Introduction

Welcome to Tim Harding’s blog of writings and talks about logic, rationality, philosophy and skepticism. There are also some reblogs of some of Tim’s favourite posts by other writers, plus some of his favourite quotations and videos This blog has a Facebook connection at The Logical Place.

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What is logic?

The word ‘logic‘ is not easy to define, because it has slightly different meanings in various applications ranging from philosophy, to mathematics to computer science. In philosophy, logic determines the principles of correct reasoning. It’s a systematic method of evaluating arguments and reasoning, aiming to distinguish good (valid and sound) reasoning from bad (invalid or unsound) reasoning.

The essential difference between informal logic and formal logic is that informal logic uses natural language, whereas formal logic (also known as symbolic logic) is more complex and uses mathematical symbols to overcome the frequent ambiguity or imprecision of natural language. Reason is the application of logic to actual premises, with a view to drawing valid or sound conclusions. Logic is the rules to be followed, independently of particular premises, or in other words using abstract premises designated by letters such as P and Q.

So what is an argument? In everyday life, we use the word ‘argument’ to mean a verbal dispute or disagreement (which is actually a clash between two or more arguments put forward by different people). This is not the way this word is usually used in philosophical logic, where arguments are those statements a person makes in the attempt to convince someone of something, or present reasons for accepting a given conclusion. In this sense, an argument consist of statements or propositions, called its premises, from which a conclusion is claimed to follow (in the case of a deductive argument) or be inferred (in the case of an inductive argument). Deductive conclusions usually begin with a word like ‘therefore’, ‘thus’, ‘so’ or ‘it follows that’.

A good argument is one that has two virtues: good form and all true premises. Arguments can be either deductiveinductive  or abductive. A deductive argument with valid form and true premises is said to be sound. An inductive argument based on strong evidence is said to be cogent. The term ‘good argument’ covers all three of these types of arguments.

Deductive arguments

A valid argument is a deductive argument where the conclusion necessarily follows from the premises, because of the logical structure of the argument. That is, if the premises are true, then the conclusion must also be true. Conversely, an invalid argument is one where the conclusion does not logically follow from the premises. However, the validity or invalidity of arguments must be clearly distinguished from the truth or falsity of its premises. It is possible for the conclusion of a valid argument to be true, even though one or more of its premises are false. For example, consider the following argument:

Premise 1: Napoleon was German
Premise 2: All Germans are Europeans
Conclusion: Therefore, Napoleon was European

The conclusion that Napoleon was European is true, even though Premise 1 is false. This argument is valid because of its logical structure, not because its premises and conclusion are all true (which they are not). Even if the premises and conclusion were all true, it wouldn’t necessarily mean that the argument was valid. If an argument has true premises and its form is valid, then its conclusion must be true.

Deductive logic is essentially about consistency. The rules of logic are not arbitrary, like the rules for a game of chess. They exist to avoid internal contradictions within an argument. For example, if we have an argument with the following premises:

Premise 1: Napoleon was either German or French
Premise 2: Napoleon was not German

The conclusion cannot logically be “Therefore, Napoleon was German” because that would directly contradict Premise 2. So the logical conclusion can only be: “Therefore, Napoleon was French”, not because we know that it happens to be true, but because it is the only possible conclusion if both the premises are true. This is admittedly a simple and self-evident example, but similar reasoning applies to more complex arguments where the rules of logic are not so self-evident. In summary, the rules of logic exist because breaking the rules would entail internal contradictions within the argument.

Inductive arguments

An inductive argument is one where the premises seek to supply strong evidence for (not absolute proof of) the truth of the conclusion. While the conclusion of a sound deductive argument is supposed to be certain, the conclusion of a cogent inductive argument is supposed to be probable, based upon the evidence given. Here’s a classic example of an inductive argument:

  1. Premise: Every time you’ve eaten peanuts, you’ve had an allergic reaction.
  2. Conclusion: You are likely allergic to peanuts.

In this example, the specific observations are instances of eating peanuts and having allergic reactions. From these observations, you generalize that you are probably allergic to peanuts. The conclusion is not certain, but if the premise is true (i.e., every time you’ve eaten peanuts, you’ve had an allergic reaction), then the conclusion is likely to be true as well.

Whilst an inductive argument based on strong evidence can be cogent, there is some dispute amongst philosophers as to the reliability of induction as a scientific method. For example, by the problem of induction, no number of confirming observations can verify a universal generalization, such as ‘All swans are white’, yet it is logically possible to falsify it by observing a single black swan.

Abductive arguments

Abduction may be described as an “inference to the best explanation”, and whilst not as reliable as deduction or induction, it can still be a useful form of reasoning. For example, a typical abductive reasoning process used by doctors in diagnosis might be: “this set of symptoms could be caused by illnesses X, Y or Z. If I ask some more questions or conduct some tests I can rule out X and Y, so it must be Z.

Incidentally, the doctor is the one who is doing the abduction here, not the patient. By accepting the doctor’s diagnosis, the patient is using inductive reasoning that the doctor has a sufficiently high probability of being right that it is rational to accept the diagnosis. This is actually an acceptable form of the Argument from Authority (only the deductive form is fallacious).

