Essential to the profitability and widespread adoption of modern technologies is the need to conceal their costs — the human labour, the unjust or exploitative working conditions, the environmental degradation and drain on natural resources, the reduction of precious goods to mere ‘raw material’. By means of such concealment, those who enjoy the conveniences these technologies afford are lulled into a state of (what Hannah Arendt called) “unthinkingness”. The benefits simply appear, and consumers are left incurious about how it could have happened so quickly, so cheaply, with so little friction.

The other thing that is crucial for the success of such technologies is the way that their speed, financial backing and sheer scale project a sense of irresistibility — what Shoshana Zuboff has termed “the cult of inevitabilism”. Put otherwise, the belief that resistance, however principled and noble, is ultimately futile. So get on board or get out of the way.

Artificial intelligence represents, in many ways, the apogee of both aspects. The assumption that AI development hovers somewhere between an “arms race” with existential stakes and the key to unlocking untold productivity and economic growth has had the effect of reducing calls for prudential care and democratic consultation to little more than inconveniences to be gotten around rather than objections to be engaged with meaningfully. At the same time, the twin mantras of “more compute” (more chips, more data centres, more electricity) and “more data sets” have been used to legitimate both the expenditure of unimaginable sums of money and the indiscriminate (and ultimately illegal) use of intellectual property for the training of AI models. You could call this theft generative AI’s original sin.

In both cases, the guiding philosophy seems to be that the purportedly beneficial ends will have justified the unprincipled means. Which is to say, the emergence of artificial general intelligence will cicatrise the moral wound inflicted by these companies’ originary theft. After all, what’s a little copyright infringement between inhabitants of an AI-ushered utopia?

And yet, beginning in 2024, despite the size, the rapaciousness and the heedlessness of these AI companies, a number of courageous pockets of profoundly human opposition have emerged. To date, perhaps the most consequential are the resistance on the part of local councils in the US and UK to the construction of data centres, and the lawsuits filed on behalf of writers, artists and some media companies against the illegal use of their copyrighted work to train generative AI models.

Met with such opposition, unsurprisingly, AI companies are looking for new terrain on which to construct their data centres, and new sources of data to be strip-mined for their models. Concerns are that the Australian federal government is attempting to position itself as an attractive destination for these companies, and Australia as the beneficiary of the investments that come with them. But at what price to Australia’s creative industries?

Last year, the Productivity Commission proposed a “text and data mining exception” to the Copyright Act, paving the way for AI models to be trained on the copyrighted work of Australian authors and artists. Concerned that this exemption may be revived as part of a proposed deal with AI companies to “attract more than $50 billion worth of datacentre investment”, authors and artists converged on Canberra last week to oppose any such dilution of legal protections to their intellectual property.

The questions raised by this opposition are difficult and extremely consequential. Is “fair compensation” for the use of these artists’ works sufficient to heal the moral wound inflicted by the original theft of their work? Is the establishment of a fund to support future artists enough to encourage and sustain such creative work, when the cultural effect of AI is to devalue both human creativity and the time and labour required to truly create? Aren’t both current and future authors and artists jeopardised by the indiscriminacy with which training models treat “data”, effectively equating the collected works of Dostoevsky with 100,000 hours of transcribed YouTube videos, and reducing them all to raw materials?

• “Search LibGen, the Pirated-Books Database That Meta Used to Train AI”, by Alex Reisner, The Atlantic (20 March 2025).
• “I don’t want a US tech bro as a patron — which is why artists must defend our copyright in the age of AI”, by Anna Funder, The Guardian (6 July 2026).

Guest: Anna Funder is Professor of Practice in Creative Writing at the University of Sydney, and the award-winning author of Stasiland, All That I Am and, most recently, Wifedom: Mrs Orwell’s Invisible Life.

In 1967, after reaching the heights of social and political influence in 1963, after being awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1964, and having been instrumental in the passage of the Civil Rights Act in 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965, Martin Luther King, Jr watched his popular support fall precipitously away. He had reached the lowest point of his life on the public stage, with fully two-thirds of Americans disapproving of him. 

King’s rousing vision of nonviolence — of racial coexistence within a community defined by mutuality, interdependence and love — seemed to be growing ever more remote following the landmark civil rights legislation. The Black Power movement was gaining influence, and in 1967 alone there had been 76 violent riots across major American cities.

Then, in April 1967, King denounced the US military involvement in Vietnam — a war that was wildly popular with the vast majority of Americans. For his supporters, it was strategically counterproductive to so connect the cause of civil rights with the goals of peace activists; while Barry Goldwater, the standard bearer of a kind of atavistic conservatism, characterised King’s words as treasonous.

