“One of the dangerous things about the story of progress is that we don’t think it’s a story. We think it’s the truth.”

Paul Kingsnorth

If there is but one word to describe the core value at the heart of modernity, it might be “Progress.” What defines modernity against the pre-modern world is exactly its conception of history as a linear, rather than circular, process. The notion of “progress” is only possible within such a view.

Another way to formulate what is meant by “progress” might the removal – perhaps even abolition – of “limits.” If, as the rational-materialistic worldview of modernity proclaims, history is the onward march of progress, then any and all limits are subject to challenge and dissolution.

On the Limits of Freedom - by Thucydian Athlete

The conquest of nature through science was the first and most profound dissolution of the limits upon humanity. No longer are we beholden to the natural world - at least, so we assume. Tradition, culture, religion, all these and more became merely further limits to human progress that could, and should, be challenged and overcome. National boundaries become little more than unjust limits on the movement of people, rather than necessary guarantors of a people belonging to a given place.

The most intimate limits on humanity must too be challenged. Not only what was once thought of as the physical limits of what a person might achieve, but the very nature of a human being itself. Transhumanism seeks to literally transcend the limits of the human body. Meanwhile, its erstwhile hatchling seeks to abolish the very notion of a dividing limit between Man and Woman.

The erosion of culture and tradition, far from liberating the human individual, has rather left us drowning in a black ocean of possibility. The abolition of limits has not gifted us liberation, rather it has made us smaller, more afraid, more anxious, and desperately navel-gazing in our obsession with the great idol of our age – the Self.

Meditations III – On Anxiety - by Thucydian Athlete

What is true in the macro is, so often, true also in the micro. Take, for example, creative pursuits. Be it writing, painting, music, there is nothing more terrifying and anxiety-provoking to the creator than the blank page or canvas. It is no coincidence that once the first words or notes or brushstrokes have been laid down, creativity begins to flow. The beginning of a creative piece necessarily places limits upon the rest of it, and it is paradoxically within the confines of these limits that creativity can find the freedom it needs.

Imagine, for a moment, how utterly and terrifyingly impossible it would be to create anything without any limits imposed at all. Try writing a sentence without the rules of grammar and punctuation, or even a defined language. Or attempt to write music that disregards all rules of musical composition. The result will be, in all likelihood, meaningless gibberish. Try it for yourself.

Limits – be they biological, physical, rational, psychological, etc – are not merely challenges to overcome. Humans are finite, limited beings. We are not God. Attempting to create a world absent limits is to attempt to play at God, and such hubris rarely comes absent cost.

Meditations CXXIX - On Perfection - by Thucydian Athlete

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“It is not the man who has too little, but the man who craves more, that is poor.”

Seneca

The Roman virtue of Frugalitas emphasises an economy and simplicity of living. It is, of course, the etymological root of the English word, frugality. In the modern world, this virtue may easily be conflated with being cheap or miserly. Yet this is a misunderstanding. Frugalitas does not demand that one avoids spending money. It simply enjoins one to avoid excess and waste.

Media depictions of ancient Rome often suggest a society marked by wanton excess and luxury enjoyed by the privileged and powerful. It may appear odd, then, that the Romans would see frugality as a virtue at all. Yet these depictions tend to be based more upon the later Empire rather than the early days of the Republic. It is, perhaps, no coincidence that Rome’s decline and eventual collapse was marked by increasing excess and degeneracy.

Meditations CXXIII - On Gravitas - by Thucydian Athlete

Compared to the world the Romans inhabited, ours is one marked not by scarcity but by abundance. In industrial or post-industrial nations, obesity is a much larger problem than starvation. This is due to the mass availability of cheap, tasty, processed foods. In addition to food, we are daily assailed with a bewildering array of options upon which to spend our resources (time, money, energy, attention).

It is little surprise that in such an environment, displays of excess and waste are often taken as symbols of status and prestige, rather than a moral failing. One needs only envisage the scenes at various gatherings of celebrities and cultural elite, or perhaps Jeff Bezo’s recent staggeringly outlandish wedding.

Modern society is replete with comfort and abundance, yet this does not appear to be making us either happier or healthier. Within this milieu, our wants become needs and our consumption becomes our identity. We have more and more, and still we desire yet more. We are riven by a thirst that cannot be quenched by drinking yet more.

Meditations CXXV - On Dignitas - by Thucydian Athlete

Invoking the virtue of Frugalitas in the modern world does not require one to become a reclusive hermit, foreswearing all the trappings of modernity. We do not need to live like Diogenes. Frugalitas does not demand that we have little, merely that we require little. Nutritious food, shelter, companionship. These things are necessary to our wellbeing. Junk food, luxury items, and casual sexual pleasure are not. This does not mean that we should avoid them altogether, only that we must take care not to become enslaved by our desires. When desire becomes necessity, we are in the throes of addiction.

Almost every religious tradition across cultures and historical periods included some form of intentional restriction. The Abrahamic religions, for example, all include specified periods of fasting. Intentionally distancing oneself from something like food for a period of time severs the link between desire and necessity. One needs not be religious to benefit from this experience. Regular, intentional periods of fasting is perhaps the most powerful prophylactic from the extravagant abundance of our age.

Meditations CXXVIII – On Veritas - by Thucydian Athlete

Whatever it is that you find moving from desire into necessity, restrain yourself from indulging for a while. This might be food (or certain foods), social media, drugs & alcohol, sexual pleasure, the list is almost endless.

Keep in mind that the goal is not to possess little, only to need little.

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“The lover of learning is always striving after being.”

Plato, (The Republic, Book VI)

In Phaedrus, Plato recounts a dialogue between Socrates and Phaedrus, a young, rhetorically obsessed Athenian aristocrat. Phaedrus enthusiastically holds a written copy of a speech by Lysias. The main thrust of the dialogue is Socrates’ (which is to say, Plato’s) criticism of rhetoric as a means of convincing the listener in place of philosophy as the pursuit of truth. Near the end of the dialogue, Socrates criticises the notion that writing will improve wisdom and learning.

Socrates tells the myth of the Egyptian god Theuth, inventor of writing. Theuth claims that writing will improve memory and wisdom. However, King Thamus claims that writing will have the opposite effect, with people relying on external texts rather than cultivating memory; and will give the appearance of wisdom absent proper understanding.

Meditations LI - On Knowledge - by Thucydian Athlete

{you may be able to see where I am going with this already}

Socrates’ criticism is not that writing is bad, but that simply writing information or arguments without proper dialogue and interrogation is not knowledge. Information is not knowledge, and data is not insight.

In the modern world, we hardly see a book even as a piece of technology – despite the truly revolutionary impacts the written word has had on the world. If anything, books might be seen as a parochial relic from a bygone world. Now, we have the internet and search engines. We have Artificial Intelligence. The collected information and data of almost all mankind exist at our fingertips, accessible through a device in our pocket.

Meditations LXVI – On Technology - by Thucydian Athlete

And yet, with our very own Library of Alexandria at our fingertips, we seem to have less knowledge, and much less wisdom, than our forebears. Ask the average person on the street some basic questions about the history of their own nation and people, for example, and many will struggle to answer. We are drowning in information yet starving for wisdom.

Whilst much can be lain at the feet of our education systems – a subject worthy of its own essays (see below) – it is one of the greatest sins of the modern era that we repeatedly devolve responsibility for ourselves to institutions and systems. Learning is a personal responsibility, one that many give little or no thought towards from the moment they leave formal education.

Irrigating deserts - by Thucydian Athlete

I have learned more in the past decade from my own efforts than I did in my time in education all the way to University. I read, reflect, write, speak, listen, converse, all to further my own understanding. I once said to some family members that I look back on some of things I believed ten years ago with scorn. They were surprised. I fully believe that, ten years from now, I will feel the same about some of the things I believe now.

It is not that, through this self-directed learning, I have uncovered some new revelations that change my entire worldview. My core values and principles remain effectively the same now as they were at 18 years old, twenty years ago. The more I learn, the more of the world, reality, and truth I perceive and the better I understand those values and principles in relation to the world.

I am no Luddite. I am no AI-doom-monger. I utilise technology, including AI. As a writer, AI provides an invaluable tool for research, feedback, and brainstorming. Yet we must not outsource our duty to learn to this technology. AI, the internet, and other technologies provide information and data. It is only through interrogation and dialogue – with yourself or others – that this can be made into knowledge and wisdom.

Keep learning.

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This is Part 3 of a 3 part series. Read Part 1 below

The Broken Canon: Testament III - The Burner

He could still hear the screams. Hours after the city had fallen, soaked in blood and blackened by flame. Hours after the last screaming victim had fallen from this world, throats burned beyond any use. Hours later, Ruslan could still hear the screams. The screams of horror and agony as otherworldly flames seared flesh from bone.

Those screams were seared into Ruslan’s memory. He would never forget them. They would be a part of him until his last breath. Perhaps that was only right. He had participated in the slaughter. Though it had not happened at his command, Ruslan’s sword had still tasted the blood of innocents. Their cries would remain with him like the demented harpies of folklore.

The siege was long over. None amongst the defenders remained with authority to give surrender, Queen Mariel simply ordering her army to cease once her standard had been raised atop the central keep. A last bastion for the wealthy and distinguished of Eritae’s inhabitants, the keep had served them little in the end. They all died the same, blackened by the flames.

Victory.

Victory had been secured. There could be no doubts of this. The city had fallen to Queen Mariel. The route to the northern capital was now open. The path towards an end to this war now lay before them. Already, rumours of what had happened in this place would be spreading throughout the kingdom. Already, whispers abounded of a new name for their queen.

Mariel the Burner.

No longer was she the youthful yet fierce girl who had been thrust upon the throne. No longer was she the victim of fate and destiny. Mariel was a Queen of War, fearsome and terrible. Ruslan could not shake from his mind the image of Mariel’s new visage.

She had been changed by what she had done. Once possessed of long, flowing locks the colour of a burning sun, Mariel’s hair was now cut short, streaked with silver. Deep lines etched her once flawlessly smooth visage. Her voice had become lower, filled with sadness yet also with iron. The queen seemed to have aged a decade in a day.

