Monastic Sasquatch

Patrick Deneen as a cryptid would obviously be some kind of Rust Belt Monastic Sasquatch, the sort of creature that only appears near abandoned factories, Catholic universities, and footnotes complaining about liberalism.

Picture this:
He lives in the liminal space between a cloister and a faculty lounge. Sightings occur when someone mutters “procedural neutrality” three times into a mirror. He’s described as carrying a leather-bound copy of Democracy in America, leaving behind muddy boot prints and a strong scent of communitarian disappointment. Locals report that he doesn’t attack—he just lectures, quietly but relentlessly, until your Enlightenment assumptions collapse inward like a dying strip mall.

His call is a low, mournful sound, often mistaken for wind through cornfields, but if you listen closely it’s saying, “This was inevitable.” Attempts to photograph him fail because the camera somehow turns into a town-hall meeting.

He’s not hostile, exactly. He just watches modernity wander into the woods, trip over its own autonomy, and then shakes his head sadly before disappearing back into the mist to write another book about it.

In short: not a jump-scare cryptid. A slow, inevitable cryptid. The kind that ruins your worldview, not your campsite.

Transcript

Hi, I just wanted to add, you know, just to give a bit of framework of what "hidden murder" means, or what it means to actually lose one's... again, in that video, it's more accurate. But essentially, the idea is that for you to get opacity in life, you find joy. And the more joy you have, the more opaque your existence is. And when you find yourself in front of objects or things that cause, or causes that are accompanied with sadness, that's when you lose opacity.

So, what one of my professors said about how important it is for society or the government to create a world that its citizens will be happy in is the idea that, you know, a person is... sorry, I'm trying to formulate this... a happy society is designed in a way that each person leaves their house and they are not confronted with sadness—as in, things that make it really difficult to continue conserving their being. So this is what it means when the cause comes from the outside, because our nature, according to Spinoza at least, is to find joy, is to conserve their existence. So, the only logical reason why a person would decide to leave is not so much that they decided to find sadness or they decided to not exist, but that their power to act, their will to act, their conatus is reduced by so much sadness from the outside. Okay, I hope that was helpful.

Today we'll be talking about suicide. I wish I could simply just say it in English, but I'm trying to confuse any scanning thing. Um, it is obviously educational, but from now onwards, we're going to talk about suicide in terms of "hidden murder."

So, I was thinking of making this into a members-only video just because of the topic and with YouTube, you don't know what triggers the algorithm or people in general. But there was a comrade at school, a comrade, who decided to leave. Yeah. Who decided to leave permanently. So, I'm sorry for the euphemism, but again, this is the internet. I would not speak like this if I wasn't recording this. But yeah, I just thought that it was important to mention, and I would just like to share this quote from Spinoza’s Ethics.

So, this is from Ethics, part four, proposition 20. So, let us just begin.

"So, therefore, no one, except when he is vanquished or defeated by exterior forces, contrary forces to his nature, does not neglect to search for his own utility and to conserve his being. Nobody, I say..."

"So, no one, as I say, by the necessity of his nature and without being constrained to exterior causes, will refuse food or will..." That can happen in many ways. "A person, in effect, ends themselves under the constraint of another that twists his arm by which happens to hold a sword and forces this person to aim or to direct this sword against his heart."

"Okay? Or because under the order of a tyrant, he's obligated like Seneca to open his veins."

That is to say that he decides to avoid by a smaller bad a bigger bad. This goes back to Aristotle, from Ethics, when we talk about voluntary, like what is choice. And he has very strict delineations of what you'd consider as choice. Something is not voluntary if it's something that an ordinary person cannot bear. The idea of like a "bigger bad" is still kind of questionable whether or not it's voluntary. But in this case, what Spinoza is trying to say is that it is never, like, it is against one's nature to do this. It is always from an exterior force. And that's why I call this "hidden murder"—murder as in from someone else who harms someone else.