References:

Hodges, W. (1977) Logic – an introduction to elementary logic (2nd ed. 2001) Penguin, London.
Lemmon, E.J. (1987) Beginning Logic. Hackett Publishing Company, Indianapolis.

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Reasoning

Rationality may be defined as as the quality of being consistent with or using reason, which is further defined as the mental ability to draw inferences or conclusions from premises (the ‘if – then’ connection). The application of reason is known as reasoning; the main categories of which are deductive and inductive reasoning. A deductive argument with valid form and true premises is said to be sound. An inductive argument based on strong evidence is said to be cogent. It is rational to accept the conclusions of arguments that are sound or cogent, unless and until they are effectively refuted.

A fallacy is an error of reasoning resulting in a misconception or false conclusion. A fallacious argument can be deductively invalid or one that has insufficient inductive strength. A deductively invalid argument is one where the conclusion does not logically follow from the premises. That is , the conclusion can be false even if the premises are true. An example of an inductively invalid argument is a conclusion that smoking does not cause cancer based on the anecdotal evidence of only one healthy smoker.

By accident or design, fallacies may exploit emotional triggers in the listener (e.g. appeal to emotion), or take advantage of social relationships between people (e.g. argument from authority). By definition, a belief arising from a logical fallacy is contrary to reason and is therefore irrational, even though a small number of such beliefs might possibly be true by coincidence.

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A summary is not an introduction

I have occasionally been criticised for repeating information in a report summary that is already in the body of my report. Isn’t that what a summary does? The critics seem to be confused between a summary and an introduction.

You’re not wrong — and yes, this is a very common confusion.

What you’re describing is actually a category error about the purpose of a report summary.

What a summary is (properly understood)

A summary (or executive summary) is a condensed restatement of the whole report:

  • It repeats the key points from the body
  • It includes findings, conclusions, and sometimes recommendations
  • It is written so that a busy reader can read only the summary and still understand the substance

In other words:
👉 A summary must duplicate content — just at a higher level of abstraction.

If it didn’t, it wouldn’t be a summary at all.

What an introduction is

An introduction, by contrast:

  • Sets the context and purpose
  • Explains scope, background, and structure
  • Tells the reader what will be discussed, not what was found

It is forward-looking; a summary is retrospective.

Why people get this wrong

Many critics unconsciously treat the summary as:

  • A “teaser”
  • A scene-setter
  • Or a shortened introduction

That’s incorrect — but widespread, especially among people who:

  • Read reports linearly rather than strategically
  • Or don’t regularly write for decision-makers

In professional and governance contexts (which you’re very familiar with), the correct model is:

SectionFunction
SummaryWhat the report says and concludes
IntroductionWhy the report exists and how it proceeds
BodyEvidence, reasoning, detail

A useful litmus test

If a reader:

  • Reads only the summary, and
  • Can accurately state the problem, analysis, and conclusion

…then the summary is doing its job.

If they need the body to know what you concluded, the summary is inadequate.

How to respond to critics (politely but firmly)

You might say something like:

“The summary is intended to restate the key findings and conclusions for readers who may not read the full report. The introduction serves a different purpose.”

That frames it as design, not defensiveness.

Quiet subtext (between us)

Given your long-standing interest in governance, procedures, and clarity of roles, this irritation makes perfect sense. A summary that avoids repetition is a failure of function, not a stylistic virtue.

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Allocating Work versus Delegating Responsibility

A Crucial Distinction in Organisational Leadership

In everyday organisational language, the terms allocating work and delegating responsibility are often used interchangeably, causing confusion. This casual usage obscures an important difference in both authority and accountability. While allocating work may include asking staff to investigate options or make recommendations, it stops short of transferring decision-making power. Delegating responsibility, by contrast, involves entrusting staff not merely with tasks but with authority to decide and act. Understanding this distinction is essential for effective leadership, sound governance, and staff development.

Allocating Work: Direction without Authority

Allocating work occurs when a manager assigns tasks to staff while retaining ultimate control over decisions and outcomes. The staff member is responsible for carrying out specified activities—researching information, drafting reports, analysing options, or proposing recommendations—but not for deciding what will ultimately be done.

A common example is when a manager asks a staff member to “look into” an issue and recommend a course of action. The intellectual effort and preparatory work may be substantial, but the authority to choose between options remains firmly with the manager. The staff member’s role is advisory rather than executive.

This approach has several advantages. It allows leaders to draw on staff expertise while maintaining oversight, consistency, and accountability. It is particularly appropriate where decisions carry significant risk, financial exposure, legal implications, or reputational consequences. It is also suitable when staff are still developing experience or when the organisation requires tight control over outcomes.

However, allocating work without delegation can limit staff autonomy. If overused, it may lead to frustration, slow decision-making, and a sense that responsibility flows upward while initiative is constrained. The manager bears the cognitive and moral burden of decision-making, while staff may feel reduced to implementers rather than owners of outcomes.

Delegating Responsibility: Authority with Accountability

Delegating responsibility goes beyond assigning tasks; it involves transferring decision-making authority within defined boundaries. When responsibility is delegated, the staff member is empowered to decide, act, and be accountable for the outcome, subject to agreed constraints such as budget limits, policy frameworks, or reporting requirements.

