secondary consequence. The primary act—the process of reason—must be performed by each man alone. . . . No man can use his brain to think for another.32

Because reason is man’s basic means of survival—and because each individual has sole control over his own mind—nature necessitates that individuals think for themselves. If they want to flourish, they must grasp the factual requirements of human life and chart a course that aligns with them.

Happiness and Hierarchy of Values

And just as thinking for yourself is a necessary aspect of rationality, so is living for yourself, for your own happiness—the idea known as egoism (or I-ism). When we add in the rationality component—the most fundamental difference between Rand and Nietzsche—then what we’re talking about is more properly called rational egoism.

Why must we pursue our own happiness, our own flourishing? Flourishing is our highest potential. Can anyone else reach your potential for you? Can anyone else sing with your voice, smile with your face, think with your mind? No. We come into this world as individuals in mind and body. As Frederick Douglass put this point in a letter to his former “slave master,”

I am myself; you are yourself; we are two distinct persons, equal persons. What you are, I am. You are a man, and so am I. . . . I am not by nature bound to you, or you to me. Nature does not make your existence depend upon me, or mine to depend upon yours. I cannot walk upon your legs, or you upon mine. I cannot breathe for you, or you for me; I must breathe for myself, and you for yourself. We are distinct persons, and are each equally provided with faculties necessary to our individual existence.33

As we’ve seen, rational morality shows us that the factual requirements of human life provide an objective standard of moral value, and the purpose of morality is to enable us to flourish. But that is inherently up to each of us as individuals. We each must grasp the requirements of human life and the facts of our own unique identity, chart a course that aligns with them and makes us happy, and then follow through. Just as you’re responsible for whether you eat junk food or healthy food, so you’re responsible for all your own actions, the thinking from which those actions stem, and the physical and mental consequences to which they lead.

Take it the other way around, as altruism demands: Suppose that, instead, our sole moral responsibility is to serve other people, and that concern with one’s own interests is evil (e.g., that the “common good” takes precedence over the good of individuals). How can we achieve the “good of the community” if not by achieving the good—the happiness—of the individuals who make it up? And how can any individual be happy if he’s convinced that the one person who has any control over that—himself—is barred from acting to achieve it? That’s like having a car and the strong desire to go to the beach, but you’re constantly being pinged by Uber, and you morally must respond. You have to pick up these people and take them to their destinations, or you’re not a good person. So, you drive and drive and drive, hoping that someday you’ll pick up someone who wants to go to the beach. But no one ever does. And if one day you just say, “screw it, I’m going anyway,” you finally get there, sink your toes into the sand, but you can’t enjoy it, because the whole time, you’re thinking about your supposed duty to pick up all those people whose Uber requests are pinging your phone. That’s altruism: We all have cars, but no one’s supposed to drive himself where he wants to go. We all have lives, but no one’s supposed to live for himself—even though he’s the only person for whom he can actually make choices and achieve flourishing. We all have dreams, but no one’s allowed to pursue his own.

At this juncture, Rand would ask: Do you see how evil altruism is? It’s diametrically opposed to the requirements of living and thriving, and people can only live by it inconsistently—if they cheat on it here and there—if they go to the beach from time to time, even if they can’t fully enjoy it.

That’s absurd, as Rand pointed out. Circling back to an earlier point, she said that every person “exists for his own sake, and the achievement of his own happiness is his highest moral purpose.”34 And that requires “rational self-interest,” or “rational selfishness,” or “rational egoism.” Yet, selfishness is near universally condemned as evil. Why?

Selfishness versus Vice

In her book The Virtue of Selfishness, Rand wrote, “The meaning ascribed in popular usage to the word ‘selfishness’ is not merely wrong: it represents a devastating intellectual ‘package-deal,’ which is responsible, more than any other single factor, for the arrested moral development of mankind.” This “package deal” combines the concept’s legitimate meaning—“concern with one’s own interests”—with the image of “a murderous brute who tramples over piles of corpses to achieve his own ends, who cares for no living being and pursues nothing but the gratification of the mindless whims of any immediate moment.”35

The chief error of thinkers who accept this “package-deal” is what they regard as being in a person’s self-interest. Lying, cheating, stealing, raping, pillaging, murdering—none of these lead to a person’s long-term happiness and flourishing. These and all other vices entail disconnecting one’s mind from the facts of reality—most definitely including the facts about what a happy human life requires.

