There are few things more peculiar to a person than their preferences; why they favour one genre of music or one style of writing over another. And in our world of endless digital reproduction, we increasingly rely on recommendation algorithms to curate or triage our encounters with culture. But algorithms tend toward massification; they rule out the possibilities of both aesthetic achievement and sheer surprise.

AI is sometimes portrayed in utopian terms as the essential technological innovation. At other times, it's described as representing an existential threat to human life, a technological creation that will inevitably lay waste to its creator. Regardless of how we view it, could the cost of AI extend far beyond economics?

It is one of the casualties of democratic politics that citizens rarely remain indifferent about the governments they elect. By investing politicians with their hopes or fears, their aspirations and anxieties, voters ensure that they will take the performance of a government personally. This is why politics cannot be emptied of emotion: electors and the elected are bound together by filaments of expectation and accountability, and the conditions of their common life depend on the maintenance of those delicate affective bonds.

But when contempt, corruption, greed, incompetence, inattentiveness, unresponsiveness, popular suspicion and outright violence are allowed to eat away at these bonds, it is the political and civil life of the nation as a whole that suffers. For in such conditions, good governance becomes impossible — either because politicians habitually treat the electorate with disdain or because voters are so aggrieved that they gravitate towards those who will give voice to their discontent.

That’s why it is imperative to do what can be done to strengthen the political, civic and moral bonds that connect citizens with one another and governors with the governed.

How might we cultivate the capacity to imagine that politics can, in fact, be a means of pursuing and achieving the good, that there are virtues inherent to the political vocation? It may well begin with the recovery of an almost pastoral vision of politics as what emerges out of a people’s concern to care for their common life.

It is just such an imagination that is richly on display in a series of murals painted by Ambrogio Lorenzetti on the walls of the Sala dei Nova (the Hall of the Nine, otherwise known as Sala della Pace, the Hall of Peace) in Siena’s Palazzo Pubblico between 1337 and 1340. Lorenzetti’s commission was at once to visualise the philosophical undergirding of the political system of Siena under the stewardship of nine self-selecting governors, and to remind those dispensing justice and those seeking it of the stakes of their deliberations.

Lorenzetti evidently drew on the political vision of the Nine — their own understanding of the virtues that are inherent to the vocation of good governance — and he/they drew liberally from the tradition of soulcraft/statecraft from the Italian renaissance, as well as from Seneca and Cicero, Augustine and Aquinas. The question is whether we, in our time, with our resources, can recover an analogously compelling vision of guarded optimism, of mutual accountability, of prudence and wisdom, such that we, too, can articulate the conditions in which politics can be a force for good.

In the world of book sales, what “romantasy” is to fiction, autobiography/memoir is to non-fiction. There is an undeniable appetite for the purportedly true stories of famous or otherwise public figures whose lives are shrouded in PR or private interests.

Moreover, autobiographies have a kind of inherent meaning or telos — disparate elements come together to form a narrative which always will have been meaningful. Part of our desire to read such memoirs is certainly prurient, a wish to know more than we are entitled; but part is also inspirational or “admirational”, nourishing the belief or hope that our lives, too, will end up having been meaningful.

And yet, there is nothing uncomplicated about the task of telling the story of our lives. There is an ethical flaw at the heart of such a task: given how given we are to self-justification and self-absolution, how ungenerous we can be in response to the actions and intentions of others, how forgiving we can be to our own inconsistencies and hypocrisies, and how blind we often are to the effects our own behaviour to other people’s lives, who’s to say we are adept at narrating our stories truthfully?

And yet our story is our own, and there is a certain humiliation, a certain violence, that accompanies an inability to tell it — for our lives to be wholly narrated by someone else, as though we were a footnote to their story.

What, then, are some of the ways that we can discover truthfulness “in the innermost parts” (as the Psalms put it)? There are other forms of life-writing that would seem to evade or at least temper the temptation to self-deception. The example of Helen Garner’s decision to publish her diaries — raw, flawed, achingly human — would stand as a morally credible counterpoint to the sheer overwhelming excess of Karl Ove Knausgaard’s My Struggle. Then there’s also the auto-fictional experiment of Rachel’s Cusk’s Outline trilogy, whereby readers come to know the central character only through her attentive conversations with others. One of the most remarkable recent examples is Helen Elliott’s memoir Eleven Letters to You, which is less an autobiography than it is an account of the friendship, truthfulness, decency of others — Elliott is simply “the hinge holding it all together”.

Could it be that we simply cannot know ourselves, the meaning of our lives, without the provocation and perspective of others, who help us come to see that the truth about ourselves is most often discernible through our actions and relationships?