In the immediate aftermath of the siege, the queen gathered her men in the central square. Despite the victory, there had been no shouts of jubilation and triumph. A sombre air filled the city, alongside the black smoke that still flowed from smouldering blazes. The city had fallen. Losses in this final assault had been minimal, most of the defenders burning before their ladders even reached the walls. A determined few had held out in this very square. Ignoring entreaties to surrender, they had fought to the last man. Ruslan respected their courage. What was more, he could understand the refusal. Why surrender to one capable of such a terrible act?

There was little joy to be found in the victory. Only necessity. And necessity drove the exigencies of war, not the romantic notions of adventure and honour found in the old sagas. War was hell. And they had turned Eritae into the living embodiment of that infernal place.

The Broken Canon: Testament I - by Thucydian Athlete

Queen Mariel had stood in silence for a long time, as her men gathered in the square. From corner to corner, the square filled with armoured soldiers, yet the silence was total. Mariel looked upon them. Those closest to the front swore that tears fell freely from her eyes.

“My brave and loyal men,” she began, faltering for a dangerous moment before regaining her composure, “we have secured victory. This war is now one step closer to conclusion. Your courage and loyalty will never be forgotten.”

Under other circumstances, such words might be expected to provoke cheers and cries of jubilation. Only silence answered her this time.

“Many have died in this place, both friend and foe. Comrades, enemies, and, yes, innocent souls. Such is the nature of war. Innocents die. Though we do not wish it, this cannot be avoided. Know this, my brave men, every man, woman or child we have killed in this place died in service of a better future. Your souls remain untouched by sin. I alone, your queen and commander, bear responsibility for this act. I alone sought the aid of the fire priests. I alone chose your lives over those within these walls. It is a choice I would make again and a thousand times more. My love and loyalty are to you above all else. Under the royal privilege granted unto me by the Codes of Law, I hereby grant khariel for all deeds committed this day. Your souls remain untainted. The Grace of God lifts these sins from you. I alone bear responsibility.”

The silence that filled the square, already tangible despite the thousands gathered, seemed to deepen further. Breath caught in throats and hearts skipped beats as the soldiers weighed the enormity of what their queen had declared. The responsibility, the guilt, even, for every death within those walls would be lifted from them and placed solely upon that fair head. Ruslan wondered if the weight of it would not be enough to crush her entirely.

Gazing upon Mariel, Ruslan could almost see her shoulders physically sag under this terrible new burden. The sight all but broke his heart. Ruslan was a loyal servant to the Crown and, like the brothers-in-arms all around him, he loved his queen deeply. Yet, with a twisting sensation deep in his gut, Ruslan understood that something had changed.

Ruslan still loved his queen, as deeply as he ever had. This had not changed. Yet alongside this love sat a new emotion, a new feeling towards this sovereign. Whereas before this day, Ruslan’s love for Queen Mariel was pure and unfiltered, derived from her unswerving devotion to her kingdom, her undeniable courage, and the beauty and grace that flowed from her, now this love was tinged with shadow, with threat. Tinged, he realised, with fear.

Mariel the Burner.

This name would be remembered in the histories. A ruler who offered love, devotion, and loyalty to those who bent the knee. A ruler, too, who brought fire and death to any who stood in her way, no matter their guilt or innocence.

Ruslan loved his queen as much as he ever had. Now, for the first time, he was also afraid of her.

Burning. Everything was burning. Flames licked greedily, blackening walls and singing flesh. So many screams of terror and agony that all melded into one unholy ensemble. The city was burning. The entire kingdom was burning. She had come. The Burner. She had come for her vengeance. She had come for him.

There was nowhere left to hide. No army could protect him. No walls might shelter him. She had come for him, and she promised only the vengeance that was owed to her. She had come.

With a jolt, he awoke and sat upright. Sweat poured freely across his body and from his brow. He tasted salt. He tasted, also, ash. He could feel the heat of the flames upon his skin. Smell the burned hair and roasted flesh.

The Broken Canon: Testament II - by Thucydian Athlete

The dream had been so real. It had been so, because it was no dream but a vision of his imminent fate. Mariel the Burner had come for him. King Abellus, Lord of the Northern Kingdom, sat in his bed and knew true terror. She had come, and nothing would stop her vengeance.

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“If you do well, will you not be accepted?”

“Sin is crouching at the door. Its desire is for you, but you must rule over it.”

Genesis 4:7

Every single choice you make in life involves some form of sacrifice. By choosing something, you sacrifice the possibilities of the other choices you may have made instead. You sacrifice, too, the simultaneously comforting yet dizzying freedom of having not yet chosen.

Choose coffee over tea with your breakfast, and you sacrifice the opportunity to enjoy a cup of tea.

Choose to move across the country and change your career rather than stay in your hometown and old job, and you sacrifice everything that once made up your life as it exists.

It is often said – though much less practised – that the key to long term happiness or success is delayed gratification. This means sacrificing the satiation of immediate wants in the sake of a higher, future goal.

The idea of sacrifice, particularly in the Christian worldview (the ruins of which we still inhabit), is often wrapped in the virtue of selflessness. Self-sacrifice is the highest Christian virtue. Yet we often must sacrifice not for others, but for ourselves. Sacrificing comfort, stability, certainty, and more, can often be necessary to achieving what we truly desire.

There is, of course, no guaranteed formula of success. Life is often cruel. We may sacrifice much, perhaps even all we can (or all we perceive we might), and still fail. An example might be sporting competitions. We might make all the sacrifices demanded of us to perform our best – food, comfort, social time, etc – and still fall short. As someone who has competed in 15 Muay Thai fights and lost more times than he won, I know this intimately.

The question is not whether one fails or even if one offered sufficient sacrifice to succeed. It is how you respond.

In Genesis, the story of Cain and Abel marks one of the earliest attempts in our religious tradition to understand and explain the meaning of sacrifice. Both Cain and Abel make sacrifices to God. Abel’s are welcomed, whilst Cain’s are found wanting. Cain responds not by asking what further sacrifices he might make, but by demanding why his brother’s were accepted and his own were not. He responds, in effect, with resentment against the very nature of being, leading to his committing the first murder.

I am myself currently approaching a crossroads in my life. As I near my 40^th year on this earth, I can choose to remain in the comfort and stability of my life as it is now or take a new path that has now opened to me. This new path requires sacrificing much of what I have built my life upon over the past decade. Perhaps, then, taking this path requires me to truly sacrifice enough to make it successful. Perhaps, trying to hold on to as much of my previous life as possible – failing to sacrifice enough – would be my undoing. Time will tell.

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“My loyal men, the Lord hath answered my prayers. He hath sent his servants unto me that I might be shown a new path. A path that will lead us to victory without such a price as cannot be paid.”

Mariel, Queen of the Western Kingdom, opened her arms out slowly. Without needing to look, she knew they had appeared. The fire priests thrived on an air of mystique and theatre. She closed her eyes, hoping to maintain the calm and confident demeanour she simply could not feel.

They had come the previous night, the second of her self-enforced reclusion following the disastrous assault on the city. Eritae. That was the name of the place. It had never really mattered before in history, yet soon its story would not be forgotten. Queen Mariel had been deep in prayer, desperately seeking some divine intervention, some route to breaking this siege without bloodying her army yet further.

The Broken Canon: Testament I - by Thucydian Athlete

Despite the guards at her tent, the fire priests had somehow gained access without sound or challenge. She had felt their presence, slowly rising from her knees, turning and looking upon them. Each of the seven were clad in flowing woollen habits that may once have been white. Their heads were covered in wide, hooded cowls, faces lost in darkness. Even as Mariel tried to focus her vision, the air seemed to shimmer and haze around her.

When the priests spoke, their voices came as one. Mariel could not determine if one or all spoke at the same time, or from which figure the voice may have come. What mattered, though, was the promise they carried. Victory. Victory, without the terrible casualties of another assault nor the interminable wait for surrender.

Victory. This is what the fire priests offered. She could not refuse, no matter the cost. And there would be a cost. What the priests offered was no precision strike. It would not discriminate between soldier and civilian. It would be great and terrible, a hammer blow to eradicate all resistance in one fell swoop. Indeed, what would unfold would be so terrible that other cities would likely surrender without resistance in sheer terror.

Thousands would die in the city. Yet thousands more might be spared by a quick end to this terrible war. A war that need never have begun. A war brought about by the betrayal she had endured from the man she once loved. Every single casualty of this war lay at the feet of that King, his throne drenched in the blood of countless innocents. Whatever Mariel had once felt for the man was long gone, as was the man she had loved. The King who now inhabited his body deserved only her hatred and desire for revenge.

And yet, somewhere deep in her heart, Mariel still held some measure of love for him. She still recalled their fleeting encounters in forests and fields, away from prying eyes. She had born his sons, two boys possessed of the golden hair of their mother and the azure eyes of their father. Two sons who now lay cold and dead in the earth. Their love had promised everything. Yet duty, power, and war had taken all and yet more still.

There would be a price, too, beyond the lives extinguished that day. Nothing in this world came absent cost, especially power. Mariel knew enough of the fire priests, a mysterious and enigmatic sect, to understand that every conjuring would burn something into the flesh of the conjurer. She had, once, seen the mass of blisters and scars across the skin of an old, blind fire priest.

The Broken Canon: Testament II - by Thucydian Athlete

The fire priests would suffer for what they had promised. Yet the bargain they had struck would recompense them well enough. Once the war was over, their sect would hold influence in her kingdom unlike any other. The cost of this had yet to be tallied.

Yet, Mariel knew, this would be but part of the bargain. There would be a price for her to pay, personally, as the author of this terrible deed. She knew not what it might be, only that it would come.

Mariel closed her eyes for a long moment. Once these final words escaped her lips, there could be no going back…

Ruslan shifted his feet, legs beginning to cramp. Overhead, the sun blazed down with unseasonal heat, the burnished plates of Ruslan’s armour becoming hot to the touch. Sweat rolled down his back and from his forehead, his eyes stinging and tongue tasting salt. Clad in a breastplate, greaves, and pauldron of iron, a conical helmet upon his head, thick wooden shield strapped to his arm and longsword scabbarded at his waist, Ruslan presented a formidable sight.