True delegation requires clarity. The delegator must specify not only the objective but also the scope of authority: what decisions the staff member may make independently, what must be escalated, and what success looks like. Without this clarity, delegation risks becoming either illusory (authority retained in practice) or reckless (authority granted without adequate support or safeguards).

The benefits of delegation are substantial. It fosters initiative, accelerates decision-making, and develops leadership capacity within the organisation. Staff who are entrusted with real responsibility are more likely to feel engaged and accountable, and organisations benefit from distributing judgment rather than centralising it.

Delegation also changes the role of the manager. Instead of being the primary decision-maker, the manager becomes a designer of systems, a coach, and a reviewer of outcomes. Accountability does not disappear; rather, it shifts. The manager remains accountable for having delegated appropriately, while the staff member is accountable for the decisions made within the delegated authority.

Asking for Recommendations Is Not Delegation

A critical point of confusion arises when managers ask staff to make recommendations and believe they have thereby delegated responsibility. In fact, requesting recommendations is still a form of work allocation, not delegation. The key test is simple: who makes the final decision? Part of the problem here is that some staff, and even some managers, do not understand the difference between recommendations and decisions.

If the manager retains the right to accept, modify, or reject the recommendation, then responsibility has not been delegated, regardless of how much analysis the staff member performs. The staff member contributes judgment, but does not exercise authority. This distinction matters because conflating the two can lead to mismatched expectations—staff may feel unfairly blamed for outcomes they did not control, or managers may believe they have empowered staff when they have merely sought advice.

Choosing the Right Approach

Neither allocating work nor delegating responsibility is inherently superior; each has its place. Effective leadership lies in knowing when to use which approach. Allocation is appropriate when decisions are sensitive, high-risk, or strategically central. Delegation is appropriate when decisions are routine, bounded, or developmental, and when staff have—or are ready to acquire—the necessary competence.

Crucially, organisations function best when the distinction is made explicit. Staff should know whether they are being asked to advise or to decide. Managers should be conscious of when they are retaining authority and when they are genuinely handing it over.

Conclusion

Allocating work and delegating responsibility differ not in the amount of effort involved, but in where authority and accountability reside. Asking staff to make recommendations is a valuable managerial practice, but it is not delegation. Delegating responsibility, by contrast, involves trusting staff with decision-making power and accepting the consequences of that trust. Clarity about this distinction enhances governance, strengthens leadership, and fosters a culture in which responsibility is both understood and appropriately exercised.

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Artificial intelligence does not require consciousness

Please explain how AI can be intelligent without being conscious

Great question—and it’s one that sits right at the fault-line between philosophy of mind and computer science.

The short intuition is this: intelligence is about what a system can do; consciousness is about what it’s like to be that system. The two often travel together in humans, but they don’t logically require each other.

Let me unpack that carefully.


Intelligence ≠ consciousness

Intelligence (in the ordinary, operational sense) involves capacities such as:

  • learning from data
  • recognising patterns
  • reasoning from premises to conclusions
  • planning actions to achieve goals
  • using language appropriately

Consciousness, by contrast, involves:

  • subjective experience
  • awareness
  • a “point of view”
  • what philosophers call qualia—there being something it is like to see red, feel pain, or understand a sentence

These are conceptually distinct. One is about performance, the other about experience.


How AI can be intelligent

An AI system can display intelligence because it:

  • processes information according to rules or learned parameters
  • represents features of the world in internal states
  • updates those states based on feedback
  • selects actions or outputs that optimise some objective

Modern AI (including large language models) does this using statistical and computational methods rather than explicit rules—but the principle is the same: input → transformation → output.

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https://www.researchgate.net/publication/383044607/figure/fig1/AS%3A11431281271061394%401723488524344/Machine-Learning-Training-Process-Flowchart.png

Crucially, none of this requires:

  • awareness of the information
  • understanding in the experiential sense
  • feelings, intentions, or a self

The system can modelpredict, and respond without experiencing.


Why consciousness is not required

A helpful analogy is this:

  • calculator performs arithmetic flawlessly
  • It has no idea it is doing maths

Scale that up enormously—with learning, abstraction, and language—and you get AI: vastly more capable, but not categorically different in this respect.

From a philosophical standpoint:

  • Intelligence can be defined functionally (what role something plays)
  • Consciousness is phenomenal (how things feel from the inside)

Functional organisation alone does not logically entail phenomenal experience.


The key philosophical point

You can imagine a system that:

  • uses the concept pain correctly
  • predicts when pain will occur
  • advises others how to avoid pain

…without ever feeling pain.

This is why philosophers speak of:

  • “as-if understanding” versus genuine understanding
  • syntax without semantics (symbols manipulated without meaning being felt)

AI operates at the level of representation and inference, not lived experience.


Why humans conflate the two

We instinctively associate intelligence with consciousness because:

  • in humans and animals, they co-occur
  • language use is a strong cue for mindedness
  • we evolved to treat fluent communication as evidence of inner life

But this is a psychological inference, not a logical necessity.


A clean way to put it

AI can be intelligent because intelligence is about information processing.
AI is not conscious because consciousness is about subjective experience.
Information processing alone does not guarantee experience.