King had also grown concerned that the Civil Rights and Voting Rights Acts represented, for many Americans, the end of their concern. This legislation had ushered in a kind of complacency that absolved them from any further inconvenience or moral concern.

Now that Black people had been granted equality de jure, what was needed was for them to be accorded equality de facto — especially in education, employment and housing, and not only in the South. Therefore, in the autumn of 1967 King launched what would be known as the Poor People’s Campaign, which was meant to culminate in a new march on Washington DC in the spring of 1968.

But disagreement with the ambitions and unruliness of the campaign from within, coupled with outright antipathy from the Johnson administration due to his opposition to the war in Vietnam, plunged King into a condition of deepening despair. Even as he gave himself with increasing desperation to the cause, and tried to rally support for the Poor People’s Campaign across the South, he suffered from a growing sense of futility. The constant threat of being killed did nothing to alleviate his depression. According to those closest to King, he was physically, emotionally, spiritually exhausted.

In March 1968, King received a request from Memphis, Tennessee, to offer his support for the 1,300 of the city’s sanitation workers, who had gone on strike for better pay, the ability to organise and improved working conditions after two of their number had been killed on the job. King accepted the invitation, believing that Memphis would mark the beginning of a nationwide campaign against poverty and housing discrimination.

In Memphis, he and his team met with reticence among their own number and political opposition to mass demonstrations — including a federal injunction obtained by the city prohibiting any demonstrations for ten days, after one such march had been derailed by violence. On the evening of 3 April, King was scheduled to speak at Bishop Charles Mason Temple. Because of severe storms, King believed turnout would be suppressed. He was, moreover, sick with the flu and asked Ralph Abernathy, whom he described as “the best friend that I have in the world”, to speak in his stead. But when Abernathy saw the church was filled to capacity, with more than 3,300 people packed into the building, they sent word back to King telling him the people needed to hear King speak, even if briefly.

Once King arrived, Abernathy gave an unusually long introduction — close to 30 minutes — in order to minimise the strain on King himself. King spoke without notes, and was evidently unprepared. He habitually started his speeches slowly, haltingly, in order to allow them to reach a series of rhetorical peaks. But his weariness on this occasion was evident from the beginning. At times, the speech feels improvised, vague, superficial, a little meandering; at other points, it feels as though he is playing his “greatest hits”.

But as King goes on, the speech grows in clarity and coherence. He begins with a kind of survey of human civilisation and the struggle for enlightenment and freedom — a historical arc spanning from the liberation of the slaves from Egypt to the gathering that stormy night on behalf of the sanitation workers of Memphis, all expressing the same cry: “We want to be free.” He concludes with a survey of the high points of the civil rights movement, expressing his gratitude for the gathering in Memphis to now belong to that number — and inviting those gathered to see themselves as continuing the common struggle.

Between these two surveys, he urges the audience to see their struggle on behalf of others through the lens of the “dangerous unselfishness” of the Samaritan who tended to the man beaten and bloodied on the road between Jerusalem and Jericho in Jesus’s parable.

But near the end of the speech, at one point King’s voice trails off a little. He uncharacteristically does not finish a sentence he has begun: “And they were telling me …” He breaks off to recount a threat to his life as he made his way from Atlanta to Memphis by plane earlier that same day. His voice slows down once again. He refers twice more to the “threats” he has faced: “What would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers?”

But in the final two minutes, his voice grows at once strong and carefree. He repeatedly says he “doesn’t know” what is going to happen next and “doesn’t mind” about the “difficult days ahead”. But he couples that with one of his characteristic statements of modest moral purpose (such as “I just want to be a good man” or “I just want to leave a committed life behind”, on other occasions): “Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will.”

What is remarkable is not only the absence of ego in these sentiments and the lack graspingness that accompanies the fear of death. It is King’s ability, having begun by invoking the journey out of Egypt, to conclude by pointing those gathered to the task ahead, now described as the departure from a wilderness of hatred and violence and into the “promised land” of mutuality, interdependence and love:

“I just want to do God's will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land. And so I’m happy, tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”

Guest: Stan Grant is a proud Wiradjuri man, a theologian, and the Vice Chancellor’s Chair of Australian-Indigenous Belonging at Charles Sturt University. He is the Director of Yindyamarra Nguluway and the author, most recently, of When Words Fail Us: Truth Beyond Time.