Take dishonesty, for instance. Dishonesty is an attempt to fake reality, to pretend that things are other than they are, typically to gain some value one hasn’t earned. For instance, suppose you lie on your résumé and in job interviews. You tell a potential employer that you have experience and qualifications that you don’t actually have. You get the job, and perhaps you feel a moment of eager excitement. But blocking any sense of genuine joy and accomplishment is the knowledge that you’re a fraud and the fear of being found out. That eager excitement, if you ever felt it, is almost immediately drowned in a feeling of dread. At work, you must watch your every move, trying to keep up the charade, trying to be someone you’re not. You must become a fictional character in your own life, fraying your nerves with the constant question, “What would someone more knowledgeable and experienced think and say in this situation?” You tell yourself it’s not who you are, it’s just what you do five days a week, and you can let down your guard outside the office. But when your coworkers ask you out for drinks, you find that what could and should have been a fun outing is utterly exhausting. You can’t let down your guard. Trying to fall asleep at night, you find your mind looping snippets of your conversation, asking but unable to answer the burning question, “Did I give myself away?” You are a fraud, you know you’re a fraud, and your emotional life is in turmoil.

Not to mention, little by little, your colleagues start to piece it all together. You ask a question you shouldn’t have had to ask. Your analyses of problems and your proposed solutions are shot down by coworkers because of obvious defects that those with even a little more experience than you can easily see. You simply can’t achieve the goals you’re assigned because you lack the skills. You’re an impostor, you know it, and everyone else is beginning to see it as well. It won’t be long before you’re fired, and you won’t be getting a good reference for your next job application. You tried to fake reality, but the facts have caught up with you.

That’s the pattern for all vices.

Take another. Suppose, instead, that you’re the hiring manager in the same situation. Two people applied for this job. One is your underqualified friend; the other is a highly qualified stranger. You know the stranger would be a better fit for the job, but you hire your friend instead. You hope your boss doesn’t find out. To ensure that doesn’t happen, you treat your friend coolly when you see him at work. You keep your interactions brief and to the point. You turn down his lunch invitations and go out, instead, with people whose conversation bores you to death. After all, you can’t reveal the nature of your relationship. You tell your friend after hours what’s going on, but it’s little comfort to him. The facade he’s been trying desperately to maintain has made it impossible to connect with any of his other coworkers, his work projects are failing, and impostor syndrome is bearing down on him. He’s thinking of calling it quits after only a month on the job, after your company has just barely made that initial and expensive investment of training him. In anger, you tell him to keep his cool. If he quits, you’ll have to start the hiring search over, which won’t look good for you, and the more highly qualified candidate has already been hired by a competitor. That competitor’s company is gunning for your customers—and winning them. Perhaps your company will have to downsize, and perhaps you’ll be on the chopping block. Your friendship and career plans suddenly seem to be unraveling. Why? What happened?

So much for trying to fake reality.

In Rand’s view, every vice boils down to betting against reality—which necessarily means losing, psychologically and materially. To whatever extent one is dishonest, unjust, lacks integrity, or uses force or fraud to get the unearned, he is at war with reality, a formidable opponent indeed. Each of us, said Rand, “has the power to suspend, evade, corrupt or subvert his perception of reality, but not the power to escape the existential and psychological disasters that follow.”36

Actual selfishness—acting in one’s long-term self-interest—requires just one thing: Being rational. Going by reality. Not trying to “fake it till you make it,” because you will never make it by faking anything. Everything that Rand’s philosophy of Objectivism recognizes as a virtue is simply an application of this basic requirement of human life. Independence is the virtue of keeping one’s mind connected to reality by accepting the responsibility of “of forming one’s own judgments and of living by the work of one’s own mind.”37 Integrity is the virtue of loyalty to the result of one’s independent thinking, to one’s convictions and values. Honesty is the virtue of refusing to fake reality, refusing to pretend things are other than they are. Justice is the virtue of rationally judging other people by the objective moral standard discussed above—the factual requirements of human life—and treating them as they deserve. Those whose actions comport with the requirements of human life are good and should be treated accordingly; those whose actions flout the requirements of human life are bad and should likewise be treated accordingly.