It feels like, for so much of this year, in one form or another, we’ve been trying to count the costs that technological innovations are exacting on our humanity — how AI, in particular, is altering (perhaps irrevocably) our relationship to words, to writing, to beauty, to creativity, to taste, to work, to the natural world, to our interior life.

From the very beginning, our concern has been that the allure of convenience — or, better, of frictionlessness — is making us overlook or fail to reflect adequately upon what is lost when certain forms of difficulty are eliminated from our lives. After all, difficulty can be one of the ways we register the true value an activity. To lose the difficulty is to lose precisely what it is that makes the pursuit worthwhile in the first place.

A perfect example of this dilemma presents itself in Apple’s announcement that its new AirPods would include a “Live Translation” feature that would allow users who speak English, French, German, Spanish and Portuguese to understand each other (with the promise of more languages to follow). Particularly for travellers, this technology promises to break down the language barrier and alleviate the stress of not being able to understand one’s taxi driver or waiter. It purports to be the digital equivalent of Douglas Adams’s “Babel fish” from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy — your own private in-ear interpreter.

Now, there are questions about the AI technology — and the large language models that undergird it — that give plenty of reasons to doubt the adequacy or accuracy of the automated translation. As anyone who has tried Google Translate knows, the translation-by-prediction-and-equivalence that machine learning is capable of producing is most often shallow, error-ridden and has a tin-ear for idiom, allusion or humour.

But let’s leave those drawbacks to the side for now, and suppose that the technology will eventually be capable of producing fluent, largely accurate translations from one language into another. This still doesn’t overcome the importance of friction, of difficulty, the experience of being suspended between, not just languages, but also cultures and conceptual worlds, and the patterns and rhythms of expression that cannot easily be separated from the meaning of the sentences themselves. At best, automated translation can provide the illusion of, or a kind of ersatz substitute for, “understanding”.

To translate from one language into another — particularly when what is involved is poetry or literature — is not merely to find a series of relatively accurate equivalences; rather, it is to find oneself suspended between two worlds, acutely aware of precisely what is not translatable from one language into the other. And yet it is just this experience that at once exposes the limits of our own modes of expression and thinking, and opens up the possibility of creation, discovery and surprise.

If translation becomes one more of those difficult tasks we are content to sacrifice on the altar of convenience, we may find that the difficulty is not the only thing we lose.

You can read Ross Benjamin’s article “The Costs of Instant Translation” in The Atlantic, and his reflections on translating Daniel Kehlmann’s novel “The Director” on ABC Religion & Ethics.

Earlier this month, in response to a disturbing rise in youth crime in Melbourne, Victoria’s Labor government adopted a key policy that the LNP took to last year’s Queensland state election.

The LNP policy pledged (among other things): to apply adult penalties to children under 18 who committed a range of violent and non-violent offences; to impose mandatory minimum sentences for certain offences committed by children; to abandon the principle that detention should only be used as a last resort when it comes to children; to require judges to give greatest consideration to the effect an offence has on victims when sentencing children

The policy was undeniably popular with Queenslanders. In the human rights statement accompanying the Making Queensland Safer Act 2024, the newly elected government acknowledged that the amendments would “lead to sentences for children that are more punitive than necessary to achieve community safety”, and that mandatory sentencing is “in direct conflict with international law standards”. Even so, the government insisted:

“these measures and the purposes to which they are directed are clearly supported by Queenslanders and are a direct response to growing community concern and outrage over crimes perpetrated by young offenders. For this reason, the amendments include an override declaration which provides that they have effect despite being incompatible with human rights …”

Human rights concerns notwithstanding, and despite the efficacy of such punitive measures now being questioned, Victorian premier Jacinta Allan has proposed a similar suite of legal reforms — which would see: children as young as 14 being tried and sentenced in the County Court; a significant increase in the maximum jail sentences; a requirement that judges “clearly prioritise community safety in sentencing decisions”; the formation of a new Violence Reduction Unit.

Like in Queensland, these proposed youth justice reforms are aimed at addressing community concerns and acknowledging the consequences of violent crime on victims. Both goals are not only worthy, but are integral components of any well-functioning justice system. Punishment must deter wrong-doers and provide some succour to victims; it must denounce wrong-doing and protect the community — but the emotions that drive any pursuit of retributive justice (anger, fear, contempt, the desire for revenge) must be tempered by a more “forward looking” commitment to prevention and rehabilitation.