If One Nation leader Pauline Hanson managed to reignite a public debate with her assertion that Australia is “a multiracial society, but we must be monocultural” during her address last week to the National Press Club, it is only because certain anxieties over multiculturalism have long been smouldering in the social undergrowth, just waiting to be fanned into flame.

The question of immigration, handwringing over the racial constitution of the nation and the desire to maintain Australia’s essential “Britishness” go back at least as far as the 1901 Immigration Restriction Act. And these concerns continued to resurface throughout the twentieth century. As the then Minister for Immigration and future leader of the Liberal Party, Billy Snedden, said in 1969 (the year after Enoch Powell’s “Rivers of Blood” speech):

“I am quite determined we should have a monoculture, with everyone living in the same way, understanding each other, and sharing the same aspirations. We don’t want pluralism.”

It wasn’t long afterward, the White Australia Policy was dismantled and multiculturalism became official national policy, culminating in the 1989 National Agenda for a Multicultural Australia. Just seven years later, the rise of John Howard and the election of Pauline Hanson placed both multiculturalism and immigration back on the table.

Debates over the proper levels of immigration are, of course, entirely appropriate in a healthy democracy. Immigration policy is something about which citizens should be able to deliberate and disagree without fear being called xenophobic. But something potentially dangerous happens when the debate turns to multiculturalism, as longstanding government policy, itself. For then we are not discussing prudential concerns about the proper allocation of limited social and economic resources; instead, we are discussing the desirability, or not, of our fellow citizens, our neighbours, those with whom we find ourselves pursuing a common life. We are discussing who truly belongs, and who does not.

One of the dangers of the discourse about “the utterly flawed policy of multiculturalism” (as Hanson put it) is that it turns fellow citizens into abstractions, other cultures into barriers, our neighbours themselves into impediments one’s own sense of wellbeing and social comfort.

As John Dewey argued a century ago, it is not enough for our experience of democracy to be confined to elections and abstract values (call this the vertical orientation of democratic life); democratic habits must pervade everyday life and casual interactions with our fellow citizens (call this democracy’s horizontal or relational aspect). In the same way, multiculturalism cannot remain a government policy or series of eight goals; for it to become a moral reality, it must find inter-cultural expressions in civic life. It is in this way that we go from being strangers to one another, to fellow citizens.

The desire not to feel like “strangers in our own home” or to be a “monocultural” society is surely a form of the desire to eliminate strangeness from our lives, to achieve what Pierre Rosanvallon calls the radical “simplification of the social bond” through the commonalities of culture, custom and language. But what does this longing conceal, and what does it assume both about “culture” and “national identity”?

Guest: Glenda Ballantyne is a Senior Lecturer in Sociology at Swinburne University of Technology, and Coordinator of the Australian Intercultural Cities National Network.

Over the last twelve months, there have been two conspicuous trends in federal politics. One is the precipitous decline in electoral support for the Liberal Party, which began before last year’s federal election and has continued apace ever since. The other is the rise in One Nation’s electoral fortunes, which began to tick upwards in September but then took a leap in December and January.

Both trends converged, rather spectacularly, in the latest Resolve Political Monitor, conducted for the Nine newspapers. Not only had the Coalition’s primary vote drop to 20 per cent (an all-time low), but One Nation’s primary vote shot up to 29 per cent (passing Labor on 28 per cent). Moreover, Pauline Hanson emerged as preferred prime minister with a third of respondents, while Anthony Albanese was selected by 29 per cent — opposition leader Angus Taylor took only 16 per cent of nominations.

This poll comes little more than a month after One Nation won the Farrer by-election in rural New South Wales, with a commanding 40 per cent of the primary vote, thereby gaining its first lower house seat in federal parliament. And it came days before Pauline Hanson’s first address to the National Press Club in Canberra, three decades after she entered parliament.

Almost exactly forty years ago, then opposition leader John Howard famously said “the times will suit me”. The same could now be said for Pauline Hanson. For three decades she has been a fixture of federal politics. The major parties have variously denounced and attempted to accommodate her views on immigration, multiculturalism and Indigenous policy, among other things. But while the political landscape around her has changed, she has not. If anything, due to the excesses of political rhetoric and perverse incentives of a social-media saturated informational ecosystem, the electorate has grown inured to what once would have been scandalous, perhaps even disqualifying. In an age of Trump, Hanson comes across to many voters as simply “plain spoken”, as the “voice of reason”.

