- Consider Phlebas
Consider Phlebas is the first book in the Culture series, a sci-fi space opera in which the titular “Culture”, a post-scarcity, hedonistic, transhumanist civilization, plays a central role. The Culture is a highly decentralized society that produces more resources than it needs. Its citizens enjoy immense freedom and pleasure, having transcended many human biological limitations through advanced genetic engineering.
However, this review focuses only on Consider Phlebas, not the entire series.
The story follows a character named Horza, a member of a species called the Changers; shapeshifters capable of altering their appearance to resemble anyone. Horza works for the Idirans, a religious, warlike species in conflict with the Culture. He’s sent on a mission to a forbidden planet, one off-limits to both the Culture and the Idirans, to recover a stranded Culture AI (a “Mind”) that crash-landed there after a space battle. Only Changers are allowed on the planet, making Horza a suitable candidate for the mission.
I absolutely hated the book for several reasons.
1. Horza is a Passive
For at least the first half of the novel, Horza has almost no agency. Things simply happen to him. A quick overview:
- The story opens with Horza imprisoned and nearly dying, only to be saved by the Idirans.
- He’s brought aboard an Idiran ship, which is promptly attacked by the Culture — he escapes in the chaos.
- He is then rescued by a group of mercenaries and taken onto their ship.
- Forced to fight for his life against another mercenary (again, he reacts rather than acts).
- He passively follows the mercenaries on two missions; neither of which he initiates.
- The second mission goes wrong, their ship crashes, and he ends up on an island inhabited by cannibals; again imprisoned.
- He finally escapes: the first real initiative he shows, and we’re already a third into the book.
Even after he starts becoming more active, by then Horza is so unlikable and unrelatable that it’s hard to care about him anymore.
2. His Motivations Are Weak and Unconvincing
Horza gives several reasons for working against the Culture:
- He was bored. This is revealed in a flashback involving his ex. He claims to have become a spy simply because he was tired of his life. While boredom can be a motivation, especially in lighter adventure stories, it doesn’t fit the gritty tone of the novel. Moreover, this motivation isn’t developed into a meaningful character arc. It’s just a throwaway line.
- He dislikes machines. He claims to oppose the Culture’s reliance on AI and machines. I have nothing against a good space racist (see Warhammer 40K for how to do it well), but Horza isn’t convincingly written as one. When he encounters Culture citizens or drones, he doesn’t treat them with any real hostility. He treats the drone well, respects its wishes, and refrains from killing a Culture agent even when he has the chance. His supposed anti-machine sentiment is barely present in his actions.
- He hates the Culture’s ideology. This is perhaps his strongest stated motivation, yet even this falls flat. When asked if he’s had any negative experiences with the Culture, he says no. His reasoning boils down to: “The Idirans are on the side of life, and the Culture is on the side of machines.” There’s no deeper philosophical argument or explanation behind this.
A particularly glaring contradiction occurs when a woman tells Horza she’s pregnant and leaves the decision about keeping the child up to him. This is a perfect moment for him to express his distaste for Culture values (messing with nature and life), but he reacts calmly and respectfully. His hatred of the Culture seems to disappear whenever it’s inconvenient to the narrative.
3. Horza Is Never Seriously Challenged
It’s frustrating that Horza’s beliefs are almost never seriously questioned by other characters. And when someone does challenge him, it’s brushed aside with a single sentence, never to be brought up again. A character like Horza, who is meant to stand in contrast to the Culture, should be confronted, challenged, and forced to reflect on his values. That never happens.
4. The Story: Missed Potential and Shallow Execution
The story feels like it jumps from one scene to the next with no real consequences or reflection. Scenes come and go rapidly, without deeper character development or thematic payoff. A lot of potential is wasted.
Take, for example, the cannibal island, also called “Eaters’ Island.” This could have been a brilliant moment to challenge Horza’s loyalty to the Idirans. The cannibals, like the Idirans, are violent religious fanatics. After surviving the ordeal, Horza could have reflected on the dangers of fanaticism and drawn parallels between the Eatery’s madness and his employers’. But this never happens. The scene ends, and we move on, as if nothing happened.
I’m of the opinion that every scene and every fight should matter. When something significant happens, a character should change, either positively or negatively. But that doesn’t happen here. Events pass without impact. There’s no real arc or evolution.