That distinction is doing all the work.

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The Crime Disparity False Dilemma


Definition

The Crime Disparity False Dilemma is the fallacy of presenting a disparity in crime or incarceration rates between groups as having only one acceptable explanation, typically framed as a forced choice between higher offending rates or systemic discrimination, while excluding the logical possibility that both factors may operate simultaneously.


Canonical form

The fallacy is usually expressed as:

“If Group A is imprisoned at a higher rate than Group B, then either Group A commits more crimes, or the police and courts are discriminatory.”

The error lies not in identifying these as possible explanations, but in treating them as mutually exclusive and jointly exhaustive.


Why this reasoning fails

The argument commits a false dilemma by ignoring a third, logically unavoidable option:

  • Differences in offence rates and
  • Differences in institutional treatment

Criminal justice systems involve multiple stages — policing, stop-and-search, charging, bail, plea bargaining, trial outcomes, sentencing — each of which may introduce discretion or bias. Treating causation as singular misrepresents the structure of the system.


Worked examples

Example 1: Public commentary

“If imprisonment rates are higher, that proves systemic racism. Any other explanation is racist.”

This argument commits the fallacy by forbidding behavioural explanations in advance, rather than testing them empirically.

Example 2: Counter-reaction

“If imprisonment rates are higher, that proves higher criminality. Claims of discrimination are excuses.”

This version commits the same fallacy in reverse, excluding institutional bias as a matter of principle.

Example 3: Policy debate

“We must choose whether to address crime or discrimination — we can’t do both.”

The choice is illusory. If both factors contribute, addressing only one guarantees partial failure.


Descriptive claims are not moral claims

A key mechanism sustaining the fallacy is the conflation of descriptive and moral claims:

  • Statistical differences in offending (if empirically established) are treated as moral accusations.
  • Claims of discrimination are treated as ideological attacks rather than testable hypotheses.

This moralisation of data transforms empirical questions into taboo topics, short-circuiting rational inquiry.


Consequences of the fallacy

When the Crime Disparity False Dilemma is accepted:

  • One side refuses to examine offence data.
  • The other refuses to examine institutional bias.
  • Evidence is filtered through ideological loyalty.
  • Policy responses become symbolic rather than effective.

In short, the fallacy guarantees explanatory impoverishment.


Correct reasoning

A logically sound approach recognises that:

  • Disparities require explanation
  • Explanations may be multi-causal
  • The task is to assess relative contribution, not to enforce a single morally acceptable narrative

Rejecting the false dilemma does not pre-judge the outcome; it merely restores logical space for evidence.


Relation to the Minority Composition Fallacy

The Crime Disparity False Dilemma often appears alongside the Minority Composition Fallacy, which assumes that because most actors behave properly, regulation or systemic critique is unnecessary.

Together, the two fallacies:

  • Obscure how small effects at multiple stages can produce large outcomes
  • Encourage simplistic reasoning about complex systems
  • Replace causal analysis with moral signalling

They are complementary errors in reasoning about social disparities.


One-sentence formulation

“Treating crime or incarceration disparities as requiring either higher offending or discrimination, while excluding the possibility of both, commits the Crime Disparity False Dilemma.”

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The preposterousness of no free will

I find the notion of no free will preposterous. Is this an unusual view? 

Not unusual at all. In fact, your reaction has an extremely long and respectable pedigree.

What is unusual is how confidently some contemporary writers talk as if “no free will” were the default, scientifically established position. Historically and philosophically, it absolutely isn’t.

The long philosophical mainstream

For most of Western philosophy, some form of free will was simply assumed—because denying it seemed to make morality, responsibility, deliberation, and even reasoning itself unintelligible.

  • Aristotle took human choice (prohairesis) to be a basic feature of rational agency. Without it, praise, blame, virtue, and vice collapse.
  • Thomas Aquinas integrated free will into a causal world without seeing contradiction: human beings act for reasons, not just as billiard balls.
  • Immanuel Kant thought free will was unavoidable: the very act of moral judgment presupposes that we could have done otherwise.
  • Even David Hume, often cited by determinists, defended a compatibilist account of freedom rather than denying it outright.

In other words, for centuries the burden of proof lay on anyone claiming humans were not free agents.

Why denial of free will feels preposterous

Many people share your reaction because the denial of free will collides with lived experience at a very deep level:

  • We deliberate.
  • We weigh reasons.
  • We resist impulses.
  • We regret and revise past choices.
  • We hold ourselves and others responsible—not as a social fiction, but as a recognition of agency.

You don’t need mystical souls or uncaused causes for this to be meaningful. You just need the idea that reasons can genuinely move agents, not merely accompany neural processes.

As you’d probably put it in Aristotelian terms: rational causation is not the same thing as mechanical causation.

Why “no free will” sounds fashionable today

What is relatively new is the confidence with which some modern thinkers dismiss free will—often for reasons that don’t quite justify the conclusion:

  • Neuroscience shows brain activity precedes conscious awareness → therefore choice is illusory.
  • Physics is deterministic (or probabilistic) → therefore agency is impossible.
  • Humans are influenced by genes and environment → therefore responsibility is a myth.