The question, however, is whether One Nation’s electoral support is, in fact, an affirmation of the party, its policies (such as they are) and its leader, or merely a kind of aggregated discontent with the major political parties? Is One Nation the temporary beneficiary of voter anxiety and anger — with polling and by-elections here functioning as a means of political communication — or does this point to a more profound disintegration of two-party politics? Does One Nation’s current rise reflect what Pierre Rosanvallon described as the three-fold simplification at the heart of populism’s more general appeal (the simplicity of the ‘natural’ social bond over against the difficulties of multiculturalism; the simplification of the cause of current social problems; the simplification of the political remedy, over against the complexities of deliberation) at a time of dizzying complexity?

Either way, Pauline Hanson’s ability to both appeal to and harness electoral discontent in times that are characterised by “a near-constant sense of crisis, spanning the economic, social and political”, presents a challenge to the exercise of responsible political leadership — particularly that of someone like Anthony Albanese, whose moderation and commitment to a kind of gradualist centrism rarely touches the political passions that animate our current moment.

Then again, in the UK and Europe, far-right parties have tended to poll well between elections and have even enjoyed a degree of success in European parliamentary elections and by-elections, only to see their support fall away come the general election. Is something similar happening in Australia?

Guest: Paul Strangio is Emeritus Professor of Politics at Monash University and the author, most recently, of The Alchemy of Leadership: Seven Australian Prime Ministers in a Turbulent Twenty-first Century.

One of the criticisms often directed at democratic politics is that it is irresponsibly, even dangerously, short-term in its orientation. The wellbeing of future generations, to say nothing of the sustainability of the planet, rarely matter more to lawmakers than the cost-of-living pressures experienced by their constituents or the outcome of the next election cycle. Short-termism, therefore, would seem to be baked into democracy; hence, for some, the only way to act seriously with the future in mind would be for those with power and resources to do so unilaterally.

There is no denying that democratic politics is constrained by short-term thinking. It is likewise true that our moral imaginations suffer from the incapacity to recognise the claim that future generations may properly make on our current actions — or even to recognise that such moral obligations exist in the first place.

But there is no reason to deny such obligations. As Annette Baier argues, the “only special feature in the moral tie between us and future generations lies in the inferiority of our knowledge about them, not in the inferiority of their ontological status … Neither their non-presence, nor our ignorance of who exactly they are, nor our uncertainty concerning how many of them there are, rules out the appropriateness of recognizing rights on their part.”

In line with this sentiment — though shorn of the concept of obligation that the language of “rights” assumes — a number of influential philosophers have made a case for what they’ve called “longtermism”. Its central tenets are relatively straightforward. William MacAskill lays them out in his best-selling book What We Owe the Future:

• “that, impartially considered, future people should count for no less, morally, than the present generation”;
• “that there may be a huge number of future people”;
• “that life, for them, could be extraordinarily good or inordinately bad”;
• “that we really can make a difference to the world they inhabit”.

Because this outlook is wholly utilitarian, the “huge number of future people” is doing a great deal of work in MacAskill’s formulation. In effect, longtermism takes utilitarianism’s spatial concern with achieving “the greatest good for the greatest number” and transposes it temporally, onto the vastness of time. It doesn’t simply prioritise the indefinite prolongation of the human species in the face of possible extinction threats. It also accords a certain moral priority to the “untold number of future people”. So MacAskill writes:

“Future people count, but we rarely count them. They cannot vote or lobby or run for public office, so politicians have scant incentive to think about them … They are utterly disenfranchised … I see longtermism as an extension of [social movements for civil rights and women’s suffrage]. Though we cannot give genuine political power to future people, we can at least give consideration to them. By abandoning the tyranny of the present over the future, we can act as trustees — helping to create a flourishing world for generations to come. This is of the utmost importance.”

How, then, do we go about freeing the future from the “tyranny of the present” — which here should not be limited to mere short-term thinking, but also the expressions of our more proximate, immediate obligations to human and non-human creatures? It is at this point that longtermism’s consequentialism gives way to a certain technotopian impulse. Abandoning the logic of limits, of democratic restraint and reduction, of a more pastoral and educative understanding of democratic self-governance, longtermism favours instead the unleashing our technological capacities and reach. As Émile Torres puts it:

“Longtermism tells us to maximise economic productivity, our control over nature, our presence in the Universe, the number of (simulated) people who exist in the future, the total amount of impersonal ‘value’ and so on. But to maximise, we must develop increasingly powerful — and dangerous — technologies; failing to do this would itself be an existential catastrophe.”

It is little wonder, then, that longtermism has become the “secular credo” of Silicon Valley.