5. Hollow Emotional Beats and Fake Relationships
I never felt like there were genuine emotional connections between the characters. When reactions occurred, they felt hollow and unearned. For instance, why are the mercenaries so devastated when their temple raid fails and several crewmembers die? We’re told that people regularly die or rotate out of the crew, it’s part of their job. Why does this incident matter more than the rest?
No one seemed particularly upset when Horza brutally murdered one of their crew members shortly after arriving on their ship. Suddenly, later in the story, they’re all crying and emotionally broken? It’s not that mercenaries can’t feel sadness, of course they can, but the book never establishes a meaningful bond between the characters, so their grief comes off as performative. It feels like theater, not emotion.
Another scene that broke immersion was when the crew goes to Schar’s World. Horza, who had killed their captain and assumed his form (why was this even necessary? He could’ve gone alone), suddenly reveals that he’s a spy for the Idirans in an intergalactic war, and asks them to help him. What follows is baffling.
A group of third-rate mercenaries with poor equipment, whose only notable achievement is robbing unarmed civilians, just… agrees? To take part in a mission tied to an interstellar war? With the man who murdered their captain and deceived them? Even worse, they’re transporting a prisoner from the Culture.
And the justification? One crew member wants to see the legendary train atop Schar’s World. That’s it. It could have been a valid reason, if the character had been properly developed or shown a deeper connection to that goal earlier. But it comes out of nowhere, and thus feels completely hollow.
6. Lazy Writing and Wasted Themes
Some have defended the book by saying Horza is meant to be unlikable — that the author wants us to come away with a positive view of the Culture by contrast. But that’s a lazy approach. Instead of writing Horza with weak or nonsensical arguments, the author could have made him a genuinely compelling critic of the Culture. Imagine if his views had real weight, if his concerns were understandable, even if ultimately flawed.
There are fascinating positions that could have been explored:
- That the Culture’s hedonism is misguided, and that a meaningful life is based on virtue rather than pleasure.
- That absolute freedom can be paralyzing, when anything is possible and nothing is required, one might lose all sense of direction.
Another defense I’ve heard is that Horza’s bad reasoning is due to indoctrination by the Idirans, that he’s simply a weapon shaped by their ideology. This would be a valid interpretation if it were actually shown in the book. Aside from a dream sequence near the end, there’s little to no indication that Horza is brainwashed or even struggling with indoctrination. If this was the author’s intent, they didn’t do enough with it.
7. Conclusion
In the end, Consider Phlebas is intellectually uninteresting. The characters are static, there’s no meaningful development, and the book avoids serious exploration of the philosophical conflict between the Culture and the Idirans. It’s a plot-driven book, and that’s fine if that’s what you enjoy, but I expected more from a series hailed as one of the greatest in science fiction.
The only moment I genuinely enjoyed was the ending, when both Horza and Yalson die. Their deaths felt earned, not because of tragedy, but because both of them had shown little concern for the rest of the crew. This is highlighted by their callous decision to let the old man stay behind in a radioactive zone, just because he was angry at them for leading the crew to ruin.
And finally, what was the epilogue with the Culture agent euthanizing herself supposed to be? Was it meant to show the emotional burden of war? If so, it was never properly built up or characterized.
- The Madness of King George (1994)
Very British, ewww! its alright 6.5/10
- Philosophical Ramblings #05: Morality and Intentions
I believe the only moral dimension of an action lies in its intention. In other words, every action and every outcome is morally neutral; only the intention is not.
The thoughts that led me to this theory are based on two things. First, I am a strong believer in Heidegger’s concept of Dasein, that all purpose and meaning are dependent on human existence. This, leads to Sartre’s conclusion that if nothing has inherent objective meaning, then we ourselves give things meaning. Secondly, I believe in the Cynic, Buddhist, and Stoic principle that externals have no value. That is, we should be indifferent toward them. If we receive a new sports car as a gift, we can use it and even enjoy it, but if it is damaged or destroyed, we should not lament it.
From this, I conclude that because externals have no value, unintended consequences are not morally blameworthy. However, the individual still bears responsibility for the outcome. One might ask: if there is no moral responsibility, why should someone rectify their unintended consequences? My answer is that, as a society, we have created a framework of rules to which everyone who wants to be part of society must adhere. If someone violates that framework, they need to remedy the violation. Of course, they could choose not to do so—that is their choice—but then they cannot be part of society. All of this is rational and logical; it has no moral dimension.