Victoria’s proposed youth justice reforms thus compels us to grapple with: the limits of punitive responses to crime; what we believe prison/detention to be for; to what extent society’s desire for punishment needs to be tempered by other responses that might decrease the likelihood of re-offence; how much discretion should be afforded to judges when sentencing; whether an emphasis on rehabilitation and early intervention can be reconciled with the anger society feels at crimes that tear at the social fabric.

You can read responses by Kate Fitz-Gibbon and Abraham Kuol to Victoria’s proposed youth justice reforms.

Ever since 2023, a class of GPL-1 based drugs — which for two decades were used to treat type 2 diabetes — have been heralded as a “revolution in weight loss” and signalling the “end of obesity”. While these drugs go by different names, they’ve become popularly grouped under the shorthand “Ozempic”.

It’s no exaggeration to say that Ozempic has become a cultural phenomenon. Millions of people in the United States, Australia, South Korea, the UK, the EU take semaglutide injections, not to treat diabetes, but in order to reduce their hunger and eliminate what is sometimes called “food noise”.

Obesity has long been moralised — associated with laziness, ill-disciplined eating, poor diet, a general lack of self-control. But expensive weight loss drugs like Ozempic have, to date, exacerbated the class dimension of obesity. This was nicely captured in a 2024 South Park episode (called “The End of Obesity”), in which Cartman is denied a prescription because the drug isn’t covered by insurance and his mother can’t afford it; as a consolation, the doctor recommends that he listens to more Lizzo. Cartman’s response: “Rich people get Ozempic, poor people get body positivity.”

This begins to point to one of the most troubling aspects of the widespread use of weight loss drugs. It does not have to do with their use per se, or their further applications (to other health conditions or to treat other forms of addiction). Even the question of prohibitive cost may soon be partially resolved with plans underway to make some GPL-1 drugs more affordable.

The more concerning issue is the cultural environment in which drugs like Wegovy or Mounjaro or Ozempic are now being taken up — cultures long preoccupied with dieting and weight loss, and which have elevated the physical aesthetic attributes of thinness, firmness, smoothness and vigour to the level of virtues, even moral demands. Conversely, obesity is stigmatised as ugliness, incontinence, laziness, a sign of servitude to cravings and bad habits.

Such that, even when the sleek physical appearance achieved by means of, say, Ozempic, and has nothing to do with self-control or superior habits, its users continue to accrue the social benefits associated with thinness.

The testimony of women and men, for instance, who have career or social opportunities open up to them after using Ozempic is, frankly, heartbreaking and often contemptible.

If we want to laud the health benefits of weight loss drugs, and explore their application to help address other forms of harmful behaviour, that’s one thing. But to use such drugs to reinforce a kind of cultural aesthetic hierarchy is both troubling and ethically problematic.

If you, or someone you know, is struggling with an eating disorder or with body image, support is available. You can call the Butterfly Foundation on 1800 33 4673.

The availability of increasingly powerful generative AI tools has radically altered the creative process. Anything that we can imagine can be turned into an image, a video, a text, a song — the process is frictionless, effortless, fast and has led to a torrent of digital effluent (what is often called “AI slop”) being pumped into our online habitus. And while the content may range from the banal to the surreal, from the nonsensical to the utterly indecent, it is at least instantly consumable.

The time and sheer human labour that it takes to create, as well as the effort that is involved in contemplating, tarrying with, learning to enjoy or even love a work of “art” are both lost in vortex of instantaneous production and effortless consumption.

But can friction really be separated from the creative process? Immanuel Kant made the productive aesthetic distinction between “the taste of sense” (that which I might find immediately, effortlessly pleasant) and “the taste of reflection” (that which may not be immediately enjoyable, and which may require effort or patience or instruction before yielding its treasures). According to Kant, what is truly “beautiful” is only available to the taste of reflection.

And yet beauty does not necessarily offer itself to us as the result of effort. Throughout the history of philosophy and in various religious traditions, there are all manner of paradoxes that attend to “the beautiful”. Beauty may be transcendental, but it is also experientially ephemeral, even delicate; it attracts us, but it is lost when we try to capture or consume it; it draws us to it, but often points beyond itself or even forbids us; the human longing for beauty may be inherent, but we frequently need the assistance of others to recognise it; beauty may be an end-in-itself, but it often emerges serendipitously — and its lasting effect may be the way it brings us closer to others.

So what is it that we stand to lose if we lose the capacity for the experience of beauty — whether through neglect, or disinterest, or haste, or due to our immersion in a digital milieu of AI slop and sensory overload?