The question is whether the utilitarian “moral arithmetic” of longtermism is inherent to the task of acknowledging the moral reality of future generations? Are there other ways of inhabiting a properly precautionary disposition that is not so willing to sacrifice the present on the altar of the future?

Guest: Kirsten Mann is a Postdoctoral Fellow in the School of Philosophy at Australian National University.

It could be said that human beings reveal who they most truly are as they approach the end. For the end of one’s life is not simply its terminus ad quem; it is also its telos, its goal or meaning. A life that has been lived in the thrall of egotism, whose fundamental pursuit has been the safeguarding and satisfaction of the self, will almost certainly, at the end, turn inward upon itself and find itself grasping, desperately, at something like immortality — as the indefinite prolonging of the self. It would not be surprising for such a life to be shrunken, fearful, petty, suspicious, diminished at the end, rather than open-handed, open-hearted, at peace.

Consider the example of Shakespeare’s King Lear, who craves flattery and reassuring falsehoods, who obsesses over small offenses and slights to his ego, who remains unconcerned with truthfulness and unnourished by the love of his youngest daughter.

On the other hand, a life that is lived meaningfully — which is to say, a life that serves a purpose beyond itself — is able to approach the end without fear, not only because a certain humility has become a habit of life, but because the prospect of the end brings what is most important into sharper focus. This is perhaps what Socrates had in mind when he said that “the one aim of those who practice philosophy in the proper manner is to practice for dying and death” (Phaedo, 64a).

Here we could think of Martin Luther King, Jr’s final sermon at Mason Temple in Memphis, Tennessee, on 3 April 1968, during which he reflects on threats made to his life. “Like anybody, I would like to live a long life”, he admits. “Longevity has its place.” Then he immediately says, “But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’ will … And I’m happy, tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man.” Or consider the philosopher Stanley Cavell, writing tenderly in his memoir that, “anticipating the ending of my life, I am becoming freer than ever of the desire to persuade”. Or Toni Morrison, after surveying modern literature’s fascination with evil (“Evil has vivid speech; Goodness bites its tongue”), affirms “these last forty years, I have become more and more invested in making sure acts of goodness (however casual or deliberate or misapplied or … blessed) produce language”.

Only lives spent renouncing egotism, and pursuing what matters most, could speak such words.

So occasionally over the coming months, we’re going to spend some time in the presence of those who are approaching the end, listening to what they have to say. It may not be the end of their lives, but their lives will, in each instance, be approaching a pivotal moment for which their habits of life, their daily devotion to a cause bigger than themselves, will have prepared them.

Perhaps the most historically consequential of these moments has just been observed by millions of Muslims around the world. In February 632 CE, twenty-three years after receiving his first revelation in a cave near Mecca, the Prophet Muhammad would lead tens of thousands of his followers back to the city of his birth with the intent of guiding them through the full ritual of the hajj. It was to be his final pilgrimage.

Over the course of several days, Muhammad led them in the seven processions around the Ka‘aba — the simple square structure believed to have been constructed by Adam, and then rebuilt by Ibrahim/Abraham, the first monotheist, and finally by Muhammad himself — followed by the journey back-and-forth seven times between the nearby hills of Safa and Marwa, thus re-enacting the frantic search of Hagar, wife of Ibrahim, for water for their dying child Ismail. The Prophet then led them to the plain next to the rocky hill of Arafat and addressed those gathered. His message has all the marks of finality about it. Here is part of what the Prophet said (the translation comes from Yahiya Emerick):

“O People, listen to my words, because I don’t know if I will ever be with you here again after this year. Therefore, listen to what I’m saying carefully and take these words to those who could not be here today.

O People, your lives, property, and honour are sacred for you until you appear before your Lord, just as you consider this month, this day, and this city sacred. Return the things that are entrusted to you to their rightful owners. You will meet your Lord, and He will hold you answerable for your actions.

Know that every Muslim is a brother to every other Muslim and that Muslims are one brotherhood. Nothing is allowed for a Muslim if it belongs to another unless it was given freely and willingly, so do not oppress each other.

All practices of idolatry and ignorance are now under my feet. Every right of revenge coming from unjust murder in pre-Islamic times is rescinded …

Charging interest is forbidden; therefore, all interest obligations are also cancelled. Your original money is yours to keep. Do no wrong and you will not be wronged.

O People, be aware of God concerning women. Indeed, you’ve taken them on the security of God and made them lawful to you with God’s words. Indeed, it is true you have certain rights with your women, but they also have rights over you. It is their duty to honour their intimate obligations and not to do improper actions. If they do, then you will have the right to reprimand them, though not harshly. If they respect your rights, then to them belongs the right to be fed and clothed in kindness. Treat your women well and be kind to them for they are your partners and committed helpers. It is also your right that they not make friends with anyone you don’t approve of and never be unfaithful.