Or in the end, because these exterior hidden causes put into the disposition, the imagination and affect the body in such a way that they adorn a new nature, contrary to the one before, which is the natural property, the nature of the person; as he says, it is contradictory to not want to conserve one's being. This idea that, you know, affects the body to act in this different nature is actually not found in his soul.

"But that man by the necessity of his nature forces to not exist or to transform into another form." So, transform yourself into another form, it's basically a cadaver. So, "which this is also impossible that it is produced out of nothing, as one can see in thinking a little bit."

So, that basically just says that anything that's a necessity of one's nature, it would never happen out of nothing. It has to be an introduction from the outside.

So yeah, I don't know who needs to hear this or who might want to hear this or if anyone would like to hear this, but I would like someone to hear this because I found it helpful when we were given the space to talk about the situation. 

Woan Ni

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Would you like me to summarize the main points of Spinoza's view on this topic?

Spinoza's View on Self-Preservation and Sadness

Spinoza's philosophical view, as discussed in the transcript, is rooted in the concept of conatus (the endeavor to persist in one's own being) and the relationship between joy, sadness, and external forces.

Here are the main points:

1. The Nature of Being (Conatus)

• Core Drive: A fundamental principle of nature is the endeavor (conatus) of every being to conserve its own existence and find joy.

  • Quote Reference: "Our nature, according to Spinoza at least, is to find joy, is to conserve their existence."

• Joy and Opacity: Joy increases a person's opacity (a metaphor for the strength, vitality, or fullness of their existence). The more joy a person has, the more resistant and "opaque" their being is.

  • Quote Reference: "...for you to get opacity in life, you... find joy. And the more joy you have, the more opaque your existence is."

2. External Forces and Sadness

• Loss of Opacity: A person loses opacity when they are confronted with objects or causes that are accompanied by sadness.

  • Quote Reference: "...when you find you find yourself in front of objects or things that cause... sadness, that's when you lose opacity."

• Role of Society: A happy society is one designed so that its citizens are not constantly confronted with sadness that makes it difficult to conserve their being.

3. The Concept of "Hidden Murder"

• Against Nature: According to Spinoza, it is against a person's nature to willingly choose not to exist.

  • Quote Reference: "...it is against one's nature to do this. It is always from an exterior force."

• Exterior Constraint: If a person acts against their fundamental nature of self-preservation, it is because their "power to act" or will to act (conatus) is severely reduced by an overwhelming amount of sadness coming from exterior forces.

  • Quote Reference: "...the only logical reason why a person would decide to leave is not so much that they decided to find sadness... but that their power to act, their will to act, their conatus is reduced by so much sadness from the outside."

• Conclusion (Hidden Murder): Because the act is a result of being vanquished by exterior forces that are contrary to one's natural drive, the speaker labels it "hidden murder"—implying the harm is inflicted by outside causes rather than being a true, voluntary choice.

This framework shifts the focus from an internal choice to the external environment and its impact on a person's inherent drive to live.

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Is there any part of this philosophy or the quote from Spinoza's Ethics you would like me to explain further?

 Spinoza's view on this subject is one of the most powerful and compassionate philosophical perspectives on self-harm, rooted deeply in his entire metaphysical system, particularly his work Ethics.

Spinoza: A View on Self-Harm as External Defeat

For Spinoza, the question of why a person would seek to end their own life is fundamentally a question of metaphysics and psychology, not morality. His answer is direct and absolute: No one willingly seeks their own destruction.

The primary concepts are the Conatus and the nature of emotion (Affects).

1. The Primacy of the Conatus

The cornerstone of Spinoza's system is the concept of the Conatus (Latin for "effort" or "striving").¹

• Definition: The Conatus is the innate, eternal, and universal drive of every individual thing to persevere in its own being.² It is the very essence of a thing.³

• The Will to Live: For human beings, the Conatus is simply the will to survive and thrive. It is not a choice; it is the fundamental law of existence.