In truth, the armour was too big for him. It had belonged to his father, an extraordinarily tall man. The shield was older than Ruslan himself, his sword the family heirloom. Ruslan recalled the day his father, stricken with cancer, had passed the blade on to him. He might have expected some profound words to capture the moment, but such had never been his father’s way. The man died with the silence that had been his hallmark amongst the living.

To either side, ahead and behind him, stood the massed ranks of the army. From knights clad in the finest armour to men at arms in dirt-streaked woollen tunics, carrying long halberds and an assortment of close combat weapons, the army waited with bated breath. Whilst common soldiers would be provided with weapons and uniform, knights were expected to pay for their own wargear. The spoils of a sacked city would go some way to easing such expense. Perhaps Ruslan might even be able to buy a suit of armour tailored to fit his frame. Though of noble birth, his family had never been exceptionally wealthy or important. War was an opportunity to improve such fortunes.

Ruslan was three ranks back. Close enough for a good view of proceedings. Not so close that the first volley of arrows and stones from the defenders was likely to be his final sight on earth.

A sudden fanfare almost made Ruslan jump. Trumpets blazed, signalling the arrival of the Queen. Like the rest of the army, Ruslan adored Queen Mariel. Though an unforeseen tragedy had forced a young woman onto a throne for which she had never been destined, Mariel had proven herself a wise and temperate ruler beyond her tender years. Saving the kingdom from internecine fracturing, Mariel had shown both strength and mercy in uniting the noble houses.

Then, the war began. The Northern Kingdom had violated treaties and trespassed into their land. The Western Kingdom had been right to declare war. That some whispered that the real origin of the conflict was the animosity between the two rulers, with the apparent cause invented in justification, did not trouble Ruslan. His Queen had declared war. Ruslan was a faithful servant and would march unto victory or death.

Ruslan glanced over his shoulder, catching sight of the queen. Resplendent in her ornate armour, gleaming white and burnished with gold, Mariel was the image of the warrior-queen. Her Oath Guard, sworn protectors of the crown, flanked to either side, fearsome in aspect. Behind Mariel, the seven fire priests stood abreast. Their heads were bowed, hands clasped inside the wide sleeves of their habit. Lips moved silently, chanting in unison. Ruslan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Stern of visage, Queen Mariel gave a silent signal to the priests. No rousing speech would be made this time. What had to be done would be done without fanfare. There would be little heroism, only necessity.

Ruslan felt the air around him grow hotter still, filled with some static charge. Sweat poured freely and a slight burning sensation began to build in the corners of his eyes. Whatever magick the fire priests were conjuring, Ruslan could sense the immense power building around him. The priests were chanting loudly now, in unison, alien and foreign words reaching his ears.

What came next proceeded in a blur of hazy images and sensations. Afterwards, Ruslan could recall little beyond the smell of sulphur and the building of an immense heat that threatened to boil him alive in his armour. He could recall the great gouts of flame that erupted behind the city walls but not from whence they had appeared. A faint image, like that of a fading dream, sat in his mind of a dragon, that terrible winged serpent of folklore, descending from the skies and breathing fire into the city. Ruslan knew it to be the work of an overstretched imagination. Dragons were not real. Believing otherwise was heresy.

Ruslan could recall the sight of defenders, ablaze and screaming, leaping from the ramparts to their deaths below. Only days prior, he had seen brothers in arms sent tumbling from those walls during the ill-fated assault.

Ruslan recalled marching forwards with the rest of the army, ladders at the ready. He could recall scaling the walls with those ladders, ignoring his lifelong fear of heights to gain the ramparts. He recalled the sight of the charred and blackened remains of the defending soldiers, all that was left to greet them.

Ruslan, dimly, could recall some of what happened next. It was slaughter. There could be no other word for it. Finally within the city walls, facing little meaningful resistance, the men turned wild. Every living thing they could find was killed until the streets ran red. Men, women, children, soldiers and civilians alike, even animals. Everything died. Everything that was not already burning was put to the torch.

Ruslan’s memories of the sack of Eritae were hazy and unfocused. Each passing day he could remember even less. A blessing, for Ruslan knew in his heart that he was no more innocent than any other.

That day, Eritae burned. That day, Eritae died.

That day, Queen Mariel became known as The Burner.

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“Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.”

Marcus Aurelias

The Roman virtue of Virtus translates as “courage” – specifically, male courage (derived from vir, meaning “man” in Latin). In a dangerous and unpredictable world, and within a martial society such as Rome, it is little surprise that this should be considered one of the chief civic virtues.

Virtus, however, does not refer only to the physical courage one might show upon the battlefield. It is the character trait that allows a man to fulfil his duties to his family, his community, and the Republic (or later, Empire). Discipline, honour, self-mastery, and the willingness to sacrifice oneself for the common good are the demands of Virtus. Through displaying these characteristics, one might acquire Gravitas.

The etymological link between Virtus and virtue should be obvious. Whilst the modern world still has some concept of virtue, it has largely lost all meaning. It is no coincidence that the word most commonly appears within the pejorative, “virtue signalling.” Such signalling involves outward displays of allegiance towards specific causes, primarily to demonstrate one’s position as being “kind” or “tolerant” or “on the right side of history”. It is a performance, not a characteristic or behaviour.

Many philosophers of ancient times were deeply concerned with the notion of “virtue”, from Aristotle to Marcus Aurelias. The modern world has all but dispensed with the idea. This is no surprise in a culture built upon the Cult of the Self, the idolisation of the “I”. One’s belonging to a particular identity group takes precedence over inner character.

Meditations CXXVIII – On Veritas - by Thucydian Athlete

Virtus asks not, “what do I want?”, but “what is my duty?”. Perhaps the last time any Western leader seriously promulgated this idea was US President John F Kennedy, who, in his inaugural address in 1961, enjoined Americans to “ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for it.” This notion of civic duty is entirely at odds to a world built on comfort, convenience, and self-indulgence.

I have written previously on the seemingly paradoxical notion that “freedom requires obedience.” In a world built to prey upon our whims and short-term desires, it becomes increasingly necessary that one develops and abides by a code of behaviour. Building this code around key virtues, including courage, allows one to understand the correct choices in a given situation in the light of larger principles.

When presented with a choice, ask not what you want to do, but what your chosen code demands of you. In this way, the modern man or woman might display Virtus within a society that increasingly seeks to hijack and exploit our basic reward systems, thus leading us ever more away from any ideal of virtue.

On the Limits of Freedom - by Thucydian Athlete

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“If he be a Man against God, then let fire come down from heaven and consume him.”

The Book of Fire 3:34

The walls were trembling, vibrating with each thunderous crash as another giant stone smashed into them. Chunks of rock and masonry clattered to the ground. Spider web cracks slowly appeared across the face of the walls. Yet the walls held.

The Broken Canon: Testament III - The False Beginning

Tall and thick, fashioned from great blocks of limestone, the walls stood in mute defiance of the host arrayed before them. Ten thousand soldiers of the Western Kingdom occupied a massive, sprawling encampment across the plains before these walls. Trebuchets, constructed from the wood of a nearby forest, launched vast chunks of the very same limestone at those walls, the sound like the hammering of some angry forge god.

Crouching against the ramparts, the defending forces patiently awaited the next assault. Outnumbered more than ten-to-one, they nevertheless continued in resolute defiance. Behind those men, thousands of civilians hid in terror, knowing full well what fate would befall them should the city fall.

Though a small and relatively unimportant city, on the edges of the Northern Kingdom, its position had become strategically vital as the Western Kingdom’s forces slowly pushed northwards. Its capture would allow their army to drive deep into the Northern Kingdom. It could not be left untouched, as any attempt to bypass the city would leave their supply lines dangerously exposed to raids. And so, ten-thousand men had gathered on this plain, led by their Queen, ready to take the city by any means necessary.

The city was known as Eritae. Its name would be burned into the annals of history.

Already, the siege had ground on for two months. The defenders stolidly refused any entreaty towards their surrender. Despite near continual bombardment, the walls continued to hold firm. Though victory was all but inevitable, it was taking too long. Every day that passed was another day for the Northerners to prepare for the battles to come. Every moment wasted meant more lives would be spent before this war could finally end.

That was why she had done it. Ruslan was sure of it. The Queen was no fool, proving herself an able commander. Nor did she throw away the lives of her men without thought. The men loved her, and the Queen cared for each of them. Leading from the front, she had won the devotion of her army through her courage and willingness to endure the same deprivations as they did.

Three weeks into the siege and the defenders showed no sign of relenting, nor the walls any sign of breaking. No breach could be made. And still, the order had been given. The final stretch of ground before the walls was a steep and broken climb, making it all but impossible to move battering rams or siege towers close. That left only ladders. Three thousand men crossed the open ground, long ladders carried between them, pelted with arrows, stones, and other projectiles from the walls. Many died before they even reached the base of the walls, yet they pushed on. Several ladders went up, the bravest men scaling them quickly to face the defenders above.

In truth, the attack was all but doomed before it had even begun. Ruslan could see that, watching from the lines that stood hoping for a miraculous breakthrough. Such a miracle would not come. How could it, when God was not there to perform the miraculous? Instead, Ruslan and the others had watched as those who managed to scale the ladders were sent toppling from the walls. The ladders themselves soon followed, sent crashing down to the ground. Ruslan could hear the jeers of the defenders whilst the ragtag survivors retreated quickly to their lines. Barely half of the three thousand returned.

Queen Mariel had been grief struck. Tears streamed from her eyes as she watched those precious few survivors return to the lines, bloodied and defeated. Without a word, she dismounted from her horse and returned to her tent. For two days, she did not emerge nor were any permitted entrance.

Shocked and dismayed, bloodied and without their beloved Queen, the army began to grumble. Discontent was picking up and the officers struggling to maintain discipline. Then, on the third day, Queen Mariel emerged once more. Ruslan had been there. He had watched her striding from her tent with renewed purpose and vigour. His eyes widened and his breath was stolen from his chest at the very physical changes in his queen.