Beware of Satan for the safety of your way of life. He has lost all hope in leading you astray in this land, but he will be happy if you follow him in small things. Therefore, abstain from obedience to Satan. Indeed, I’m leaving behind me two things, the Book of God and my example, and if you follow these two you will never go astray …

O People, listen to me closely. Serve God, say your five daily prayers, fast during the month of Ramadan, and give of your wealth in charity. Perform the hajj if you can afford it and obey whatever I command you, for that is the only way you will get into Paradise.

O People, indeed your Lord is One and your ancestor is one. All of you belong to the line of Adam, and Adam was created from dust. An Arab is not better than a non-Arab nor is a white better than a black or a black better than a white except in piety. The noblest among you all is the one who is the most pious.

O People, no prophet will come after me, and no new way of life will be born. Reason well and absorb the words that I am telling you. All those who listen to me shall pass on my words to others and those to others again; and may the last ones understand my words better than the first.

Be my witness, O God, that I have conveyed Your Message to Your people.”

Accounts have it that, when he finished, Muhammad prayed, “My Lord, have I delivered the message?” His followers replied, “Yes, you have.” In June of that same year, he died.

What is immediately apparent about this sermon, quite apart from the substance of its message, is the way the Prophet conveys:

• the novelty, the sheer newness, of the revelation with which he had been entrusted — such that what came before is consigned to an age of idolatry “ignorance” (Jāhiliyyah);
• the importance of these words, of this “way of life”, being taken to heart, put into practice and passed on faithfully to those not present on the plain of Arafat — such that “the last ones understand my words better than the first”;
• the absence of ego, the humility to question whether he himself had discharged his sacred vocation faithfully: “My Lord, have I delivered the message?”

Within the Islamic tradition, the example of the life and conduct of the Prophet Muhammad are morally normative, not merely descriptive. So what can we learn about what it means to “approach the end” from the example of his farewell sermon?

Guest: Mahsheed Ansari is the Higher Degrees Research Coordinator and Senior Lecturer in Islamic Studies at the Centre for Islamic Studies and Civilisation at Charles Sturt University.

For additional reading, Dr Ansari recommends:

• Martin Lings, Muhammad: His Life Based on the Earliest Sources.
• Fethullah Gülen, Prophet Muhammad: The Infinite Light.
• Yahiya Emerick, Critical Lives: Muhammad.

It’s common these days to refer to “the return of nationalism”. But that assumes that nationalism receded for a time, like the tide, and here the world is, now, getting its pants legs wet. Such an assumption misunderstands the peculiar character of nationalism. It would be better to think of it as a swell, as a political phenomenon that periodically gathers power and force, that crests and crashes, but that never entirely goes away. It’s always there, beneath us.

Nationalism belongs to the emotional valence of the collective life of a nation state. Using the analogy of Aristotle’s taxonomy of the moral emotions — with, say, cowardice on one end of a continuum, foolhardiness on the other, and courage sitting in between — we could even think of nationalism as an extreme expression of the bundle of political emotions that ordinarily manifest as civic pride or patriotism, among them: love and fear, loyalty and hatred, attachment and jealousy. But with nationalism, it is as though the emotional balance is out of whack. 

Ever since the origin of the term at the end of the eighteenth century and its subsequent emergence in the nineteenth, nationalism has typically been associated with three components:

• Membership — the recognition of an “imagined community” constituted through shared language, ethnicity, religion, geography and so on;
• Self-determination — the demand for sovereignty over a defined territory;
• “Civil religion” — the existence of self-reinforcing symbols, practices, rituals, stories which serve to reify “the nation”, turning the abstract idea of national membership into a lived experience.

While there is undeniable overlap with patriotism, nationalism adds the additional element of bellicosity. Not just national pride but superiority. Not just love of one’s own place and people (patria), but a corresponding antipathy toward other nations — including “others” within one’s own borders. Nationalism thus tends to be a Janus-faced phenomenon, with its heedless pursuit of territorial and tributary interests without and its requirement of the dominance of an ethnic and religious majority within.

We could think of nationalism as the political equivalent of what happens when proper “self love” (amor sui) turns inward on itself (incurvatus in se) and devolves into egotism.