Productiveness is the virtue of creating the values on which one’s life depends. In an advanced, division-of-labor economy, productiveness entails acting on what Rand called “the trader principle,” giving value for value in all our dealings with other people—in other words, acting justly and, thus, rationally. In Atlas Shrugged, she explained how the trader principle applies not merely to the economic sphere but to our personal lives as well:

A trader is a man who earns what he gets and does not give or take the undeserved. A trader does not ask to be paid for his failures, nor does he ask to be loved for his flaws. . . . Just as he does not give his work except in trade for material values, so he does not give the values of his spirit—his love, his friendship, his esteem—except in payment and in trade for human virtues, in payment for his own selfish pleasure, which he receives from men he can respect.38

This sheds light on another falsehood baked into the common “package-deal” regarding self-interest: the view that selfish people have no care or concern for others. Rand recognized that other people are an enormous source not only of material values but of spiritual values: love, friendship, esteem, knowledge, entertainment—all those values pertaining to consciousness (as opposed to our physical bodies)—without which flourishing is impossible. It is not in spite of but because of a person’s rational self-interest that he cares about the happiness of those he values. “Concern for the welfare of those one loves is a rational part of one’s selfish interests,” wrote Rand. “If a man who is passionately in love with his wife spends a fortune to cure her of a dangerous illness, it would be absurd to claim that he does it as a ‘sacrifice’ . . . and that it makes no difference to him, personally and selfishly, whether she lives or dies.” By contrast, it would be a sacrifice—“the surrender of a greater value for the sake of a lesser one or a non-value”—to blow that fortune gambling or give it away to needy strangers and let his wife die. This would be a betrayal of his rational self-interest and would make him immoral and miserable.39

Likewise, it wasn’t a sacrifice for me to shovel my neighbor’s driveway when he was recovering from knee surgery. I value him, not only because he lets me borrow tools when I need them, but also because I enjoy our conversations, benefit from his advice, and respect him as a person. I don’t help him because I put his interests above my own. I help him because it is in my interests. It is rationally selfish for me to do so. Nor is it a sacrifice when I hold a door for a stranger, hand the mother at the table next to mine the toy her infant just threw, yield the right of way to a driver trying to merge, or practice a million other common courtesies that don’t require giving up a greater value for a lesser one. Other human beings, until and unless they prove otherwise, represent an enormous potential value and so warrant, says Rand, a “generalized respect and good will.” She continued, “A rational man does not forget that life is the source of all values and, as such, a common bond among living beings (as against inanimate matter), that other men are potentially able to achieve the same virtues as his own and thus be of enormous value to him.”40

Last among the virtues that Rand named is pride, which is the virtue of “moral ambitiousness,” of seeking to keep one’s moral character spotless and unsullied.41 Rand wrote that “man, who has no automatic values, has no automatic sense of self-esteem and must earn it by shaping his soul in the image of his moral ideal.”42 Being morally ambitious—practicing the virtue of pride—is essential to earning self-esteem. It doesn’t mean that one never makes mistakes, but that he strives never to act immorally (i.e., in an irrational, antilife manner), and that when he does, he tries to make amends while accepting whatever consequences justice demands.

By practicing these virtues—rationality, independence, integrity, honesty, justice, productiveness, and pride—Rand showed that we can achieve the cardinal values on which our lives depend: reason, purpose, and self-esteem. And the ultimate reward of all this—of understanding the requirements of human life, charting a course that aligns with them and that we enjoy, and seeing it through—is happiness.