Gone was the long, golden hair that had been symbolic of the queen’s beauty and goodness. Now, her hair was cut short to her shoulders and had lost its lustrous sheen. Streaks of silver ran through where it once had been the colour of the sun. Her perfect, angelic visage now carried the serious mien of one who has suffered and lost more than many others could bear. Her voice, when she spoke, had changed too. Once melodious and canorous, famed for singing the ancient lyrical songs of her people, Queen Mariel now spoke with the low, harsh tones of one who must command terrible acts.

Ruslan was one amongst scores of men who had watched the queen emerge from her tent. Scores quickly became hundreds, more gathering by the second. Queen Mariel stood implacably, watching her men gather to hear her words. An expression of deep sadness ghosted across her face, swiftly stilled. Silence descended, even the birds in the sky, the cattle in their pens and the horses grazing in the fields, fell quiet.

Queen Mariel’s mouth opened but no sound came forth. Those in the front ranks may have noticed that her bottom lip quivered and a tremor ran across her cheeks. Piercing green eyes softened with the threat of tears. Controlling herself, she set her expression to one of stone. When she finally spoke, her words were barely beyond a whisper yet somehow carried across the still and silent field.

“My loyal soldiers. Kinsmen, countrymen, compatriots. Since the day this crown was placed upon my head, you have followed me with loyalty and love befitting of God Himself. You have done me great honour. Your service has been exemplary. You saved our Kingdom, though it cost each of us more than might be counted. And then, you followed me into this war without question or hesitation. You truly are the greatest men of our kingdom, of any of the four kingdoms. I salute you.”

A great cheer rose up from the assembled men, quickly dying away as the queen raised her hands for silence.

“On that day, what seems a dozen lifetimes ago, I swore to you that I would never take for granted your service and your loyalty. That I would never throw away your lives in foolish action. That I would share every hardship alongside you until our kingdom was secured. My brave and loyal men, I have failed you.”

The silence that had once more befallen the field somehow deepened. More than simply an absence of noise, this silence held a momentous stillness as though every heart had ceased to beat, and every lung ceased to draw breath. A single tear rolled slowly down the queen’s cheek.

“The blood of your comrades soaks the earth and only I can be blamed for this tragedy. I commanded an assault that had little chance of victory. I did this because I believed the sacrifice would be worthwhile. I would not trade your lives for any kingdom, for such a prize would be one of ashes. My brave and loyal men, I beseech thy forgiveness for my mistake.”

The Broken Canon: Testament II

For long moments, none spoke nor even moved. Then, almost as one, hundreds shouted. With tears streaming from their eyes, the men renewed their devotion to their queen. Mariel closed her eyes as the sound washed over her. The guilt which lay like a stone upon her heart eased a fraction, though it remained so heavy she did not know how she might continue to bear it. Slowly, the noise subsided once more.

“My loyal men, once more your devotion to me fills my heart with joy and gratitude. If you will allow me, I would prove to you all, beyond any shadow of doubt, that my devotion to you is of equal and unshakeable magnitude.”

Fresh cheers and shouts of approbation issued forth.

“This city will fall. I swear it to you now. Yet it shall not fall at the cost of your lifeblood. Too many have already been lost. These past three days, I have prayed. I have prayed and asked the Lord for a miracle in this age bereft of the miraculous. I have beseeched Him and made offerings of all that I yet possess, that we may gain this victory.

“My loyal men, the Lord hath answered my prayers. He hath sent his servants unto me that I might be shown a new path. A path that will grant us victory without such a price that I cannot pay it.”

Without any apparent invitation or instruction, and seemingly from nowhere, a small group of men appeared behind the queen. Clad in simple habits of dark brown wool, faces hidden within deep hooded cowls, the men stood in silence. Ruslan counted seven of them. Deep in his gut, something twisted sharply though he could not yet understand it.

Ruslan squinted, straining his vision to see these men the better. Their habits were adorned with symbols stitched in golden thread. Beneath the long robes of their habits, he could see that they were barefoot. Their hands were clasped together inside wide sleeves. The very air around them seemed to shimmer, as though he watched them through the heat haze of a great fire.

Ruslan had seen such men before. With a lurching moment of shock, Ruslan remembered where. He understood suddenly what these men were, and with sudden clarity understood what Queen Mariel was saying. Two words escaped his lips unbidden, whispered through clenched teeth.

“Fire priests.”

The Broken Canon: Testament I The Book of Fire: I

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“Perfection is achieved, not when there is nothing more to add, but when there is nothing left to take away.”

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Humans are imperfect creatures, a fact obvious to anyone who has spent more than five minutes in the company of one (including themselves). Existing in a vast, complex, and often inscrutable world, limited by their own being and experience, humans are incapable of perfection.

Almost all religious belief systems recognised this fact, both poly- and mono-theistic. The Abrahamic faiths contrast the perfect state of God with the fallen, sinful nature of Man. Buddhism teaches that humans are driven by the imperfect impulses of ignorance, craving, and attachment. Hinduism maintains a dogma of karma and reincarnation.

The Enlightenment, and the liberal world order built upon it, necessarily rests upon the acceptance of human limitations and imperfections. The Scientific Method places doubt and scepticism at the centre for the very fact of human fallibility.

Why, then, if every religious and secular tradition teaches us that perfection is unattainable, do we seem, now more than ever, to reach for it?

Meditations CXXI - On Power II - by Thucydian Athlete

“Perfectionism” is widely understood as a character trait that can cause undue distress in our psyche. And yet, it is something that we see in our day to day lives repeatedly, whether in ourselves or others. This is something I am coming to understand in myself.

Moreso, in the social media age, we come to believe that the “perfect” life shown in our feeds is what we can – and should – attain for ourselves. When our lives inevitably fall short of this impossible and manufactured standard, we suffer.

If our forebears saw God as the expression of absolute perfection, against which they could not compare, perhaps this understanding protected them from an impulse towards perfectionism themselves.

Meditations CXX - On Hierarchy - by Thucydian Athlete

Fyodor Dosteovsky, that great literary psychologist, understood this well. The figure of Alexei Kirilov, in Demons (1871), having rejected the existence of God, sought perfect freedom for himself in place of God. Kirilov saw, in the absence of God, that the only remaining obstacle to human freedom was fear of death. Therefore, he sought to overcome this fear and, thereby, achieve true perfect autonomy by freely choosing death through suicide. By doing so, Kirilov would himself become his own “God.”

Dostoevsky’s shrewd insight, as relevant now as it was then, was that rather than setting him free, Kirilov was instead consumed by his own ideas, by the imperfect power of his own Reason. The denial of human imperfection does not produce perfect freedom – rather, it destroys the human person.

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“Truth is the foundation of all justice”

Cicero

In the ancient world, devoid of the myriad and often instantaneous forms of communication enjoyed in the modern world, it was often difficult or even impossible to verify the truth of what you were told. Whether told by a firsthand witness or passed through many tellings, information would be shaped by both the teller and the audience.

A Roman citizens’ reputation for truthfulness and honest dealings was integral to their social standing. The Roman virtue of veritas demanded a commitment to seeing reality clearly, speaking honestly, and acting in accordance with what was true.

Alongside reputation for duty, discipline and excellence- for gravitas and the dignitas this conferred – a prospective leader would require veritas to be trusted.

Meditations CXXIII - On Gravitas - by Thucydian Athlete

The ancient world was a dangerous place. Failing to act in accordance with reality could very easily lead to catastrophe. History is replete with examples, such as Croesus’ misreading of the Oracle of Delphi; Xerxes I’s hubris in attacking Greece despite advice urging caution; and the Roman Emperor Nero, who surrounded himself with sycophants and yes-men. Caesar himself famously ignored repeated warnings of his own assassination and paid with his life. Beware the Ides of March.

Meditations CXXV - On Dignitas - by Thucydian Athlete

In the modern world, a commitment to the truth is just as important in a vastly different context. The modern predicament is not one of a scarcity of information but an excess of it. Modern telecommunications, social media, and now AI mean that our info-scape has become a Gordian Knot of echo chambers, counter-factuals, misinformation, propaganda, and outright untruths. We are drowning in a sea of information, desperately reaching for the life raft of verifiable truth.

In this world, a commitment to truthfulness – to veritas – is both an individual and a civic responsibility. When you tell an untruth, even for seemingly noble or selfless reasons, you dimmish yourself as a being centred on Meaning and Truth. This includes, and is perhaps most vital, telling the truth to yourself.

Much as a Roman citizen carried a duty to be truthful and honest with his fellow citizens, so do we in the modern world. The greatest temptation in the modern hyperreal world is not so much telling outright lies, but the telling of partial truths. Whether to support a particular narrative, gain attention by “going viral”, or present a curated image to the online world, the incentives to put one’s own gain over the truth are immense.

Meditations CXXII - On Hyperreality - by Thucydian Athlete

Cultivating the discipline of truthfulness in a world increasingly built of half-truths and illusions puts one head and shoulders above the morass. It makes one a person to be trusted and valued. It means that one does not lose oneself in this algorithm-driven swamp, to which so many of our fellows have too easily submitted.

Meditations V – On the Truth - by Thucydian Athlete

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“A person who was demoralised is unable to assess true information”

Yuri Bezmenov

The United Kingdom has a long and storied history, replete with a stunning array of figures whose influence stretches through decades and centuries since their passing. Amongst this canon is reserved a unique place for one particular man – Winston Churchill. In 2002, what now seems halcyon days of relative national unity, Churchill was overwhelmingly voted “Greatest Briton of all time” by the general public. Whilst always a complex figure, Churchill was the man who led Britain through our darkest days in the fight against Nazism. He is, rightly, remembered as a national hero.

The fact that Churchill was far from perfect does nothing to detract from this status. Heroes are not perfect, something a generation raised on Marvel superheroes appear to have forgotten. The hero of the Illiad, that foundational text of Western civilisation, is far from perfect. Indeed, Odysseus’ tale directly tells us that heroism is not perfection. Little surprise, either, that the Illiad itself is undergoing a subversive retelling in what should, instead, have been a generational film to stand alongside the likes of Troy and Gladiator.