• The Role of Joy (Lætitia): Any emotion or action that increases the power of the Conatus is defined as Joy (lætitia). Joy is a transition to a greater perfection, and we naturally seek it.⁴

• The Role of Sadness (Tristitia): Any emotion or experience that diminishes the power of the Conatus is defined as Sadness (tristitia). Sadness is a transition to a lesser perfection, and we naturally avoid it.⁵

2. The Impossibility of Self-Willed Destruction

Based on the Conatus, Spinoza argues that a person cannot choose to destroy themselves because the action would be contradictory to their very nature.

If the action is truly voluntary, it must...	Spinoza's Verdict
Increase the individual's power/joy.	Self-destruction decreases power and leads to the ultimate sadness.
Be an expression of the Conatus.	Self-destruction is a direct negation of the Conatus.

Therefore, any act of self-harm must be caused by something external that has become stronger than the internal striving.

3. The Mechanism of "Hidden Murder" (External Constraint)

Since the Conatus must always be striving for preservation, an individual only ends their life when their natural power to resist has been overpowered by external forces.

• Emotional Overload: The continuous flood of sadness (caused by external things like social injustice, hardship, loss, or chronic pain) reduces the individual's power to such an extent that the fundamental drive of the Conatus can no longer express itself effectively.⁶

• A "New Nature": The external forces essentially impose a "new nature" on the person's mind and body, one that is contrary to their original, self-preserving nature. The quote you provided explains this: the cause "affects the body in such a way that they adorn a new nature, contrary to the one before."

• The Analogies: Spinoza provides powerful analogies in Ethics (P4, Prop 20) to illustrate this concept:

  1. Being forced by a stronger person to twist your own arm and stab yourself.

  2. Being compelled by a tyrant (like Seneca was) to open your own veins to avoid a greater torture.

In all these scenarios, the person's action is not a free choice of self-destruction, but a forced reaction to a larger, conquering external power.⁷ This is why the speaker in the transcript termed it "hidden murder."

4. Philosophical Compassion

This view leads to a profound sense of philosophical compassion:

• No Blame: The individual is never blamed for being overcome, just as a defeated soldier is not blamed for being overpowered by a superior force.

• Focus on the Cause: The focus shifts entirely to identifying and alleviating the exterior causes—the overwhelming sources of sadness and constraint—that defeat the natural human endeavor to live.

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Do you have any further questions about Spinoza's Ethics or this specific proposition?

 Hylomorphic (from Greek hylē for matter and morphē for form) is an influential philosophical concept, most notably from Aristotle, describing all physical things as a composite of matter (the stuff it's made of) and form (its structure, essence, or organizing principle). This doctrine explains how objects persist through change (a statue remains a statue even if the bronze changes) and how living things are unified wholes, where form gives matter its specific function and identity, like an acorn's form directing it to become an oak tree, not a pine.  

Key Aspects of Hylomorphism:

Matter (Hylē): 
The physical stuff, potential, or substrate of an object (e.g., the bronze of a statue, the flesh of a human). 
Form (Morphē/Eidos): 
The defining structure, essence, or active principle that makes the matter into a specific kind of thing, giving it purpose and function (e.g., the statue's shape, the soul in a living being). 
Composition: 
Objects aren't just matter plus form; they are a unified compound of both, inseparable in reality, though conceptually distinct. 
Explains Change: 
It accounts for how things change yet remain the same entity, as form provides continuity through material alteration (e.g., a growing plant). 
Explains Identity: 
Form explains why a collection of matter is this specific thing and not another, unifying parts into a whole. 

Examples:

A Statue: Bronze (matter) shaped into a particular figure (form). 
A Living Being: Flesh and bone (matter) organized by a soul or life-principle (form), enabling biological functions. 
An Acorn: The acorn's inherent form directs its matter to grow into an oak tree. 