Deriving Individual Rights from Rational Morality

Rand held that there is only one thing that others can do to prevent us from acting on our judgment in pursuit of our flourishing: use force against us. Of course, others can convince us that we’re wrong about something and so give us reasons to act differently, but then we are still acting on our judgment. Or we can renounce independence and choose to act on other people’s conclusions—acting as second-handers; but then we’re acting on our judgment that we should place some consideration over and above our judgment—thus blinding ourselves and thereby choosing a collision course with reality.

But when, if ever, do we act in contradiction to our judgment? When people force us to, such as when a thief holds a gun to a man’s head and demands, “Your money or your life.” The man’s judgment is that he should have both; it was his mind and effort—his life—that created the money. But, by initiating force against him, the thief demands that his victim renounce this judgment and accept a contradiction—that he should keep his money, and that he should give it up to this brute.

One could argue that the victim is still acting in accordance with his judgment, his judgment that he values his life more than his money. But this evades the underlying reality: The thief is acting on the contradiction that he can achieve values by plundering them from others; the victim knows otherwise. He knows on some level that the values in question could only be achieved through thought and effort and properly belong to him whose work produced them. But he is forced to act in contradiction to this knowledge, to the requirements of his life and flourishing, and against his own nature as a rational being.

On Rand’s view, all of this holds true whether the brute uses force directly, as in the case of the thief, or indirectly, as in the case of a fraudster. Suppose a luthier painstakingly copies a Stradivarius and finishes it to look indistinguishable from a real vintage violin. He fabricates letters that supposedly document the initial sale and chain of custody from its original owner in 18th-century Italy to today. He puts one over on a famous violinist whose rich patron buys it for him. The buyer, who paid millions, did not get what he paid for. His judgment is that an authentic Stradivarius is worth millions, but a copy is essentially worthless. The luthier purposely misled him to act against his judgment. At what point does the luthier initiate force? When he takes possession of another man’s property—his money, in this case—under conditions that the buyer never consented to. Although the outward form may be different, Rand thus held that a fraudster’s actions are morally indistinguishable from those of a thief. Both the thief and the fraudster use force to obtain a value from someone who did not consent to the conditions of that transfer.

To live and flourish, people must be free to act on their judgment—free of those who would initiate force against them. This includes all human beings, by virtue of their nature as human beings. The fact that man is, as Aristotle put it, “the rational animal”—and that he must live by using his reason to create the values on which his life depends—is the basis for Rand’s view that a proper society prohibits the initiation of force (it’s proper to use force only in response to those who initiate it). And it is also the basis for Rand’s distinctive view of individual rights.

Theorists throughout history have offered essentially only two ideas on the source and nature of rights: (1) rights are given to man by God, and (2) “rights” are actually just permissions granted by government.

John Locke (1632–1704) is perhaps the most famous of all rights theorists and the chief influence on the political ideas of America’s founders. He held, as I put it in my article “John Locke: The Father of Liberalism,” that

By using their reason, men are capable of discovering a “law of nature,” which tells them that all men—despite differences in strength, intelligence, moral fortitude, and so forth—are fundamentally equal in one respect: each has “a right to [his own] preservation,” a right to use and preserve his own mind, body, life.43

Given this and many similar formulations, Locke is widely regarded as a natural rights theorist, a thinker whose ideas on rights are grounded in his views on man’s nature. However, Locke’s ideas were widely repudiated in the early 20th century by American politicians calling themselves “Progressives.” The century since has been a gradual cashing in on the Progressives’ arguments, with the growth of government and the diminution of freedom or respect for individual rights. Why was Locke’s “law of nature” basis for rights so vulnerable to attack? As I wrote,

Virtually every criticism of Lockean liberalism derives from one fundamental problem.