It is one thing to discuss the legacy of figures such as Churchill with depth and nuance. It is quite another to make sustained attempts to deracinate the very notion of Churchill as a national hero from the public consciousness. Soviet defector Yuri Bezmenov, in his much-cited 1984 interview, explained how “active measures” could be used for ideological subversion in Western nations. The first of four stages in this process was “demoralisation”, which aimed at reshaping public perception of reality and weakening confidence in national institutions and shared values.

The summer of 2020 witnessed a wide-scale attempt (at least partially successful) at waging a multi-front cultural revolution across the West. Quite how defacing a statue of Winston Churchill in London was supposed to tackle police violence in the USA was never fully explained precisely because the death of George Floyd was merely the initiating spark towards a much larger, planned and co-ordinated operation.

https://thucydianathlete.substack.com/p/meditations-cxix-on-loyalty?utm_source=publication-search

Churchill’s legacy is once more making headlines with the National Portrait Gallery claiming that the former Prime Minister “wilfully” inflicted mass starvation during the Bengal famine (1943). This is, quite simply, outrageous calumny. Whilst some might dismiss it as little more than “woke” academia, taken in the wider context it becomes just one in a series of active measures designed to undermine the confidence and identity of the British people. Topple a nation’s heroes – it’s greatest hero, indeed – and what is left?

Meditations CVI - On Tribes - by Thucydian Athlete

Nations are not simply collections of people living in a given location. Nations require foundational mythologies by which a people may understand themselves, their history, their values, their identity. As the tale of King Arthur sits at the core of England’s historical mythos, Winston Churchill and the fight against Nazism is at the core of Britain’s modern mythos. Victory in WWII is the anchor by which modern Britain understands its role in the world. Deracinate the UK public from this understanding, especially the young through ideological subversion disguised as education, and the fragile threads that bind national unity through the past, present, and future, begin to unravel.

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“Who controls the past controls the future. Who controls the present controls the past.”

George Orwell, 1984

“A leader is best when people barely know he exists…when his work is done, they will say: we did it ourselves.”

Laozi, founder of Taoism

What does it mean to lead? Leadership is invariably seen as a positive attribute in work, family, community, and relationships. Despite this, we rarely discuss what it actually means to be a leader in any of these fields.

Some confuse leadership with dominance. It is assumed that leadership involves telling others what to do, leveraging one’s status to get your own way, and taking credit for any successes. Some pursue leadership roles in order to attain this state of affairs. Others denigrate the very concept of leadership under the assumption that this is what it means.

You will likely have seen some version of this meme online. Standing behind your team (be it at work, your family, your partner) cracking the whip and yelling orders makes one a slave driver, not a leader. Leadership means lighting the path and leading from the front. Think of both the very worst and very best managers you have had in your career so far, and you will see the difference.

I have experienced managing a team of highly competent colleagues and from day one I let them know that I considered my role to be making it possible for them to the best job they could, fostering career development, and also protecting them from upper-management shenanigans. Though the role was, sadly, short-lived, the loyalty and respect I received from my team was a direct result of this approach.

Leadership is most often discussed in the arena of work and business. With defined hierarchies and leadership positions, businesses require people who understand leadership. What about your personal relationships, family, and community? Individual roles within such units are less clearly defined and we are increasingly told that hierarchy is oppressive and that total equality (or equity) is the goal.

In response, much of the content from the so-called “Manosphere” instructs young men to be the “provider” in any relationship, haranguing them to avoid any woman unwilling to “submit” to their leadership. This submission is often imagined as a one-way power dynamic that, harkening to the fever dreams of the most rabid Rad-Fem, equates to a form of domestic slavery.

Submission to authority because it is authority is not a sign of leadership but of tyranny. Submission to earned and competent authority is something else entirely. This is not enslavement or tyranny but the recognition of and trust in the capabilities of another, be it a partner, parent, or member of a community.

Over millennia of evolution, women have, understandably, developed nervous systems that are significantly more risk averse than those of men. A man who wishes to be a true leader in his relationship is one capable and willing to create the level of trust and safety with his partner that she is able to relax those threat detection systems and instead be authentically herself. It is certainly not about making every decision, paying for everything, and expecting a housemaid, cook, and sex-servant in return. It is holding space with quiet confidence and self-assurance so that she can trust that you are, in fact, what you say you are.

Nervous system regulation is a vital component of building a stable, trusting relationship. This is, of course, a two-way street. A woman who is able to create and maintain enough trust and safety that her partner is able to express emotions and access his softer and more vulnerable aspects will reap immeasurable reward in the relationship. It is an equal responsibility but one that looks different to each partner.

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“I would rather men ask why I have no statue than why I have one”

Cato the Younger

In the Roman Republic, reputation was everything. A Roman citizen, particularly one with political ambitions, stood on his reputation. A key element of one’s reputation came from the virtue of Dignitas, meaning one’s accumulated prestige, moral standing, and social rank. This is, of course, the etymological root of the English word, dignity.

Perhaps the most important difference between Christian Europe and our pagan forebears (particularly Greco-Roman but also Celtic and Germanic) is the universality of Christian virtues. In this worldview, all humans share in a universal dignity stemming from the divine spark within each of God’s children.

For the Romans, Dignitas was neither universal nor passive. Rather, it was earned by conduct. Courage in the face of danger, civic or military achievement and excellence, acts of public duty, and displays of discipline and character, were some of the ways in which a citizen might attain Dignitas.

A citizen’s Dignitas was the public reputation they carried with them. It was proof of character and evidence of public service. In this way, it made social trust possible as one could point to one’s record as evidence of suitability to a position of command or leadership. In a deeply militaristic culture, Dignitas served as a form of unofficial rank, signalling conduct, ability and expertise.

If Gravitas is the manner in which you carry yourself, Dignitas is what you earn by doing so. Despite its undeniable oligarchic and aristocratic elements, the Roman Republic was in a deep sense meritocratic. Whilst there were strict exclusions as to who might be eligible for positions of power and authority, it was one’s actions and achievements that made advancement possible.

There is much talk online these days about status. Ask your red-pill Manosphere Alpha-Bros about status, and they will tell you that this is the number one (and perhaps only) metric by which a man might attract women. Wealth, power, and social standing are apparently the flame to which lovely moths (aka attractive women) might be drawn. Of course, like all such online declarations, this mono-focus utterly misses the complexity of actual human beings – women included – and the multi-faceted spectrums on which attraction can form.

Seeking status as a way to garner resources (from the monetary to the sexual) is a fool’s errand and quite the opposite of what the virtue of Dignitas demands of us. Status should arise as a by-product of right action, not as the reason for engaging in action. Earning genuine status through your actions and behaviour means that others will trust and respect you.

How does one earn genuine status in the modern world? It is, after all, unlikely that any of us will achieve the rank of Consul and launch a dazzling conquest of Gaul (as much as the French may deserve it). The average man, modern or ancient, is not Caesar. Nor is he Alexander or Napoleon.

What the average modern man can be is someone who lives a life guided by virtue. This does not mean living as a saint. It means telling the truth, displaying courage and integrity, challenging injustice, seeking to teach others where one has gained knowledge and insight. Today, simply pursuing these basic virtues will put you head and shoulders above the majority. And that will garner status – Dignitas – far better than any online gimmicks.

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The Flames of Memory

Flames licked greedily at pages that quickly blackened and burned. Parchment transformed in seconds to black smoke, rising into the air and disappearing forever. The words inscribed upon each page would never be recovered. Their destruction would be as final as if they had never been written.

Isak shuddered. He was chief archiver, responsible for the maintenance of the Southern Kingdoms’ central records. Under his remit sat the great library within the citadel in Lak’shia, as well as the sealed histories that lay within the heavily guarded inner library. Isak was responsible for maintaining the kingdom’s coherent sense of its own history, on all matters from the political to the economic, from religion to war.

It was a noble mission, one that was necessary to the kingdom’s continued flourishing. A people without any conception of their own past had no future. Much as the army guarded the kingdom militarily and the Church protected the souls of its people, Isak saw his office as preserving the memory of his people. Not that this made him special in any way. He was but a humble servant of the Crown.

Isak had been a voracious reader since childhood. Born in a small farming village on the outskirts of the kingdom, he had quickly outgrown the meagre resources available for his education. Isak’s parents, desperate to secure a better life for their only child, sent him to a monastery near the capital to be taught by the monks there. At the tender age of twelve, that had been the last time Isak laid eyes upon his parents. Only six months after his departure, their village had been raided by bandits. None were left alive.

The orphaned Isak was raised in the monastery by kindly monks who treated him as their own. As his education continued, Isak proved to be bright and talented, with an unquenchable appetite for knowledge. Before long, the abbot of the monastery secured Isak an apprenticeship under the chief archiver, assisting in the copying and translation of ancient texts in the royal library.

Those days were but a distant memory now, recalled with a fondness that was tinged with sadness. Isak’s love of the written word had only grown stronger, and he had become the favoured pupil of the former chief archiver, assuming his position upon the old man’s death.

How would his mentor react if he saw him now? The burning of books was an act that Isak considered almost sacrilegious. Books preserved wisdom and knowledge for future generations. To destroy them was to rob future generations of these gifts. This was the very negation of the role Isak had been given.

Yet, what choice did he have? His command came from the archbishop, verified by the Queen herself. To refuse would be tantamount to suicide. And so, here he stood, consigning to the flames texts that had been considered sacred, their only crime to contain scriptural lines that the Crown now felt to be inconvenient.

Isak’s mind flashed back to his conversation with the monk, now two weeks past. The monk had come to Isak’s chamber without summons, at a moment when Isak desperately needed guidance. Perhaps it was a moment of divine intervention. Yet how might a God who was not there offer such favour? Whatever the provenance of the monk’s visit, be it blind chance or deus ex machina, Isak was grateful even whilst his concerns were far from soothed.

Sharing a cup of cheap wine, the monk and the archiver had sat in silence for long moments. The monk, who had lowered his cowl to reveal a face that was more youthful than Isak might have anticipated, appeared in no hurry to speak. Slowly, tentatively, Isak began to speak of his worries. He had never met this man before yet found his presence both comforting and disarming. The monk’s ice blue eyes radiated honesty and trust.

Isak had told the monk of his summons to the royal court, and the task set him by the archbishop. He had half expected the monk to become incensed at the sacrilege of changing Church dogma to suit the exigencies of political and military needs. Instead, the monk simply nodded sagely.