Ever since the Second World War, nationalism has been indelibly associated with territorial ambition, categorical violence, a pseudo-religious zeal, utter partisan loyalty. As George Orwell puts it, “Nationalism is power hunger tempered by self-deception.”

And yet over the last decade, a form of brazen nationalism has been willing to speak its name, to own its ambitions and cast off the veneer of polite cosmopolitanism. It has both fed off and fuelled intense popular emotions — fear, resentment, disgust, patriotic love — and seems willing to regard one’s nation as “beyond good and evil”, as answerable to no criteria other than its own interests. The problem, of course, is that bellicose nationalism invites responses in kind.

Is nationalism a term that can be rehabilitated, or even redeemed? Orwell was convinced that “every nationalist is capable of the most flagrant dishonesty”; is nationalism compatible with the kind of constructive shame that follows from truthful encounters with one own history? Is it possible to cultivate an appropriate sense of self-love that does not devolve into group narcissism?

David Moscrop is a Canadian political columnist and commentator. He is the author of Too Dumb for Democracy? Why We Make Bad Political Decisions and How We Can Make Better Ones and the forthcoming “On Nationalism”.

There are four stories that could justifiably be described as foundational to Western culture: the temptation of Eve in the Garden of Eden; Prometheus’s gift of fire to humanity; Doctor Faustus’s pact with the devil; and Victor Frankenstein’s act of monstrous creation.

Not only are the principal names immediately evocative to anyone who hears them, but that recognisability allows for nearly endless variations on their original themes. This is, in part, what gives these stories their staying power.

But these stories could themselves be said to represent four variations on a still older theme: the longing for some forbidden knowledge, to transgress a proscribed limit — or as WH Auden would put it, the desire to “know too much”. In each instance, rightly or wrongly, the pursuit itself brings a severe punishment, even catastrophe. This is what gives each of these foundational stories an element of tragedy, of pathos. About whom could it not be said that, even though we know the danger of going too far, we want to do it anyway?

And yet it is at this point that an important difference emerges between Faustus and the other three stories. Eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, granting fire to humankind and giving life to a “creature” of one’s own making all point a certain ambition, a restlessness, an unwillingness to remain in a perceived state of underdevelopment or adolescence. The consequences of that restlessness may still be both foreseeable and severe, and so suggest a lack of wisdom or trust or prudence — but that doesn’t mean the acts themselves are either base or self-seeking.

The same cannot quite be said of Christopher Marlowe’s depiction of Doctor John Faustus at the end of the sixteenth century. It is true that, at the outset, explicit reference is made to the flight of Icarus from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, who fastened wings to his back with wax, but which melted when he ventured too close to the sun. Speaking of Faustus: “His waxen wings did mount above his reach, / And, melting, heavens conspir’d his overthrow; / For, falling to a devilish exercise, / And glutted now with learning’s golden gifts, / He surfeits upon cursed necromancy …”

But even here, the point is not that Faustus went further than he should in his chosen disciplines, but rather that he abandoned them in favour of sorcery. And what Faustus seeks from the outset is not so much forbidden knowledge as it is wealth and renown — his own version of Lucifer’s sin of “aspiring pride and insolence” — and his attraction to necromancy’s “words of art” are mere means to that end.

In other words, the reference to Icarus places the emphasis not on the ambition of Faustus’s heaven-ward reach but on the precipitous nature of his subsequent fall. Indeed, the trajectory of Marlowe’s play could be said one of perpetual descent: from the heights of academia to the utter solitude of his plunge into hell.

In Marlowe’s play, it is not Lucifer who is the tempter, but Faustus who actively seeks out the means of his own “voluptuousness” — on the belief that the cost (“his soul”) can either be indefinitely deferred or that the bill will never come due (“Come, I think hell’s a fable”, Faustus says; to which Mephistopheles replies, “Ay, think to still, till experience change thy mind”).

The lesson of the tragedy of Doctor Faustus probably remains the ridiculousness of the exchange of long-term beatitude for short-term prosperity and pleasure. The bill always comes due. But what Marlowe also reminds us is that the punishment is already present in the solipsism, the self-enclosure of the lives heedlessly devoted to pleasure. As Mephistopheles puts it, “for where we are is hell”.

Guest: Kate Flaherty is the Head of English and Senior Lecturer in English and Drama at the Australian National University.

The federal budget is, in many respects, the high point of Australia's political calendar. This federal budget is no exception. The public had been primed for weeks to expect a series of significant reforms this year. But it is striking how little there is in the budget by way of direct social benefit.