Consider Locke’s “law of nature,” which he says is “the command of the divine will, knowable by the light of nature.” Although it supposedly comes from God, we discover it by reason, and it leads us to understand that all men ought to be equally free. But Locke doesn’t say how we discover it, nor do his followers. Jefferson, for instance, held that, if not the law itself, then at least its effects—our rights—are “self-evident.” However, many people have disagreed that they are self-evident and even have ridiculed the idea. As philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre put it, “there are no such rights, and belief in them is one with belief in witches and unicorns.” Without a clear, reasoned explanation, both Locke’s “law of nature” and its implications for our conduct are open to interpretation—or outright rejection. . . .

American “Progressives” later repudiated the very possibility of Lockean God-given, “natural,” or “inherent” rights, on the grounds that such rights contradict evolutionary science. In a 1916 speech, Frank Johnson Goodnow said that the “conception of private rights as inherent and not based upon [man-made] law” came about “because it has been believed that the individual has rights with which he has been endowed by his Creator.” But, he continued, in the light of newly discovered science, this makes no sense. “The political philosophy of the eighteenth century was formulated before the announcement and acceptance of the theory of evolutionary development,” which revealed that the individual “is primarily a member of society and that only as he recognizes his duties as a member of society can he secure the greatest opportunities as an individual.” In other words, science cut the ground out from under religion, obliterated the theory of God-given “natural” rights, and left the individual at the mercy of the collective.

In 1935, another Progressive spokesman, John Dewey, further clarified the problems with the notion of god-given rights.

Referencing Jeremy Bentham (who famously said that natural rights are “nonsense upon stilts”) and David Hume (who denied the possibility of deriving any moral principles via reason), Dewey mocked the idea of natural rights and liberties. Modern liberals realize that “Natural rights and natural liberties exist only in the kingdom of mythological social zoology,” he jeered. “The ideas of Locke embodied in the Declaration of Independence were congenial to our pioneer conditions,” but they’re outdated now, and liberals need to reverse course. “Organized social planning,” he concluded, “is now the sole method of social action by which liberalism can realize its professed aims.”

Thus, Dewey and his fellow Progressives helped to create a chasm between what (for the sake of clarity) we now call “classical liberalism”—a system of ideas developed to support liberty—and what has come to be called “modern liberalism” or “Progressivism,” a system of ideas developed to replace liberty with all manner of government interference in the lives of individuals.

Because Locke’s conception of rights and, by extension, the American Founders’ conception, ultimately was based on God—and because no one could prove the existence of God, much less rights that emanate from him—classical liberalism and the freedom it championed could not endure.

If we want to secure a future of freedom and flourishing—if we want to advance the Enlightenment and live in it today—we must progress beyond the theory of God-given natural rights. We must come to understand the secular source and nature of rights, and we must be able to explain clearly and on fully rational grounds what rights are, where they come from, and how we know it. To my knowledge, the only thinker to provide such a basis for rights was Ayn Rand.44

Supernatural and social accounts of rights—holding that rights come from god or are just permissions granted by government—are akin to the common misunderstandings of electrical phenomena prior to the work of Benjamin Franklin. Just as early “electricians” sought to account for the evidence with a theory that posited two different electrical fluids (resinous and vitreous), so those attempting to understand the social requirements of human nature cognized it within the faulty framework they had at the time. They recognized many facts, but they interpreted them incorrectly.

Rights are not things implanted in us by a god or given us by governments; they are a recognition of the fact that to live as the type of beings we are, we must be free to act on our judgment, so long as we don’t violate the rights of others to do the same. Rights are essential conditions of existence for rational beings. As I wrote in “Adam Smith, Ayn Rand, and the Philosophic Foundation for Freedom”:

Rights are principles, akin, in that respect, to the principles of physics or biology. Think for a minute of Newton’s first law of motion: A body remains at rest, or in motion at a constant speed in a straight line, unless acted upon by a force. This is a principle—an abstract generalization about how the world works—derived by observation and logic. No one can look out at the world and see Newton’s first law of motion; nonetheless, everyone can see the evidence that gives rise to it.