“Tis a story as old as the bond between Church and Crown,” he said, his voice low, “since the earliest days, Church and Crown have worked together for the sake of the Realm. Or perhaps I should say Realms, as there are indeed four kingdoms. From time to time, they must make decisions that the ordinary folk such as you and I would not wish to have forced upon us.”

“So, I should just do as commanded and trust in the higher authority?” Isak replied, part of him desperate for the apparent ease of such a conclusion.

“If you were but a slave, my son, I would assent to your conclusion. A slave has not control over their own life and doings. A slave who obeys the commands of their master does not bear the guilt if those commands are sinful. Only the master is guilty. Are you a slave, chief archiver?”

“I am not. Though today I feel as I am one. To defy this command would be to sign my own death warrant.”

“Indeed. Thou hast been commanded by the higher authorities of Church and Crown. To defy such commands is heresy and treason both.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

“Ah, my child, I cannot command you. Only your conscience might do so. You are responsible for your actions, yet you cannot openly defy this command. This is a narrow path you must tread, with darkness to each side. Yet, in the Final Judgement, only you might answer for yourself.”

A long silence settled between them. The monk’ eyes drooped closed until Isak wondered if he had fallen asleep. When he spoke again, the eyes remained closed.

“There was a King once, Jehokai was his name. A cruel tyrant was he, impious and grasping. He stole great riches from every church in his lands to fill his own coffers. Priests and monks were imprisoned, tortured and killed for speaking against him. One day, a young man came to his court. He was but a simple farmer, yet he came bearing prophecy. Jeremiah was his name, and he told those who would listen that this prophecy had come to him in his dreams, along with a command to bring it before the King.

“When King Jehokai heard of this, he was amused. Let us hear this prophecy he said, then let us flay this man who thinks himself worthy of my attention. He claims to have a prophecy from a God who is not there. He is a heretic and sinner and shall pay for his transgressions. Yet first, let us hear this prophecy.

“When Jeremiah was led before the King, he asked that a scribe write down the prophecy as he told it. King Jehokai agreed, and a scribe was brought forth. Jeremiah told his prophecy, and the scribe wrote down each word. The exact meaning of the prophecy is, sadly, lost to history. Yet what happened next is well recorded and attested in the annals of the Church.

“When Jeremiah had finished his prophecy, King Jehokai laughed in great mirth. He seized the scroll upon which the prophecy had been written and cast it into the flames of his hearth. Lo! Did he proclaim. You have not the authority of Him who hath abandoned us to deliver such prophecy. And now, it is gone once more from the world and shall never return!

“As promised, King Jehokai had Jeremiah flayed alive. Not a single sound did escape Jeremiah’s lips even as they stripped the last of his skin from him. The following morning, King Jehokai was found cold and dead. In his hands, he clasped the scroll upon which the prophecy had been written. The very same scroll he had cast to the flames.”

Isak paused as he took up yet another leather-bound tome. Inscribed with gold-edged lettering, the text would have been laboriously copied by hand, the cover painstakingly crafted by a monk whose life was devoted to such acts of worship. As a work of creation alone, it would a terrible thing to destroy. As a record of the holiest words, passed down from the Lord Himself when he still presided over Mankind, destroying them would be a terrible crime.

After telling the story of the prophet Jeremiah and King Jehokai, the monk had said little more and left soon after. Isak knew not whither he went, any more than he knew from whence the monk came. Yet his words would not leave Isak.

Flipping the holy book open, Isak’s eyes alighted on a single passage.

This was the very passage for which all the holy texts in the kingdom would be burned and rewritten. Isak read it again, and once more, committing it to memory. Holy words could be burned, yet they would remain. So long as one man could recall the words of God, He would not be completely gone. With a last, lingering look, Isak let the book fall into the flames.

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“The aim of the ancients was the sharing of social power among all the citizens of the same fatherland. This was what they called liberty. The aim of the moderns is security in private enjoyments.”

Benjamin Constant

What does it mean to be a citizen?

To the archetypal modern, it means little more than residing in a particular place. Cosmopolitan, globalist, “progressive”-ly-minded, this person is as comfortable sipping their oat milk latte in London, Paris, Tokyo, Dubai, or anywhere else that those close-minded “common folk” are less likely to be.

To these “citizens of the world”, the concept of belonging to a specific place is alien, parochial, perhaps anathema. Restrictions such as borders are oppressive structures that must be done away with in the name of a better future.

So, to such people, one might be a citizen of a nation simply because one currently resides there. Nothing else is required. If you move countries, your citizenship moves with you.

Not so, our ancient forebears.

For the Greco-Roman city states that laid the foundations of the West, citizenship was a central question. For the Greeks, from Athens to Sparta to Thebes and beyond, citizenship meant participation in the polis, the body politic.

In Rome, it meant duty to the Republic. Service for “the glory of Rome” was the highest calling.

True citizenship is active, not passive. It is not something to which one is entitled merely by dint of living in that place. Citizenship confers rights that are denied non-citizens in that place, such as voting. In return, it also confers responsibilities, including the duty to fight for the preservation of the polis in times of emergency. It is only reasonable to expect a person to voluntarily risk injury and death in war if they have a vested interest in the preservation of that people or nation.

If one might avoid catastrophe visited upon one’s nation simply by picking up and moving somewhere else, by what right might they demand the same benefits afforded to those who would risk all in its defence?

The modern world has largely forgotten the classical conception of citizenship. I vaguely remember some lessons in High School on “citizenship”, yet I recall precisely zero engagement with the very ideas that formed the backbone of our civilisation. If the rational individual is the philosophical and moral source of the West’s success, the concept of the citizen is the political source of the same.

Rather, today, we think more of our private enjoyments ahead of civic virtue, public good, and our responsibility to our fellow citizens. We outsource the duties of citizenship and then wonder why our societies seem to be falling apart. We are, I think few would dispute, ruled by our inferiors.

Little wonder, then, that swathes of our youth see no reason why they would fight, sacrifice, and possibly die for their nation.

“What has this country done for me?” they cry!

“What indeed,” I would reply, “have you done for it?”

If I were of a (more) conspiratorial mind, I might see a terrible analogy at work. The rivalry between Rome and Carthage, two of the great Mediterranean powers, which played out through the Punic Wars, was a clash of two very different civilisational models. Rome was a civic republic; its army formed of citizen soldiers who fought (at least in the earlier centuries) in defence of their own hearth and home. Duty, sacrifice, and the glory of Rome were their lodestars.

Carthage, meanwhile, was an oligarchy that used trade and mercenary armies to gather wealth and power. Its armies did not fight out of love for Carthage or any sense of duty, but simply for coin.

When our nations are simultaneously eroding any sense of civic duty amongst the native populace and also bringing in vast numbers of people from places with no love or loyalty to their new host, one must wonder if the future of our nations will look more like Carthage than Rome.

One final point – Carthage was known to engage in ritual child sacrifice. Do with that notion what you will.

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Deus Ex Machina

“Bring them out!” called the prince, clapping his hands in delight.

Isak, already forgotten, continued to inch backwards towards the same door through which he had entered. He did not wish to remain in the court a moment longer than necessary. A commotion at the far end of the vast chamber caught his attention and he paused. Five figures slowly stumbled out from the crowd.

Dirty and dishevelled, clad in torn rags that might once have been the uniforms of soldiers, the five men were chained together by the neck, thick iron bands around their throats linked by heavy rings. Their eyes remained downcast. Their skin, where it was not covered in dirt and grime, was of a darker hue than that of the assembled throng. Their hair was, to a man, dark brown and worn long. They had the look of easterners.

With a sudden understanding, Isak realised that they were prisoners of war. The Eastern and Southern Kingdoms nursed a bitter enmity that, whilst all four kingdoms were at war with one another, made this conflict all the more bitter. Two weeks prior, a small victory had been won in the borderlands by the great waters. These men had likely been taken captive.

Isak turned and hurried towards the great oak doors. Dismissed from his summons and left to his task, he was beneath the attention of those gathered. They now had something far more entertaining to occupy them. Isak had no desire to witness what was about to happen to those five captives. He had seen the mutilated remains of other war prisoners, left to rot hanging from the walls of the city. Enemies they may be, but no man deserved such a cruel death.

Reaching the doors, Isak hammered his fist against it. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with a loud creak, they began to swing open. As soon as he had room, Isak rushed through the doors and out into the welcome darkness of the corridor beyond. The doors closed slowly behind him.

Isak doubled over, hands on his knees, his breath coming in rasping gasps. A violent shudder ran through his body, leaving him feeling weak and lightheaded. Glancing up, Isak could see the guard staring impassively at him. Gathering himself, Isak hurried back towards his own chambers.

He rushed through the door of his own private chamber, many levels below that of the royal court, inside the citadel that dominated the centre of the city. Lak’shia, the capital city of the Southern Kingdom, was a sprawling mass of impoverished slums built around the vast central citadel that played home to the royalty, nobility, and other wealthy or important families. Isak, as chief archiver, occupied his own, albeit modest, dwellings within the citadel so that he could be called upon whenever required. Stepping inside, Isak poured himself a cup of wine from a clay flask atop a small wooden table. Draining it in one, Isak sighed. Before assuming his new role, he rarely drank. Now, it seemed to be the only thing that provided relief from his many burdens.

With a deep sigh, Isak seated himself on a rickety wooden chair, one of the few items of furniture in his small chamber. He closed his eyes and rested his face on his hands, elbows propped against the table. What had been asked of him – nay, demanded of him, for there could be no refusal – by the archbishop, was of grave consequence.

The concept of Khariel was a central element of church dogma, no matter to which kingdom any given church gave allegiance. The Grace of God was His greatest gift to Mankind. Created broken and sinful, far from His Divinity, humans would inevitably err from the path they had been set. Khariel gave each and every one of them His love and forgiveness, unearned and undeserved as it were.

Now, the Crown sought to appropriate the power of forgiveness to itself alone, to be dispensed after the sin had been committed and only to those it saw as deserved. Which was to say, those whose crimes the Crown wanted to forgive. Crimes committed in the name of, or at the behest of, the Crown. All others would be deemed sinners and denied forgiveness or mercy.

