Epicureanism

The divorce of metaphysical truth and practical living For centuries, the pursuit of wisdom was considered a unified endeavor. In the ancient world, there was no meaningful distinction between how one understood the structure of the universe—metaphysics—and how one chose to conduct their life—ethics. Joe Folley points out that for the Stoics, their ethical resilience was a direct consequence of their logical and metaphysical views. They accepted the world not through a mere act of will, but because they believed the universe was inherently rational and governed by divine providence. To resist fate was not just difficult; it was irrational. In contemporary life, we have stripped these philosophies of their foundational truths. We attempt to practice Stoicism or Epicureanism as "life hacks" or productivity tools while discarding the worldviews that made them coherent. Alex O'Connor argues that this creates a state of stagnation. When we approach philosophy today, we often browse for a "vibe" that matches our pre-existing beliefs. If we find an ancient thinker who mirrors our intuition, we adopt their label. This is not growth; it is validation. Without a commitment to what is actually true about the world, ethics becomes conjectural and untethered. This fragmentation has transformed philosophy into a collection of specialized academic fields—epistemology, logic, and philosophy of language—that rarely speak to one another. While specialization allows for high-resolution analysis, it often loses the "big picture" that once guided human flourishing. The ancient Greeks didn't see these as separate silos; they were interconnected parts of a single machine designed to help a human being navigate the world. By treating philosophy as a buffet of intellectual options rather than a coherent map of reality, we lose the transformative power that once defined the discipline. Aristotle and the neglected architecture of causation One of the most significant losses in the transition from ancient to modern thought is the narrowing of our understanding of causation. Alex O'Connor highlights that Aristotle identified four distinct types of causes for any object or event: the formal, material, efficient, and final. In the modern scientific era, we have almost exclusively focused on the efficient cause—the physical trigger that makes something happen. We ask how a rocket escapes the atmosphere, and we receive an answer about thrust and velocity. However, we consistently ignore the "final cause," or the teleology—the purpose for which something is done. In a laboratory, a scientist might speak only of efficient causes, but in a pub, that same scientist will admit the rocket is flying because "we wanted to go to the moon." This human purpose is an Aristotelian final cause. By ignoring teleology in our formal systems of knowledge, we create a world that is rich in data but poor in meaning. We understand the mechanics of life with incredible precision, but we have lost the vocabulary to discuss its purpose. Joe Folley suggests that Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics remains the most practical guide for living, even 2,000 years later. This is because Aristotle was a realist who recognized that virtue alone is not sufficient for happiness; one also needs basic physical security and, crucially, friendship. Our modern culture places less emphasis on friendship than almost any other point in Western history, prioritizing romantic partners almost exclusively. Aristotle dedicated two full books of his ethics to the duties and joys of friendship, viewing a circle of virtuous friends as "halfway to the good life." In an era of increasing individualism and loneliness, these ancient, "obvious" insights are precisely what we have forgotten. The therapeutic utility of darkness and pessimism While many people turn to philosophy for consolation, they often find themselves confronted by its darkest corners. Philosophers like Arthur Schopenhauer and Emil Cioran are often dismissed as mere depressives, yet their work offers a unique form of resilience. Joe Folley argues that reading an intensely pessimistic philosopher can actually lower the stakes of life. If one expects the world to be a theater of meaningless suffering, then a minor setback is no longer a tragedy—it is the status quo. In this sense, pessimism acts as a psychological buffer. Emil Cioran, in particular, manages to blend extreme despair with a surprising light-heartedness. His work, such as On the Heights of Despair, is so melodramatic that it eventually breaks through into the comedic. There is a specific kind of relief found in laughing at the absurdity of a truly terrible day. When suffering becomes comical in its intensity, it loses its power to crush the spirit. This "gallows humor" is a legitimate philosophical stance that helps individuals navigate an indifferent universe. Alex O'Connor introduces the more analytical brand of darkness through David Benatar and his philosophy of anti-natalism. Benatar argues that it is fundamentally immoral to bring children into the world because the potential for suffering always outweighs the potential for pleasure in the moral calculus of existence. While this view is "evolutionarily cancerous" and unlikely to gain mass popularity, it