Rand held that we can likewise use observation and logic to arrive at the principle of individual rights. She pointed out that, unlike other animals, man lives by using his mind. Man must act on his reasoning to create the values on which human life depends. That could be as simple as tracking prey, using dried leaves to start a fire, building a hut, or discerning edible berries from poisonous ones. Or it could be as complex as inventing antibiotics, building a gasoline engine, organizing a multinational supply chain, or providing psychological therapy. To create such values and thus live as human beings, people must be free to think and act on their rational judgment—their basic means of living. The evidence of Rand’s experience—first in Soviet Russia, then in the United States—made this vividly clear. The facts of man’s nature require that he act on his judgment to survive and thrive, and the principle of individual rights identifies this causal relation, just as principles of physics identify causal relations in that field. This is why Rand wrote in Atlas Shrugged:

The source of man’s rights is not divine law or congressional law, but the law of identity. A is A—and Man is Man. Rights are conditions of existence required by man’s nature for his proper survival. If man is to live on earth, it is right for him to use his mind, it is right to act on his own free judgment, it is right to work for his values and to keep the product of his work. If life on earth is his purpose, he has a right to live as a rational being: nature forbids him the irrational. Any group, any gang, any nation that attempts to negate man’s rights, is wrong, which means: is evil, which means: is anti-life.45

Philosophy and the Future of Freedom

If we want to secure a future of freedom and human flourishing, then we cannot rest our arguments merely on “common sense,” on sound economics, or on theories of god-given rights. These approaches have been tried. The state of today’s world—the sweeping movements threatening freedom in the West, the dictators and zealots starting wars in the East—testifies to their failure. And these approaches have failed for a very clear reason: Politics is downstream from—and thus dependent on—more fundamental philosophic issues. If people think we’re incapable of using perception and reason to grasp reality, they turn instead to feelings as their arbiter of what is true and what is good. If they “feel” that something is morally good, they strive to implement it. And if their assessment is wrong, if they uphold irrationalities as “the good,” the consequences are disastrous.

To effectively defend liberty, we need a fact-based moral code, and we need answers to the skeptics who regard attempts to define such a code as inherently impossible. Facing today’s opponents of liberty without arming oneself with sound answers to their deep, philosophic arguments is like showing up with a knife to a nuclear war. It is worse than futile, because it convinces those who matter in such a setting—the audience—that advocates of freedom cannot be taken seriously, that all the intellectual power in today’s world is on the side of statists who deny any factual basis for individual rights and seek to violate those rights in sundry ways.

This is why Rand—regarding capitalism, the system of individual rights—wrote: “There is a fundamental difference between our approach and that of capitalism’s classical defenders and modern apologists. With very few exceptions, they are responsible—by default—for capitalism’s destruction. The default consisted of their inability or unwillingness to fight the battle where it had to be fought: on moral-philosophical grounds.”46

She said that her philosophy, Objectivism,

is a philosophical movement; since politics is a branch of philosophy, Objectivism advocates certain political principles—specifically, those of laissez-faire capitalism—as the consequence and the ultimate practical application of its fundamental philosophical principles. It does not regard politics as a separate or primary goal, that is: as a goal that can be achieved without a wider ideological context. Politics is based on three other philosophical disciplines: metaphysics, epistemology and ethics—on a theory of man’s nature and of man’s relationship to existence. It is only on such a base that one can formulate a consistent political theory and achieve it in practice. . . . Objectivists are not “conservatives.” We are radicals for capitalism; we are fighting for that philosophical base which capitalism did not have and without which it was doomed to perish.47

I’ve given but an indication of that philosophical base. I’ve sketched Rand’s views on how and why the senses are valid, concepts based on them are valid, true morality is based in observable fact, and individual rights are based on true morality. It’s up to you whether you will take these philosophic issues seriously, study them in-depth, and grasp the full nature of the tools that Rand offers. They are powerful tools, but only for those who know how to use them. As Rand said, “Reason and Morality are the only weapons that determine the course of history. The collectivists dropped them, because they had no right to carry them. Pick them up; you have.”48