But influence is not compulsion, explanation is not elimination, and causation is not the same as fatalism. Jumping from “caused” to “not free” is a philosophical move, not a scientific discovery.

Some contemporary figures—Sam Harris is a common example—treat free will as if it must mean uncaused choice, then declare it impossible. Many philosophers think that’s a straw man.

Where philosophers actually land today

Among professional philosophers, outright denial of free will is a minority position. Compatibilism (freedom within causation) is the majority view, libertarian free will has a substantial minority, and hard determinism remains controversial.

So no—finding the denial of free will “preposterous” doesn’t make you eccentric. It puts you in the company of a very large proportion of philosophers, jurists, and ordinary reflective human beings.

If anything, what’s unusual is how casually some people are willing to saw off the branch they’re sitting on—arguing, persuading, blaming, praising—while insisting no one is really choosing anything at all.

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The Minority Composition Fallacy

Fallacy: Minority Composition Fallacy
Type: Subspecies of the Fallacy of Composition
Error: Inferring that a system poses no serious risk because most of its components behave well, while ignoring the disproportionate harm caused by a misbehaving minority.


Definition

The Minority Composition Fallacy occurs when it is argued that government regulation is unnecessary because only a small proportion of firms within an industry engage in wrongdoing. The fallacy consists in assuming that because most members of a group behave responsibly, the group as a whole is harmless or adequately self-regulating.

This is a specific instance of the broader Fallacy of Composition: the mistaken inference that what is true of most parts of a system must also be true of the system itself.

The argument typically takes the following form:

Only a small minority of companies in this industry behave badly.
Therefore, the industry does not require regulation.

The conclusion does not follow. It would be like saying that only a tiny percentage of the population commit murder, therefore we do not need to prohibit murder as a crime.


Logical form

  1. Most members of group G possess property P (they behave responsibly).
  2. A minority of members of G lack property P (they behave harmfully).
  3. Therefore, G as a whole is safe, benign, or adequately governed.
  4. Therefore, regulation of G is unnecessary.

This reasoning is invalid. It treats majority behaviour as decisive while ignoring the causal and structural significance of the minority.


Why the argument fails

The central error is a failure to account for asymmetry of harm. In real systems, damage is rarely distributed evenly. A small minority of actors can cause harm that is:

  • Disproportionate, accounting for most of the damage
  • Systemic, undermining trust or stability across the entire industry
  • Diffuse, imposed on third parties who cannot meaningfully protect themselves
  • Irreversible, as in environmental, financial, or public health contexts

Industries are not collections of equal and interchangeable actors. Power, market share, incentives, and risk are unevenly distributed. As a result, the behaviour of a minority can determine the character and consequences of the system as a whole.

The fact that most firms behave responsibly does not neutralise the harm caused by those that do not.


The overlooked symmetry

The Minority Composition Fallacy also ignores a simple but important symmetry.

If 95% of firms are already doing the right thing, then regulations requiring responsible behaviour should impose little or no burden on them. For compliant firms, regulation merely formalises existing practice. The principal impact falls on the minority whose business model depends on cutting corners, externalising costs, or exploiting regulatory gaps.

This exposes a dilemma for defenders of the argument:

  • If regulation would significantly burden the majority, then the claim that they are already behaving responsibly is false.
  • If the majority truly are compliant, then regulation should be easy for them to meet.

Either way, the appeal to a well-behaved majority does not undermine the case for regulation. It strengthens it.


Relation to the Fallacy of Composition

The classic Fallacy of Composition assumes that because each part of a system has a given property, the system itself must have that property. The Minority Composition Fallacy is a refined version of the same mistake:

Most parts of the system behave well.
Therefore, the system itself is safe.

What this ignores is that systems often fail not at their average points, but at their weakest, most reckless, or most exploitative ones. A misbehaving minority can determine outcomes for everyone else.


Why regulation often targets minorities

Regulation is frequently justified precisely because harm is concentrated among a minority. By constraining bad actors, regulation can:

  • Protect compliant firms from unfair competition
  • Prevent races to the bottom driven by perverse incentives
  • Preserve public trust in the industry as a whole

Many regulatory regimes exist not because most firms behave badly, but because a few can impose costs on everyone else.


Conclusion

The Minority Composition Fallacy mistakes majority behaviour for systemic safety. It assumes that because most members of a group act responsibly, the group as a whole poses no serious risk.

This assumption is unwarranted. Public policy is concerned not with how common harmful behaviour is, but with how damaging it is, how widely its effects spread, and how difficult those effects are to remedy.

A small misbehaving minority can justify regulation not despite its size, but because of the harm it can cause.

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The Moral Failure of Pacifism

Pacifism presents itself as the highest moral ground: a principled refusal to engage in violence, an insistence that all killing is always wrong, and a hope that moral purity can disarm brutality. In practice, however, pacifism is not merely naïve but morally evasive. It refuses responsibility for consequences, confuses intentions with outcomes, and ultimately relies on the violence of others to sustain the very peace it claims to uphold. The aim in international conflict should be to minimise harm; but pacifism often fails in this regard.

