- Philosophical Ramblings #06: Heidegger, Beliefs and Choosing Ones Values
1. What is Belief?
In the philosophy of belief, we roughly differentiate between two approaches: representationalism and dispositionalism.
In dispositionalism, we say beliefs are our dispositions toward certain propositions. In other words, we believe something if we are willing to act upon it. For example, if we believe that a car is unsafe, we probably won’t drive it. It would certainly seem very strange if someone loudly proclaimed to believe the car is unsafe and then immediately got into it and started drifting around without a care in the world.
In the competing theory, representationalism, we instead say that to believe something means to have a mental representation of some fact about the real world. For example, we believe the Eiffel Tower is in Paris because this is a real fact of the physical world, and we have a mental mapping of this fact in our minds.
Both approaches have their problems. In dispositionalism, we face the issue that sometimes we seem to have beliefs without acting upon them. Imagine living in a totalitarian state that surveils your every move and harshly punishes dissent. It seems plausible in such a scenario to hold the belief that the regime should be abolished, while not acting on that belief for fear of punishment.
In representationalism, we encounter the problem that beliefs can weaken over time, for instance due to illness (e.g., Alzheimer’s) or simply because we have seen evidence contrary to the belief. In dispositionalism, this makes sense: a weaker belief means weaker dispositions, i.e. we act upon the belief less or more hesitantly. But in representationalism, it’s unclear what it means to have a “weaker” representation. Either you have the mental mapping or you don’t.
2. Changing Ones Beleif
There is another dimension to the philosophy of belief: how much control we have over our beliefs, i.e. to what extent we can change them. For this, we can distinguish between:
- Direct control: the idea that we can change a belief just by thinking hard enough, through pure will.
- Indirect control: the idea that we can change a belief by changing the world. For example, if I believe there is a tomato in front of me and there isn’t, I can place a tomato there to make it true.
Both of these have parallels to the concept of active inference, which I explored in part in this article about dream people, in the section “Motivation: Biological Imperative to Simulate Consciousness.”
Although most philosophers accept the second form of control, the first is controversial. To see why, try—right now—by sheer will alone, to stop believing that you’re currently sitting in your chair or reading something from your computer screen. It doesn’t seem feasible.
There is a third method of control called long-range voluntary control, which refers to how we can change our beliefs by changing what we pay attention to over time. For example, if you only consume news from sources with a particular disposition, it’s likely your beliefs will shift in that direction. Or let’s say you frequently attend church, read Christian literature, and listen to Christian music—almost certainly, you will become more “Christian.”
3. Heidegger and Belief
How does this relate to Heidegger’s concept of Dasein?
Heidegger argues that all meaning, purpose, and belief presuppose Dasein, i.e. human existence. This means that, as humans, we cannot believe the same things that an animal or alien might believe, our modes of existence are too different. This affects how we live in the world, how we think about the world, and what our beliefs presuppose.
For example, for a human, it would be unthinkable not to accept that if:
- A → B
- B → C
- and A is true,
then C must also be true.
Imagine someone told you they believed all humans are animals, and all animals are creatures, but did not believe that humans are creatures. You’d find this strange—excluding mentally ill or intoxicated individuals, most people can follow such basic syllogisms. Or imagine a friend told you they believe they don’t need food to survive. Both logic and basic human necessities are so obvious that not believing them seems almost impossible. Yet, for a dog, it seems equally impossible to hold such beliefs in the first place.
All of this is to say: we humans have a certain form of existence, and from this follows a set of beliefs and facts that we cannot help but believe.
The first problem that arises when trying to think about belief from a Heideggerian lens is that both dispositionalism and representationalism start to break down.
Let’s begin with representationalism. Central to Heidegger’s thesis of Dasein is the idea that all truths are filtered through the human lens and are, to a certain extent, subjective. This presents a problem for representationalism, which holds that belief is a mapping from an objective world to our minds. But according to Heidegger, we do not have direct access to this objective world. Thus, we need to revise representationalism so that belief becomes a mapping from our minds to how we experience the world.
This, however, introduces the problem that we no longer share a single objective world we can reference when using language.
Dispositionalism aligns more naturally with Heidegger. Just as meaning and purpose arise from Dasein, so too does belief. And what is Dasein? It is human existence, how we exist in the world, how we live in it, and, most importantly for dispositionalism, how we act in it, i.e, our dispositions toward the world.
The second problem is the idea of long-range voluntary control, which remains controversial. However, for the Heideggerian worldview to make sense, this form of control seems necessary. If we cannot change our beliefs by changing how we act in the world, then we cannot claim that Dasein is a presupposition of belief in the sense that it informs our belief structure.
Personally, I don’t think this is a difficult pill to swallow. Empirical studies on things like positive self-suggestion or self-reinforcement support this idea.
A related article, is Donald Davidson’s paper Rational Animals, in which he proposes that language is a requirement for belief. His argument, that beliefs cannot exist independently, but only as part of a network of other beliefs, has clear parallels to the Heideggerian concept of Dasein discussed above. Namely, this network is the product of the human mode of existence and includes all beliefs that are necessitated by human life.
- 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
I2P