Articles

Every human enterprise — a family, a company, a country — runs on some shared sense of purpose. When that purpose is obvious, no one needs to talk about it. When it isn’t, people start holding meetings. Anyone who has endured a corporate “mission‑statement rollout” knows the dread of that moment: the sudden realization that the organization has forgotten what it’s for and is now trying to remember by committee. A country is, in the end, a very large group of people attempting to move in roughly the same direction. It needs a reason to do so that’s bigger than paperwork or habit. When that reason is strong, disagreements behave themselves; they stay in the background, like the hum of a refrigerator. When the reason fades, the hum becomes the whole soundtrack. The result isn’t necessarily hatred — more often it’s a kind of national restlessness, a search for meaning that leaves people unusually susceptible to cynicism, tribalism, or the comforting simplicity of blaming one another. F...

Copyright law was built for a world that no longer exists. When the first modern copyright statutes emerged in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, creative production was slow, scarce, and largely controlled by professional gatekeepers. Books required printing presses. Paintings took months to complete. Music circulated through physical scores and performances. In that environment, it made sense for originality to be judged by human experts—art historians, lawyers, and judges—who could manually compare works and decide whether one meaningfully borrowed from another. But today, this human-centered system is buckling under the weight of digital abundance. Millions of images, songs, and designs circulate daily, and the institutions meant to protect creators can no longer keep pace. The result is a copyright regime that is both overburdened and unevenly enforced. Large corporations can marshal legal teams to defend their claims; independent artists often cannot. Determining whether a ...

 Why we cling to absolutes—and how we might break free A growing number of contemporary thinkers argue that we’d all be better off if we treated our beliefs as matters of degree rather than as all‑or‑nothing certainties. Graded beliefs lead to better decisions, smoother conversations, and far less of the psychological whiplash that comes from clinging to an idea long after the evidence has shifted. Yet despite these advantages, most of us still default to absolutes. Certainty is quick, comforting, and cognitively cheap. It gives us closure. Probabilistic thinking, by contrast, asks us to hold nuance, to tolerate ambiguity, and to admit—at least to ourselves—that we might be wrong. It’s no surprise, then, that schools rarely teach this skill. Traditional education is built around right answers, clear rubrics, and standardized tests. The system rewards certainty: you either get the question correct or you don’t. There’s little room for expressing degrees of confidence or explorin...

Every new communication technology arrives with a familiar promise: more access, more participation, more democracy. The printing press promised liberation from clerical authority; radio promised a national conversation; the early internet promised a decentralized public sphere. Artificial intelligence arrives wrapped in similar rhetoric. But beneath the optimism lies a quieter shift: political speech is becoming automated, and the power to shape that automation is drifting into the hands of institutions—public and private—that are not always accountable to the people they claim to serve. AI systems—especially the large language models that now mediate how millions of people search, write, and understand the world—are no longer just tools for expression. They are emerging as producers of political discourse. They summarize legislation, explain court rulings, and generate arguments with a fluency that once required education, time, and institutional support. Courts, legislatures, and ad...