True, as the archbishop had said, it had been written into the Codes of Law that, in His absence, Khariel now sat in the gift of the Crown. Yet, for centuries, both Church and Crown, in all four kingdoms, had maintained that Khariel would be extended universally. It was not that criminals, heretics, and sinners would not be punished. The thief would still be hung, the heretic still burned at the stake. Yet, their soul would be forgiven their sins even when their temporal self could not be. Now, the Grace of God would become the favour of the Crown.

Pouring another cup of wine, Isak drained it in one, grimacing. The urge rising within him was to continue drinking until he might, at least for a while, blot out all thought of the task he had been set. At least drunk he would be able to find some sleep. Yet the morning would see his woes return, made all the more unbearable by the lingering effects of too much wine.

Isak stood once more, less from any decision towards action than to move himself away from the wine. His head was already hurting, and he began to rub his temples with his forefingers, eyes closed. Isak needed counsel. That much was undeniable. Whilst there was little he might do to escape the task he had been set, his conscience would need soothing in ways more permanent than what drink might offer.

How many innocents will suffer for what you must now do?

The thought leapt unbidden and unexpected, hammering in intensity. It was true. The Crown and the Church, provided with theological and scriptural backing, would move swiftly against any enemies, against any they deemed a potential threat. Denied grace, anyone even accused of heresy by those in power might be stripped of all lands, titles and belongings, their families cast into destitution or even sold into slavery. Their flesh would be stripped from them by the flames. Queen Del’ia would crush all threats to her position and to the succession of her sons.

Those evil little bastards.

This too, came unbidden and unexpected into Isak’s thoughts. A knock at his door, gentle yet insistent, made Isak start.

Who on earth might this be?

For a long moment, he did not move. Perhaps he hoped the visitor, whoever they might be, would assume Isak to be absent and move on. The knock came once more. No such luck. Slowly, Isak moved to the door. Taking hold of the doorhandle, Isak let out a long breath before pulling it open. His mouth dropped open at the figure now stood before him, unable to form words.

The man at Isak’s door was not large, standing several inches shorter than Isak himself. Nor was he impressively garbed, wrapped in a dirty robe of fraying grey wool. He did not carry himself in the manner of one accustomed to power or to deference from others. Rather, his shoulders were stooped, his back hunched, making the man appear smaller still.

Ice blue eyes looked at Isak from a face that was round and plain, bearing the countenance of one from farming stock of the plains. A small button nose sat above thin lips that opened into a wry smile, eyes dazzling with a warmth belied by their wintry colouring. The man’s face was framed by the wide hood of his robe, casting a shadow over his pale skin.

What stunned Isak was not his features nor his bearing, but what this man represented. Just now, Isak had thought to himself that he would need some spiritual guidance. And now, before him, as if summoned by that thought alone, was a monk.

The silence had now stretched for several minutes, yet the monk appeared unfazed, his smile unwavering.

“Can…can I be of service?” Isak stammered.

“Perhaps, my son,” the monk replied, his voice low and warm, “I might be of service to you. Might I enter?”

“Yes…yes, of course, apologies.”

Isak stepped aside to let the monk past. Closing the door behind him, his chamber seemed overfull with just the two of them inside. Isak did not often entertain guests. The monk looked at him once more. Isak blushed, unsure what to say yet also certain that the monk already knew what he would say if he but let the words spill from his lips. Isak’s shoulders sagged, the weight of his responsibilities pressing upon him. The monk reached out, his hand resting gently on Isak’s arm.

“Let us pray, my son.”

The monk slowly lowered himself to his knees. Isak, almost without thought, followed suit.

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“Be like the cliff against which the waves continually break; but it stands firm”

Marcus Aurelias

In Rome, particularly during the Republic (509 BC–27 BC), public and civic life was a central aspect of being a Roman citizen. Similar to the Greek polis (city-states), to which Rome was in many aspects a successor, the citizen had a duty to engage in politics as the art of collective living. Roman culture prized several personal virtues a citizen would be expected to demonstrate in this public life. This short series aims to examine a handful of the chief Roman virtues and how they might apply to our modern world.

Key to a Roman citizen’s public behaviour was the concept of gravitas. Literally translating to “weight” or “heaviness”, gravitas denoted the virtue of seriousness of purpose, self-control, steadiness under pressure, and a disciplined restraint. In a violent and turbulent world, surrounded by enemies and with a political system prone to fractious conflict, the ability to maintain composure within crisis was a necessity. Furthermore, the capacity to exercise restraint and self-discipline, rather than submitting to hedonistic indulgence, conveyed moral weight that signified that the citizen could be trusted and relied upon. A citizen’s gravitas was an internal measurement of the man’s character.

Is gravitas, then, merely to meet every life event with furrowed brow, stern gaze, and mechanical efficiency?

Social media abounds with countless trends that over-simplify and twist what might once have been virtues into something else entirely. One common trend is the “sigma-grindset-bro” content creator exhorting young men to become emotionless robots, engaged only in the “hustle.” To display gravitas is not to embody this cold and performative misinterpretation of Stoicism.

Nor is gravitas to be ever mirthless, always dour and serious in all situations. Humour, playfulness, joviality, even childishness, all have their places in our lives. Life is hard and often tragic, and humour and enjoyment are our best antidotes.

Serious situations, though, require a serious demeanour. Cultivating an aspect of seriousness of purpose, self-control, steadfastness, and discipline, is a necessary preparation for the moments of crisis that life will inevitably throw at you. These are not traits you can build only when they are necessary, the must be developed, trained, and honed, in preparation. Failing to do so can be fatal. Literally.

How is one to develop a sense of gravitas in the modern world?

The answer is rather simple, though it is not easy.

Do hard things. Often. Repeatedly.

Start small, gradually increasing exposure to distress, uncertainty, and challenge as you grow stronger and more composed.

Ice baths (throwback to my first post on this Substack, link below).

Hard workouts.

Physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual challenges and deep work.

Confronting your Shadow. Having the tough conversation you’ve been putting off.

Do hard things with a serious, committed, and self-disciplined approach, and you will develop gravitas that is neither performative nor built on shaky foundations that might collapse under stress.

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The first, original, and still, motto of this Substack is simple.

Do. Hard. Shit.

“Halt! State your business!”

Isak shuffled to a halt before the guard. Clad in ornate, burnished plate armour, clutching a long spear in his right hand, the guard had extended his left hand out, palm flat, as though his spoken command might not be enough. Well over six foot tall, the guard towered over Isak, who visibly cringed under an iron gaze that stared out from behind the slats of a grill-faced helm. Etched around the edges of the helm were flowing shapes of great reptiles and serpents. Isak followed their lines with his own gaze.

Dragons. That was what the common folk called them. Terrible, winged serpents that breathed fire and terrorised the people. At least, that was how the folk tales described them. There were no references to such creatures in any of the surviving historical texts. Isak knew that well. It was his job to know.

Even still, Isak also knew all too well that the historical texts were neither complete nor absolute. Much was lost to history. Much else of what might be read in those texts was fabrication, as much a fantasy as the folk tales that assumed these dragons to be as real as anything else.

“State your business,” the guard growled, impatiently fingering the haft of his spear.

Isak almost jumped, realising he had been staring in silence at the terrifying warrior before him. Clearing his throat with a nervous cough, Isak attempted to sound authoritative but found his voice little more than a pitiful squeak.

“I…I am summoned…summoned to the Court by order of Her Majesty.”

A long moment of silence stretched between them. Isak fought to keep himself from trembling. What would he do if the guard denied him passage? The summons had arrived but an hour before, demanding his attendance at court. It bore the seal of the queen herself. Isak had only set foot in the royal court once before and had little desire to repeat the experience, but one did not ignore such a command.

Finally, the guard gave an almost imperceptible nod and stepped aside. The great oak doors behind him, eight feet high and almost as wide, covered in intricate carvings just barely visible in the gloom, did not move. Several torches mounted on the walls either side flickered, casting long shadows. Isak shuffled nervously. The guard stood statue still, gaze fixed ahead.

Slowly, with an agonising creak, the great doors began to open. A thin shaft of light blazed through, widening as the doors opened further. The chattering of numerous overlapping voices followed. Eventually, the doors fully opened, a blinding glare bathing Isak. He blinked against the light, swallowing the lump in his throat. Isak’s knees trembled and his legs felt leaden. He willed his feet to move but they seemed rooted to the cold stone beneath him. The guards turned his head a fraction. Taking a deep breath, Isak stepped into the harsh light.

Stepping through the doors, Isak had to shut his eyes against the blinding glare. Slowly, blinking heavily, he opened his eyes once more. As they adjusted to the light, Isak began to make out his surroundings. A long stretch of floor opened before him, cold grey stone studded with intricate, colourful mosaics of blue, red and green. To either side crowded the various ranks of nobles, lords, bishops, commanders, ambassadors, courtesans, and other dignitaries who made up the royal court. Each fixed Isak with a silent gaze that made him feel utterly exposed.

At the far end of the chamber, fully fifty feet from the doors, a series of steps led up to the raised dais upon which sat the throne. Carved from a single, vast block of marble, etched with swirling patterns of dragons and serpents, the throne gleamed white, reflecting the bright sunlight that filtered in through high slat windows. Four armoured guards stood sentinel either side of the throne, silent and unmoving. A second seat, smaller and made from iron, was occupied by the languid form of a male youth. Long limbed, with piercing dark eyes and a shock of raven hair, the eldest prince of the realm slouched in boredom, an insouciant look upon his sharply angled, imperious visage.

Little of any of this detail penetrated Isak’s consciousness, so taken was he by the figure who occupied the throne. Slender, alabaster legs dangled from the throne seat, ankles adorned with glittering bands of gold. A gown of black silk clung tightly to an hourglass figure; bosom firmly bound in a strict corset inlaid with golden thread. Her long neck was bedecked in chains of gold, encrusted with gems and diamonds, each one worth more than an entire year of Isak’s earnings. A perfectly sculpted face of high cheekbones and a sharp nose led to dark eyes which regarded Isak with cool disinterest. Her pursed lips were coloured black, with kohl underlining her eyes. Raven hair spilled over her shoulders, black as ink.