challenges our fundamental optimism bias. It forces us to confront the reality that we often ignore the myriad of small, menial sufferings—from physical discomfort to the boredom of daily life—that constitute the bulk of our experience. Panpsychism and the crumbling wall of materialism As the "hard problem of consciousness" remains unsolved by traditional neuroscience, there is a growing intellectual resurgence of panpsychism—the view that consciousness is a fundamental property of the universe rather than an emergent property of complex matter. Alex O'Connor notes that the common materialistic view—that zeros and ones or neurons and synapses eventually "become" a feeling—is just as "insane" or mysterious as the idea that atoms are conscious from the start. If consciousness is fundamental, it resolves the "interaction problem" that plagues dualism. We no longer have to explain how an immaterial mind moves a physical brain; instead, the brain is simply a more complex arrangement of the conscious material that makes up everything else. The "China Brain" thought experiment illustrates the challenge to materialism: if we could make billions of people act like neurons, communicating through walkie-talkies to simulate a brain's functions, would that collective become a single conscious entity? If a materialist says no, they must explain why atoms can produce consciousness while people cannot. If they say yes, they must accept that consciousness is about arrangement and relationship, not just biological matter. This shift in perspective has profound implications for how we view our connection to the world. It echoes ancient Vedic traditions and modern psychedelic experiences that suggest the "ego" is an illusion and that we are all localized points of a single, unified consciousness. By reconsidering the "spirit of things," we move away from the sterile, mechanical view of the world that has defined the last two centuries, potentially finding a more grounded sense of belonging in the cosmos. Emotivism and the limits of moral debate The way we discuss morality is fundamentally flawed because we misunderstand what we are doing when we make moral claims. Alex O'Connor advocates for emotivism, a theory popularized by A.J. Ayer, which posits that ethical statements are not descriptions of facts, but expressions of emotion. To say "murder is wrong" is not to state a truth comparable to "the sky is blue"; it is the equivalent of saying "Murder—Boo!" with an angry emoji. This doesn't mean morality is "just vibes" or that total chaos is inevitable. There are pragmatic and evolutionary constraints on what we feel disgust toward. A tribe that says "Yay, murder!" will not survive long. However, emotivism explains why certain moral debates, such as those regarding incest, are so difficult to resolve with logic. When secular ethicists try to justify the incest taboo, they often struggle with consequentialist arguments that don't quite fit. The true reason for the taboo is the "ick" factor—a deep, evolutionary emotional revulsion known as the Westermark Effect. Recognizing that our moralities are often "vibe-coded" allows for a more honest form of discourse. Most moral disagreements are actually disagreements about facts. If two people disagree on gun control, they usually agree on the foundational value (that innocent people dying is bad) but disagree on the factual consequences of specific policies. By separating factual disputes from emotional expressions, we can navigate social conflicts with more clarity and less self-righteousness. It requires us to acknowledge that our most deeply held "truths" are often just the labels we put on our most powerful feelings. The ethical burden of the modern influencer In a digital age, philosophers have moved out of the ivory tower and onto platforms like YouTube. This transition from academic to influencer comes with a unique set of responsibilities. Joe Folley emphasizes the importance of "frontloading fallibility." Because the medium of video naturally projects authority, it is easy for viewers to mistake a 30-minute overview for the final word on a complex subject. The duty of the modern philosophical communicator is to remind the audience that they are merely providing a starting point for their own thinking. This responsibility is particularly heavy when discussing sensitive topics like nihilism or suicide. For some listeners, these are not abstract puzzles but life-and-death struggles. Alex O'Connor notes that while philosophy can be an intellectual playground for some, it is a source of vital insight for others. The influencer must balance the need for engaging content with the ethical duty not to mislead or oversimplify ideas that have real-world consequences. Ultimately, the goal of philosophy—whether ancient or modern—is to provide the tools for self-discovery. We are all humans with developing thoughts, influenced by our context and our personal histories. By engaging with these ideas earnestly, rather than ironically, we can move beyond the "stagnation" of modern thought and begin the intentional work of building a life that is both intellectually honest and practically flourishing. Growth happens one step at a time, but only if we are willing to look at the world as it truly is, rather than how we wish it to be.