This essay reflects on Nietzsche’s Ecce Homo and the limits of philosophical system-building, arguing that true wisdom lies in recognising the inadequacy of our concepts—whether in language, economics, or metaphysics—and in embracing humility in our human constraints.

This essay explores the psychology and neuroscience of first impressions, showing how the amygdala, memory, and bias shape our snap judgements—and why reflection and restraint are essential before reducing a person to a fleeting perception.

This essay looks at Popper’s insistence that science is defined by its capacity for error, and Kuhn’s claim that even this openness is framed by the paradigms we inhabit. It then extends these insights beyond science itself, asking how philosophy of science can be used to test the everyday beliefs we treat as obvious. In this sense, falsification and paradigm-awareness become not only tools for scientists but habits of mind: ways of resisting deception, questioning what we inherit as truth, and recognising the fragility of the frameworks we live within.

This essay uses Steinbeck’s East of Eden as a lens on the problem of free will and determinism, drawing on Sapolsky, Spinoza, Kant, Jung, and others to ask whether we must preserve the illusion of freedom in order to live meaningfully. Steinbeck’s characters—Cal, Cathy, Lee—embody the tension between nature and nurture, choice and constraint, rebellion and resignation. The argument engages with neuroscience, philosophy, and literature to suggest that while our actions may be determined, the presupposition of freedom is essential for morality, motivation, and hope. Evil, in this frame, is not inhuman but unknowing; freedom, not absolute, but a necessary fiction.

This essay examines the dilemma of separating art from the artist through logic rather than moral debate. From Nietzsche’s provocation to the modern case of Andrew Huberman, and the troubling legacy of Heidegger, it asks whether the personal failings of a thinker undermine the validity of their work. It argues that ideas, once defined and supported by evidence, retain their integrity regardless of the character of their originator. Unless one can provide a logical proof that moral failure corrupts truth itself, we must accept that art and knowledge can stand apart from the flawed lives of those who create them.

This essay examines the problem of evil through Socratic and post-Socratic thought, contrasting the claim that “there is only one evil, ignorance” with the unsettling presence of intelligent yet malevolent figures. Engaging with Socrates, Plato, and Hannah Arendt, it asks whether evil can truly be reduced to a lack of knowledge, or whether the fascination of literature—and of history—lies in evil that thinks, wills, and intends. In doing so, it reflects on the weight of fictional characters compared to real ones, and on the limits of philosophy in accounting for our captivation with deliberate, knowing evil.