Because outcomes have no moral dimension, and actions also do not (which seems entirely plausible, what would it even mean for them to have one? Where would it come from? Metaphysically, this seems strange), the only thing that remains is intention. And because of Heidegger’s Dasein- in which human existence is the origin of all meaning and, importantly, value-subjectivity itself carries a moral dimension. This is expressed through authenticity, which manifests in intention.
- Rsevoir Dogs (1992)
A solid movie with great characters, a cool story, and creative dialogue. 7/10
- Philosophical Ramblings #04: The Problem of Religion
The fundamental problem of religion is that all religions presuppose certain metaphysical claims that we have no way of verifying. If that’s the case, then how do we evaluate their truth?
One way to approach this is by adopting a universalist position—suggesting that all religions contain some form of truth and are, in some way, all valid. However, the problem with this view is that religions often contradict one another, sometimes making completely opposing claims. How do we reconcile these contradictions?
For example, Protestant Christianity advocates for salvation through faith alone, which stands in stark contrast to Buddhist traditions, where personal experience and direct validation are central. Another example is that the Christian end goal is to live in heaven with God and praise Him, while the Buddhist goal is the cessation of desire—a state that seems incompatible with the Christian goal, which explicitly involves wanting (e.g., desiring God or heaven).
But Buddhism itself encounters a paradox: desiring the cessation of desire is itself a form of desire. So a Buddhist should stop wanting the cessation of desire—but if they do that, they have nothing left to strive for or advocate.
One Potential Solution:
“Suppose there was a person travelling along the road. They’d see a large deluge, whose near shore was dubious and perilous, while the far shore was a sanctuary free of peril. But there was no ferryboat or bridge for crossing over. They’d think:
‘Why don’t I gather grass, sticks, branches, and leaves and make a raft? Riding on the raft, and paddling with my hands and feet, I can safely reach the far shore.’
And so they’d do exactly that. And when they’d crossed over to the far shore, they’d think:
‘This raft was very helpful to me. Riding on the raft, and paddling with my hands and feet, I have safely crossed over to the far shore. Why don’t I hoist it on my head or pick it up on my shoulder and go wherever I want?’
What do you think, mendicants? Would that person be doing what should be done with that raft?”
“No, sir.”
“And what, mendicants, should that person do with the raft? When they’d crossed over they should think:
‘This raft was very helpful to me. … Why don’t I beach it on dry land or set it adrift on the water and go wherever I want?’
That’s what that person should do with the raft.
In the same way, I have taught how the teaching is similar to a raft: it’s for crossing over, not for holding on.
By understanding the simile of the raft, you will even give up the teachings, let alone what is against the teachings.
~ Middle Discourses 22
I want to offer two ways to address this issue:
First, we can ask: What does “living in heaven with God” actually mean? Following thinkers like Meister Eckhart or Paul Tillich, if we understand God not as a being among other beings but as the “ground of being”—that which makes existence possible—then “heaven” should not be imagined as a literal place where hymns are sung forever. Instead, it could be understood as the fulfillment of our deepest potential, a kind of merging with the Abgrund (ground or abyss), not becoming Being itself but becoming our truest selves.
This notion is very similar to the Buddhist concept of nirvana: the cessation of suffering through the cessation of desire, resulting in a mode of pure being. Both could be interpreted as forms of “becoming” or “self-realization” (a better term may be needed here). In this way, the two traditions become compatible on a deeper metaphysical level.
However, the problem with this approach is that it flattens the uniqueness of each religion. They become too similar, losing their distinctiveness in terms of ritual, language, and tradition.
Second, we might investigate the nature of God from a different angle. Suppose God transcends not only the physical world but even logic itself. That would mean God comes before anything, including the categories of contradiction and coherence. If God transcends logic, then contradictory things could be true about Him at the same time. Thus, the apparent contradictions between religions would cease to be problematic—they could all be true in different ways.
But this solution, too, is problematic. If anything goes, then concepts like nirvana, God, or heaven lose their specific meaning. If they can mean anything, then they mean nothing.
We can also consider the problem through a phenomenological lens, following thinkers like Husserl, but applied to religion. Phenomenology studies how things appear subjectively to us. Through this lens, even if all religions point toward some shared transcendent reality, their rituals and practices differ because of cultural and subjective differences. Religion becomes the culturally inflected response to a shared, though ineffable, transcendent reality.
I2P