For the last two years, there has been a steady drumbeat of protests — sometimes weekly, sometimes monthly — in the centre of major Australian cities involving hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands and, in one instance, hundreds of thousands of people. The vast majority of these protests have been pro-Palestinian and opposed to Israel’s military campaign in Gaza.

But this isn’t the only cause that has brought people out onto the city streets in their hundreds and thousands. Climate activists have disrupted traffic and targeted museums, farmers and volunteer firefighters staged a large demonstration against the Victorian government’s emergency services tax, women’s rights and trans-rights activists clashed in Melbourne, a number of huge anti-immigration rallies have been held Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane and elsewhere — and in many of these instances, the demonstrations have been a magnet to people and groups on either ideological extreme wanting to exploit the protests to further their own goals, as well as to counter-protesters wishing to offer a full-throated challenge of their own.

While these protests have only rarely turned violent, the considerable disruptions, vast logistical challenges and public safety risks they pose have meant that state governments, the police and the courts have increasingly been called upon to adjudicate whether, how and the extent to which they can be restricted. Neither the states nor the protesters themselves have gotten everything they’ve wanted — with the NSW Supreme Court finding against a law that “impermissibly burdens the implied constitutional freedom of communication on government or political matters”, and the Court of Appeals prohibiting plans for a large protest at Sydney Opera House in the interests of “public safety”.

Protests are meant to be disruptive (if they can be sequestered to some quiet corner of a city where they will bother as few people as possible, what’s the point?) and contentious (if they do not invite serious disagreement, and even confrontation, there are probably more effective means of getting the message across). Protests can also be thought of as one of the vital forms of democratic activity that take place outside of elections and without the mediation of elected representatives. They are a form of blunt, mass communication: their message is simple and confronting; and the size of gathering matters almost as much as the message (partly because of its intended audiences).

The question that is preoccupying us at the moment is: what does it mean to protect the right to protest, the freedom to express one’s dissent from the status quo, while also protecting the public against the various ways (intentionally or not) protests can turn ugly?

For the second time this year, millions of people have taken to the streets of cities and towns across the United States in response to the authoritarian tendencies and tactics of the second Trump administration.

These crowds gathered under the “No Kings” banner to register their deep disapproval of: immigration raids and deportations without due process; the deployment of National Guard troops to cities against the wishes of elected officials; the use of legal threats, intimidation and extortion against the administration’s critics and non-sympathetic institutions; the selective prosecution of Trump’s political opponents and protection of his supporters; the closure of federal departments and mass sackings of federal workers; harsh proposed budget cuts that will disproportionately affect the poorest Americans and their ability to afford health care; and overt forms of corruption undertaken to enrich the president, his family and allies.

It is undeniably heartening to see citizens join with their neighbours to express a shared commitment to certain democratic values in the face of the relentlessness and brazenness of an administration that treats those values with contempt.

And yet Trump’s second coming has brought with it something else — certainly present in the first administration, yet, like so much else, exaggerated and emboldened this time around. There is a manifest indecency, a crassness, a cruelty and delight in the humiliation of others, a contemptuousness and a preparedness to sacrifice basic forms of democratic morality on the altar of political partisanism. Leave aside the rhetoric used by senior administration officials in the aftermath of the assassination of Charlie Kirk, or the grotesque flirtations with Nazi symbols and racist tropes by GOP staffers.

In response to the “No Kings” demonstrations, President Trump posted an AI generated video of himself piloting a jet labelled “King Trump”, which he flies over protesters and dumps what appears to be excrement over them. The White House proceeded to post an AI generated image of President Trump and Vice President Vance on thrones, wearing crowns, over an image of Democratic leaders in the House and Senate wearing sombreros.

Partisan politics, it seems, becomes licence to disregard the fundamental moral constraints on conduct toward our fellow human beings, to say nothing of members of the same political community. As George Packer puts it, “Once morality is rotted out by partisan relativism, the floor gives way and the fall into nihilism is swift.”

And yet for someone like John Dewey, the cultivation of everyday democratic virtues like decency, mutual consideration, turn-taking, forbearance and gentleness in our speech — as well as, negatively, the refusal to call each other names or to form ourselves into cliques and castes — is the way “democracy becomes a moral reality”.

So while protesters gather on the streets to take a stand against such an obvious assault against the edifice of American democracy, it could well be that there is a more insidious threat working its way through the soul of the nation — as well as those of advanced democracies like Australia, France and the UK — in the form of the disregard for democratic decency itself. Dewey didn’t think a democracy could survive without this moral glue. Do we really want to find out if he was right?

Guest: George Packer is an award-winning author and a staff writer at The Atlantic. His most recent book is a political novel called The Emergency.