This was most forcefully argued by George Orwell, whose essay Pacifism and the War remains one of the clearest demolitions of pacifist reasoning. Writing during the Second World War, Orwell rejected the idea that pacifism was a morally neutral position. On the contrary, he argued that it had real political effects—and those effects overwhelmingly favoured the aggressor.

Orwell observed that “Pacifism is objectively pro-Fascist.” This was not rhetorical excess. His point was simple: in any conflict between a violent aggressor and a resisting victim, the refusal to resist does not produce peace; it merely removes obstacles. If Britain had adopted pacifism in 1940, Nazism would not have been morally chastened—it would have triumphed. To decline to fight is not to opt out of the conflict, but to decide who wins it. If pacifists had their way, the Nazis would have defeated the Allies.

A central flaw in pacifist thinking is the assumption that violence is always symmetrical: that all killing is morally equivalent regardless of cause or context. Orwell rejected this moral flattening. He insisted that intention, necessity, and consequence matter. A soldier fighting to stop mass murder is not morally equivalent to the murderer. To pretend otherwise is not moral clarity; it is moral laziness.

Pacifism also depends, often unacknowledged, on a background of enforced order. Orwell pointed out the hypocrisy of pacifists living safely within states defended by armies while denouncing the very institutions that protect them. “Those who ‘abjure’ violence can do so only because others are committing violence on their behalf,” he wrote. Police, soldiers, and prisons do not disappear because one refuses to acknowledge them; they merely become invisible conveniences.

There is, moreover, a psychological comfort in pacifism. It offers moral absolution without demanding difficult choices. To say “I oppose all violence” spares one from weighing tragic alternatives—such as whether allowing an aggressor to prevail will lead to greater suffering than resisting him. Orwell saw this clearly. Pacifism, he argued, often masquerades as compassion while functioning as an escape from moral seriousness.

History bears this out. Non-violent resistance can be effective against regimes that retain some moral constraint or dependence on public opinion. It fails utterly against totalitarian systems that recognise no such limits. Gandhi’s methods would not have worked against Hitler, Stalin, or Pol Pot. To recommend pacifism in such contexts is not humane—it is catastrophic.

None of this is to glorify war. Orwell himself despised militarism and nationalism. His argument was not that violence is good, but that it is sometimes necessary, and that refusing to acknowledge this does not make one virtuous. It merely hands moral agency to those least deserving of it.

Pacifism, then, is not a higher morality but an abdication of it. By focusing exclusively on personal purity, it neglects responsibility for outcomes. By condemning all violence equally, it erases the difference between oppression and resistance. And by refusing to choose, it ensures that others will choose on its behalf—usually the worst among us.

In a world where evil is not hypothetical but historical and recurring, moral seriousness requires more than clean hands. It requires the courage to accept tragic necessities and the honesty to recognise that peace, when it exists, is very often bought—not by pacifism—but by those willing to defend it.

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Sliding up to pitch

Why do some popular singers start a long note slightly under pitch and then slide up to pitch? Is this deliberate to create and release tension? 

Yes — it’s usually deliberate, and you’ve put your finger on the psychology of it very nicely. Starting a note slightly under pitch and sliding up is one of those techniques that lives right at the intersection of physics, physiology, and emotional rhetoric.

Here’s what’s going on.


1. It does create and release tension 🎵

When a singer begins just under the target pitch, the listener’s ear immediately senses incompleteness. Western listeners are extremely sensitive to pitch targets — we expect the note to “lock in.”

That tiny undershoot creates:

  • Expectation
  • Micro-tension
  • A sense of yearning or reach

When the singer then slides into pitch, the ear experiences resolution, much like a dissonance resolving to consonance in harmony.

So yes: it’s a controlled tension → release gesture, even when listeners aren’t consciously aware of it.


2. It mimics expressive speech (and crying)

Human speech almost never hits pitch dead-on like a tuning fork. Emotional speech often:

  • slides up into stressed syllables
  • scoops into important words
  • wavers around pitch targets

This is especially true of lament, pleading, seduction, or intimacy.

Singers who use this technique are leaning into something very primal:

“This doesn’t sound mechanical — it sounds human.”

That’s why it’s so common in soul, pop ballads, jazz, and R&B.


3. It’s a form of vocal portamento (not sloppy pitching)

This is not the same as being out of tune.

Technically, it’s a controlled portamento or scoop, where:

  • the arrival pitch is correct
  • the slide duration is intentional
  • the ear perceives the target as stable once reached

Good singers know exactly where the pitch is — they’re just choosing not to hit it instantly.

Bad singers miss the pitch and hope to find it.
Good singers delay the pitch and deliver it.


4. It softens the attack of the note

Hitting a long note dead-centre, instantly, at full volume can sound:

  • abrupt
  • operatic
  • emotionally “square”

By sliding in:

  • the onset feels gentler
  • the vowel opens more naturally
  • breath pressure ramps up smoothly

This is especially useful with microphones, where every sharp edge is magnified.


5. Genre matters — a lot

You’ll hear this technique most in styles where emotional nuance beats precision:

  • Pop ballads
  • Soul / R&B
  • Jazz
  • Blues

You’ll hear it far less (or not at all) in:

  • Classical choral singing
  • Barbershop
  • Early music
  • Anything where vertical tuning is paramount

In those traditions, the tension is created harmonically, not melodically.