Isak started as he realised he was staring gawkishly. The queen possessed a terrible beauty that was as much unnerving as it was mesmerising. Isak fought to keep his limbs from trembling as he eased himself onto his knees, forehead touching the floor in genuflection.

“Your majesty,” he breathed, “I am at your service.”

The queen regarded his prostrate form for several seconds.

“And who might you be?” she spoke at last, her voice like honey laden with deadly poison.

“I am…Isak, the chief archiver…your majesty. I received summons.”

“Ah, yes, quite,” the queen replied nonchalantly, “I had all but forgotten.”

Turning to her left, the queen addressed the crowded court.

“Where is the archbishop?”

“Here, your majesty,” a silver-haired man, bedecked in white robes, stepped out from the crowd.

“You have a task for the archivist, yes?”

“I do, your majesty. Gratitude.”

Slowly, the archbishop shuffled his way onto the dais. Isak lifted his gaze to meet him. Head of the entire church in the Southern Kingdom, the seventy-year-old archbishop wielded immense power. Isak had not spoken to the man personally before, having only recently taken on the role of chief archivist following the death of his old mentor. Despite this, Isak already had some premonition of what the archbishop would ask of him. It would not be the first such request, and Isak had assisted in the completion of previous demands.

The archbishop cleared his throat before speaking.

“Following consultation between the Church and the Crown, and rigorous study of the historical texts and holy scripts, we have determined that an amendment must be made to church dogma.”

Isak withheld the sigh that threatened to slip from him. Just as he had feared. The Church wanted to change dogma once more. And that meant expunging all records of previous dogma. The Church claimed infallibility and could not be seen to be wrong on any scriptural or theological issue.

“Upon the Creation of our World did the Lord our God speak Twelve Words of Creation. The seventh such word was Khariel, the Grace of God. To His Creations did the Lord God extend His Grace, that they may be forgiven their Sins.”

“Praise be to God,” the crowded courtroom intoned as one, startling Isak.

“Praise be. In the centuries since, the false churches have maintained that Khariel continued to flow from Him to His Creations. This is heresy. The Lord no longer sits with us, and so Khariel cannot flow from Him. In His absence, the Crown now sits as sole and final judge and arbiter of all things. The Codes of Law already state such. Continuing to disregard this truth is grotesque blasphemy and heresy. Such is the will of God, Lord of All Creation.”

“Praise be to God,” the crowd intoned once more.

“The Crown, in all the glorious wisdom of our royal majesty, Queen Deli’ah, has decreed that Khariel cannot be imparted to all in universal. Only He who hath created us can hold such power, and He is no longer amongst us. Khariel might be granted only to those who act in service of the one true Crown and the one true Church. All others are heretics and must be consigned to the flames of damnation.

“The task that now awaits you, archivist, is to expunge from all historical records any trace of this heresy. Since the beginning of the Silence, Khariel might flow only from the Crown. All sinners not granted forgiveness by the Crown are damned.”

A long silence stretched as Isak considered the ramifications of this decree.

“You understand what is asked of you?” the archbishop demanded.

“I do, lord,” Isak nodded solemnly.

“Then I suggest you hop to your task,” sneered the young price sat beside his mother’s throne, who until this point had taken little interest in the proceedings.

“Yes, your grace. At once.”

Isak bowed deeply, shuffling backwards, eyes to the ground. Resisting the urge to turn and run straight out of the court, he maintained what little grace and decorum he could manage.

“Good,” the prince exclaimed, almost to himself, “now that is out of the way, perhaps we should take some enjoyment. Mother?”

“Yes, my darling boy,” the queen replied.

“May I?”

“You may.”

The prince clapped his hands in delight.

“Bring them out!” he called.

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“The generation by models of a real without origin or reality: a hyperreal.”

Jean Baudrillard - Simulacra & Simulation (1981)

Hyperreality is when representations no longer reflect reality, they replace it. For anyone paying attention to the current state of our terminally online discourse, on everything from dating to geopolitics, you may already have a sense of how we are consistently experiencing hyperreality.

Jean Baudrillard laid out four stages through which modern societies move:

1) Representation reflects reality

2) Representation distorts reality

3) Representation masks absence of reality

4) Representation becomes its own reality

The era of centralised media gave us the first two stages. So-called “reality TV”, in particular, gave us a distorted representation of reality.

The advent of social media and AI-generated content has moved us swiftly into stages 3 and 4. Though writing before the advent of social media, AI, and the complete digitalisation of modern life, Baudrillard’s framework neatly describes our current predicament.

1) Social media reflects the reality of our offline world

2) Social media distorts reality by curating representations of our offline world

3) Social media masks the absence of reality through AI-generated content posing as real

4) Social media becomes its own reality as users begin to treat the online world as the “real” world

Algorithmic amplification of viral content proves the truth of the old adage that a lie spreads around the world whilst the truth is still getting its pants on. Content is designed for virality, existing in the moment before disappearing once more, rather than any genuine representation of reality.

The meme-ification of politics is an outgrowth of this hyperreality, with the complexities and nuances of offline reality reduced to an image and a handful of words. Memes become the ideal carrier of hyperreality, spreading faster than the most virulent contagion. Politics becomes theatre.

Conspiracy theories thrive in this environment too, with algorithms rewarding “hot takes” and controversy. Emotional intensity, outrage, and simplified narratives take precedence over factchecking, restraint and journalistic integrity.

Political extremism is driven by hyperreality, as politics becomes about aesthetic political identity rather than any commitment to truth or reality. Symbolic belonging is achieved by adhering to shared repeated narratives, with any opposing evidence dismissed or ignored.

One example of this phenomenon is the case of Kyle Rittenhouse. Ask someone from a particular political demographic about his case and many will confidently assert that Rittenhouse was a white supremacist who shot three black people at a peaceful BLM protest. This is despite widely available footage that was released shortly after the incident that shows the shootings and the run up to them. This footage shows that Rittenhouse was clearly retreating from an aggressive mob threatening violence against him, and that he was attacked by multiple assailants (at least one armed) before opening fire. This is not even the most egregious falsity around this incident. Of the three people Rittenhouse shot, none were black. All were white. And yet, fed by repeated online narratives and desperate to uphold a particular view of events, there are many online who will pointedly refuse to believe what can be conclusively and easily proven by real world evidence.

In a complex and confusing world, bombarded by competing narratives and truth claims, hyperreality allows the individual to restore coherence to their world view even if it is false. It is much easier to believe the online, curated narrative than to do the difficult work of trying to understand reality. False coherence trumps complex ambiguity.

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“If you took the most ardent revolutionary, vested him in absolute power, within a year he would be worse than the Tsar himself.”

Mikhail Bakunin, Statism and Anarchy

If power corrupts, as the adage tells us, can power ever be used to abolish power?

Anarchists of all stripes rail against all forms of hierarchical power. Whilst many others, from libertarians to classical liberals, would oppose unjust power, anarchism is predicated on the notion that no human being is fit to hold power over any other.

Revolutionary movements might be differentiated on this question. Some seek to abolish all hierarchy and systems of power in society. Others seek to seize that power for themselves, in order to remake society in their own image. This might best be illustrated in the two main competing wings to emerge from early socialist theory.

Anarcho-communism, deriving from thinkers such as Peter Kropotkin and Mikhail Bakunin, advocates a stateless society with the abolition of private property, common ownership of resources, and an emphasis on voluntary cooperation and decentralisation.

Marxism-Leninism (or Bolshevism), developed by Vladimir Lenin, was predicated upon a revolutionary vanguard that would forcibly bring about a socialist state. This state would require centralised planning and undergo an (in theory) temporary “dictatorship of the proletariat” until the state could (again, in theory) naturally wither away, ushering in “real communism.”

It is difficult not to regard the dominance of the latter theory in 20^th century socialist discourse as tragic, given the historical consequences that followed. However, to return to the question of power posed above, is it any wonder? The most salient critique of anarcho-communism is simply that eradicating the existing institutions of power – the State – does not eradicate the human desire for power nor the universal rule of nature that violence, as the ultimate instrument of power, is the final arbiter of unresolved conflict. All it might take in such a society is an armed group willing to take power by force, with those institutions (such as the military or police) capable of resisting them now abolished. History provides no shortage of examples of such groups, and there is no reason to imagine future societies will lack them.

This might be best illustrated by the eventual conflict between the Bolsheviks and the Ukrainian anarchists, such as Nestor Makhno and his Revolutionary Insurgent Army of Ukraine, during the Russian Civil War (1917-22). The very fact that these anarchists were forced to create an army simply to defend their interests is itself instructive. That they were crushed by the centralised Bolshevik state is definitive: decentralisation alone cannot defeat centralised power. A further notable example would the Spanish Civil War (1936-39), during which, once again, decentralised anarchist collectives ultimately lost to the centralised fascist forces of General Franco.

Whatever their utopian ideals (real or merely professed), Bolshevism and Anarchism fall prey to the Iron Law of Oligarchy. Any form of organisation, even the most democratic and/or decentralised, will eventually give rise to a new class of elites. Hierarchy and, therefore, power, is, as much as some would wish it otherwise, an inevitable feature of human social organisation (see link below for further exploration). Levelling existing hierarchies merely creates a vacuum to be filled by a new hierarchy. If all are made equal, some still remain “more equal than others”, as Orwell astutely understood.

The desire to flatten hierarchy is, at best, utopian naivete that, if implemented, would soon be crushed by whichever would-be new elite is sufficiently ruthless. At worst, it conceals the desire not to abolish hierarchy but to place oneself atop a new one. Not all hierarchy is oppressive domination. Indeed, some level of hierarchy is a necessary bulwark against oppressive domination by those willing to use violence to further their own ends.

Power, like nature, abhors a vacuum. When institutions are dismantled, new ones arise, often much harsher than those they have replaced. Power cannot be abolished, only limited and constrained by institutional and constitutional means. Those institutions must retain the power to resist those who would themselves use power (violence) to their own ends. The State, a construct upon which I maintain great (and healthy) suspicion, is nevertheless necessary to uphold and maintain these institutions.

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