The budget is broadly redistributive — it removes certain tax concessions that disproportionately benefit the wealthy — but it does not then distribute that additional tax revenue to those struggling with cost-of-living pressures. Even the $250 permanent annual tax offset for workers is quite modest and deliberately non-inflationary.

It would seem that the object of this “rebalancing” through changes to capital gains tax, negative gearing and discretionary trusts is “intergenerational equity” itself: the budget adjusts the tax system so that it benefits property investors less than first home buyers — even if these benefits are dispersed over time and only gradually felt.

The question is, does the underlying philosophy of this federal budget provide a template for budgets-to-come?

Guest: Luara Ferracioli is Associate Professor in Political Philosophy at the University of Sydney, and Philosopher-in-Residence at the Sydney Policy Lab.

—

THE MINEFIELD - LIVE AT THE SYDNEY WRITERS’ FESTIVAL

24 May 2026

“The Return of Nationalism and the Crisis of Democracy”

With each new election, geopolitical deal and technological advancement, it seems like the ideals of democracy are slipping away. In this special live recording of ABC Radio National’s The Minefield, hosts Waleed Aly and Scott Stephens discuss the state of democracy today with Canadian podcaster and political scientist David Moscrop.

When: Sunday, 24 May 2026, 4-5pm

Where: Carriageworks, 245 Wilson Street, Eveleigh, NSW, 2015

To purchase your tickets: https://www.swf.org.au/program/festival-2026/abc-the-minefield-live

—

NEXT WEEK: Christopher Marlowe’s “Doctor Faustus”

Expressions like “deal with the devil”, “selling one’s soul” and “Faustian bargain” are woven through our language. And popular culture is filled with variations on the unsavoury theme of attaining wealth, fame and pleasure by permanently corrupting one’s soul.

In the third week of May, Waleed and Scott will be turning their attention to the source of these tropes: Christopher Marlowe’s play “Doctor Faustus”. It was first performed in 1592, just a year before Marlowe’s own untimely death.

It is neither a long nor an overly complicated play, but it is powerful and ethically rich. We will be discussing the so-called “A-Text” of Marlowe’s play, revised in 1604. We hope you’ll join us in reading the play beforehand.

One of the by-products of digital technology’s pervasiveness in our lives is its seeming irresistibility. However much we try to remain conscientious objectors, to resist its allure, its promises of convenience and casual pleasures, to keep some part of our inner lives free of its influence, we soon discover that it is of the essence of new technological forms to exceed their boundaries, to seep out into the wider culture — into our language, our rhythms and habits, our expectations, our ways of seeing and interacting with the world.

Such that, before long, we find we’ve become like the technologies we created. It’s like the Turing Test, but in reverse. And once that happens, precisely because there’s no longer any “outside”, it can become very difficult to think clearly about what is, in effect, our habitus. This is how technology ushers us into a condition of unthinkingness. Perhaps we could call it habituation.

Digital technology’s irresistibility and sheer scale can make our efforts at thinking seem tiny, irrelevant, insignificant. Perhaps the best we can do is occasionally pause, and try to make sense of underlying rules that govern online experience — perhaps we could call it “the grammar of online life”: the rules of the game, as it were, that you must obey if you want to go viral.

Over the last ten years, one of the most popular forms of online content is the reaction video — a kind of split-screen experience in which viewers watch both a piece of content (the livestream of a game, a movie trailer, a music video, another YouTube clip and so on) and another person’s reaction to that content. There is something about the desire to see the facial responses of other people, their seemingly spontaneous responses to what they see and hear, that is inseparable from the viewers’ enjoyment of the content itself. It is similar to the experience of hearing audience laughter during a sitcom, and before that “canned laughter”.

Emotion here is the currency. But the point isn’t that the emotion is felt — rather, that it is conveyed. It is communicated. It is as if the emotion is the content.

But even if we were to regard all social conventions as performances, as various ways of paying homage to the rules that govern social interactions, this commodification of emotions — which is to say, turning reactions into content — invites such a degree of performance, of exaggeration, that would be impossible to sustain the kind of un-self-consciousness that is essential to authenticity.

To put this another way: the online emotion economy encourages participants — whether on reaction videos or video podcasts — not to be themselves but to act themselves; not to listen to what’s being said, but simply to react to it. What is this doing to our capacity to cultivate moral responsiveness?

Guest: Nicholas Carah is the Director of Centre for Digital Cultures and Societies and Professor in the School of Communication and Arts at the University of Queensland.

Nicholas makes reference to Rose Horowitch’s article in The Atlantic: “The Elite College Students Who Can’t Read Books” (1 October 2024).