6. Used sparingly, it’s expressive; overused, it’s mannered

Like vibrato, it’s powerful in moderation.

When overdone:

  • every note sounds “scooped”
  • phrasing loses contrast
  • it starts to feel self-indulgent

Listeners often say they “can’t stand” certain singers — this is frequently why, even if they can’t articulate it.


Visualising what the ear hears

https://www.singscope.com/img/pitch_graph_en.png
https://www.phys.unsw.edu.au/jw/graphics/voice8a.gif
https://www.phys.unsw.edu.au/jw/graphics/voice5.gif

The key thing to notice: the pitch arrives and then stabilises. That arrival moment is where the emotional payoff happens.


In short

You’re absolutely right:

  • it’s intentional
  • it creates tension
  • it humanises the sound
  • and when done well, it’s a subtle but powerful expressive device

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Religions are not races

Why Is Criticism of Islam Called Racist but Criticism of Judaism Is Not?

One of the more striking asymmetries in contemporary political discourse is this: criticism of Islam is frequently labelled racist, while criticism of Judaism is commonly treated as legitimate religious or political critique. This is not a marginal claim but a settled assumption within much radical-left commentary, particularly in academic and activist circles.

How is this asymmetry explained—and does it withstand philosophical scrutiny?

The Radical-Left Explanation

The dominant explanation rests on a power-based redefinition of racism. Racism, on this view, is not simply hostility toward a group but prejudice combined with systemic power. Groups regarded as marginalised can be victims of racism; groups perceived as powerful cannot be, at least not in the full moral sense.

Within Western societies, Muslims are framed as a racialised minority—subject to discrimination in policing, immigration policy, media representation, and employment. Islam therefore becomes inseparable from Muslim identity. Criticism of Islamic beliefs is interpreted as an attack on Muslims as people, and hence as racism.

Judaism, by contrast, is treated very differently. Jews are often framed—especially in light of Israel’s existence—as comparatively powerful or protected. Criticism of Judaism (or more commonly Zionism) is therefore presented as “punching up”: ideological opposition rather than racial hostility.

This framework is reinforced by historical narratives. Antisemitism is acknowledged as a catastrophic historical phenomenon—Nazism, pogroms, the Holocaust—but is often treated as largely past. Islamophobia, meanwhile, is framed as a present and ongoing system of oppression, tied to colonialism and the “War on Terror”. Criticism of Islam is thus said to reinforce current harms, while criticism of Judaism is regarded as abstract or academic unless it crosses extreme lines.

Israel plays a pivotal role in this moral calculus. Judaism is frequently conflated with a modern nation-state viewed as colonial or oppressive. This allows critics to claim that attacks on Judaism or Zionism are acts of resistance rather than prejudice.

Finally, intent is inferred asymmetrically. Criticism of Islam is presumed to arise from bigotry; criticism of Judaism is presumed to arise from moral concern. The same language or argument is therefore judged very differently depending on its target.

That, in outline, is how the radical-left position explains itself.

The Philosophical Problems

Despite its confidence, this framework suffers from deep conceptual flaws.

1. A Category Error: Race vs Belief

The foundational mistake is a confusion of categories. Race and ethnicity are not belief systems. Religions are.

Islam and Judaism consist of doctrines, laws, and metaphysical claims. They are truth-apt and therefore criticisable. To treat criticism of a religion as an attack on people collapses the distinction between holding a belief and being that belief.

Unless one is prepared to say that people are identical with their beliefs—a position that would make rational disagreement impossible—this collapse cannot be defended.

2. Asymmetrical Essentialism

Radical-left discourse essentialises Muslims while de-essentialising Jews.

Muslims are treated as defined by Islam; Judaism is treated as detachable from Jewish identity. But this asymmetry is ad hoc. Either beliefs define identity, or they do not. One cannot coherently insist on inseparability in one case and deny it in another without abandoning consistency.

3. Power-Based Racism Abandons Moral Universals

Redefining racism as “prejudice plus power” replaces moral judgement with sociological bookkeeping. On this view, the moral status of a statement depends not on its content or intent, but on the relative positions of speaker and target within a hierarchy.

This leads to absurdities: identical statements can be racist or non-racist depending on who says them and about whom. Moral wrongness becomes contingent rather than principled.

From a realist perspective, this is upside-down. Moral evaluation attaches to acts, intentions, and reasons—not to group algebra.

4. Intent Laundering

The asymmetry in presumed intent is particularly revealing. Criticism of Islam is treated as evidence of prejudice; criticism of Judaism is treated as evidence of conscience.

But intent cannot be inferred from target alone. That violates basic interpretive charity. A critique of apostasy laws, dietary restrictions, or gender roles should be evaluated on its merits, not on the perceived vulnerability or power of the group involved.

5. Israel as a Moral Solvent

Conflating Judaism with Israel introduces further incoherence. Jews worldwide are implicitly treated as morally implicated in the actions of a state they may not support or even belong to—precisely the sort of collective moral responsibility liberals usually reject.

Worse, claims about disproportionate Jewish power—however clothed in anti-colonial rhetoric—structurally resemble historic antisemitic narratives, while being declared immune from that charge.

6. The Suppression of Free Inquiry

If criticism of Islam is racist by definition, then genuine inquiry becomes impossible. Ex-Muslims, reformist Muslims, and philosophers are pressured into silence. This is not protection but epistemic paternalism—the assumption that certain groups cannot withstand rational scrutiny.

Ironically, it treats Muslims as less capable of intellectual engagement than anyone else.

The Core Contradiction

The position ultimately tries to hold four claims simultaneously:

  1. Ideas shape behaviour
  2. Islam and Judaism are systems of ideas
  3. Islam may not be criticised without moral suspicion
  4. Judaism may be criticised freely

Any three of these can be held together. All four cannot.

Conclusion

The radical-left asymmetry between Islam and Judaism collapses under analysis. It confuses race with belief, applies essentialism selectively, replaces moral universals with power calculations, infers intent from identity, and undermines free inquiry while claiming moral seriousness.

A simpler and more coherent position remains available:

People deserve equal moral respect. Ideas deserve no immunity from criticism.

That principle protects minorities without infantilising them—and preserves the very conditions of rational moral discourse.

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Penny Wise and Pound Foolish

The Irrationality of False Economy

When I was working on legislation, a finance clerk once asked me to draft shorter Acts of Parliament to save on printing costs. Flabbergasted, I asked him whether this was an early April Fool’s Day joke. It wasn’t – he was being serious.

The phrase “penny wise and pound foolish” captures a perennial human failing: an excessive focus on small, visible savings that blinds decision-makers to far larger, less immediate costs. While the saying is old, the behaviour it describes is remarkably modern. In organisations especially—where budgets, incentives, and accountability are often fragmented—misguided attempts to save money frequently end up wasting it. What appears prudent in the short term can, with depressing regularity, prove irrational in the long term.

At the heart of penny-wise behaviour is a misunderstanding of cost. Organisations tend to fixate on direct, easily measured expenses—wages, materials, maintenance contracts—while neglecting indirect costs such as productivity loss, reputational damage, or future remediation. The result is a distorted picture of value, where cutting a small line item feels like fiscal responsibility even when it undermines the organisation’s broader purpose.

A common example is the reduction of preventative maintenance. Faced with budget pressure, organisations often delay servicing equipment, infrastructure, or IT systems. The savings are immediate and easily documented. Yet preventative maintenance exists precisely to avoid catastrophic failure. When machinery breaks down, servers crash, or buildings deteriorate, the repair costs are far higher than the maintenance ever was—often compounded by downtime, lost customers, and emergency premiums. The original “saving” becomes invisible amid the much larger loss it helped to cause.

Another classic case involves staff training. Training budgets are often among the first to be cut because training is seen as discretionary and its benefits are diffuse. But under-trained staff make more mistakes, require more supervision, and are less adaptable to change. Worse still, poor development opportunities increase staff turnover, imposing recruitment and onboarding costs that far exceed the original training expense. An organisation that prides itself on trimming training costs may find itself spending far more replacing employees who leave for better-run competitors.

Procurement decisions also provide fertile ground for false economy. Choosing the cheapest supplier can look prudent on paper, but low upfront costs often conceal inferior quality, unreliable delivery, or poor after-sales support. A cheaper component that fails early, or a low-cost contractor who must be re-engaged to fix their own mistakes, can erase any initial saving many times over. In such cases, the organisation has not saved money at all—it has merely deferred and multiplied its costs.

Information technology offers particularly stark examples. Organisations sometimes resist upgrading software or hardware to avoid capital expenditure, instead persisting with outdated systems. Over time, these systems become slower, harder to secure, and incompatible with modern tools. Staff waste hours working around limitations, cybersecurity risks increase, and eventually the forced upgrade—often under crisis conditions—costs more than a planned transition ever would have. The attempt to “save” money ends by maximising disruption.

Even public sector organisations are not immune. Short-term budget cycles can encourage cuts that look responsible within a single financial year but create liabilities for the future. Deferring infrastructure investment, reducing regulatory oversight, or cutting early-intervention social programs may all lower immediate spending. Yet the long-term costs—structural decay, accidents, legal liability, or entrenched social problems—are far greater. The bill is merely passed forward in time, often to a different department or generation.

What makes penny-wise decisions particularly irrational is that they are often driven less by reason than by optics. Cutting visible costs signals “action” and “discipline,” while investing in prevention or quality requires trust in long-term thinking. In organisations where decision-makers are rewarded for short-term savings rather than long-term outcomes, false economy becomes not just likely but systematic.

The antidote to penny-wise thinking is not profligacy, but rational evaluation of value. This requires asking not “What does this cost now?” but “What does this save or enable over time?” It means recognising that money spent on maintenance, training, quality, and foresight is not wasteful but protective. True fiscal responsibility lies not in shaving pennies, but in avoiding pounds of unnecessary loss.

In the end, the wisdom of the old saying endures because it reflects a deep truth: economy without understanding is not prudence but folly. Organisations that mistake cheapness for efficiency may congratulate themselves today—only to pay dearly tomorrow.

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