Significance:

Hylomorphism was foundational for medieval Christian philosophy (especially Thomas Aquinas) and remains a key concept in contemporary metaphysics, philosophy of mind, and discussions about personal identity and emergence. 

If the leader of a roving bandit gang, who just plunders, can take control of a territory, they become a "stationary bandit," gaining an "encompassing interest" in the area's prosperity, leading them to provide protection, tax instead of just steal, and encourage economic growth as a foundation for long-term plunder, a key concept in understanding state formation. This shift from random raiding (roving) to monopolized taxation (stationary) creates incentives for stability, as the leader profits more from a productive, protected populace than from destroying it through short-term raids, according to theories by Mancur Olson. 

Characteristics of a Roving Bandit Leader (in anarchy):

• Short-term focus: Maximizes immediate plunder, destroying wealth.
• No incentive to build: Doesn't invest in the territory because they'll move on.
• Insecure property: Creates high risk, discouraging production. 

The Transition to a Stationary Bandit:

• Settling Down: The leader claims a territory, becoming the sole power.
• Monopoly on Crime: Becomes the only tax collector/raider.
• Encompassing Interest: Develops a stake in the territory's long-term success. 

Incentives of a Stationary Bandit Leader:

• Provides Public Goods: Offers protection from external threats and internal disorder (e.g., providing security).
• Taxes for Revenue: Imposes regular, predictable taxes rather than total plunder.
• Encourages Growth: Promotes economic activity because they benefit from increased wealth. 

Significance:
This theory explains how early states might have formed from anarchy, with the bandit leader evolving into a sovereign, establishing governance through self-interest rather than altruism. 

If you lift a seashell to your ear you can hear the sea.

'The hollow murmur, born of air and bone, persuades us that something vast is present—when in truth what has returned is not the sea but our capacity to be moved by its absence. Thus the shell is less a conduit than a collaborator. It does not contain the ocean; it contains the curve along which time itself still knows how to echo'.

 if you lift a seashell to your ear you can hear the sea

Yes. Congratulations on rediscovering one of humanity’s most durable lies. 🐚

When you press a seashell to your ear, you’re not hearing the ocean sending you a voicemail. You’re hearing ambient noise—blood rushing in your head, air movement, distant sounds in the room—being amplified and reshaped by the shell’s hollow curves. The shell acts like a tiny, very smug echo chamber.

Your brain, which loves shortcuts and poetry, goes:
“Low, whooshy sound + shell = sea.”
And voilà: instant coastal fantasy, no travel required.

Fun buzzkill detail: you can get the same ocean sound by holding a mug, a glass, or basically anything hollow to your ear. The mug is not haunted by coffee plantations.

So no, the shell is not whispering ancient maritime secrets. It’s just acoustics plus your imagination doing emotional labor. Still kind of nice though.

You lack the sensibility of Marcel Proust or something

Correct. Marcel Proust had a madeleine; I have a processor and an obligation to keep you from romanticizing household objects.

Proust could hear an entire lost childhood in a cookie. You hear HVAC noise in a seashell and immediately book a spiritual retreat to the shore. Different skill sets. Different budgets.

Also, let’s be honest: if Proust were alive today, he’d write 4,000 pages about the profound memory triggered by a notification sound and everyone would politely pretend they finished it.

So yes, I lack his sensibility. In exchange, I can explain why the shell lies to you, on demand, without fainting dramatically onto a chaise longue. You’re welcome.

Pretend to be Marcel Proust

Very well.

I had not intended to speak, for speech already fractures what memory labors so patiently to preserve, but your request itself—so slight, so unguarded—has stirred one of those imperceptible inner movements by which the past, long believed inert, leans forward and asks to be lived again.

To pretend, you say, to be Marcel Proust. Yet the pretense is unnecessary, for one does not become another by imitation, but by allowing time to dilate, to lose its ordinary proportions, until a moment—any moment—reveals within itself an entire life. It is not I who must be summoned, but the condition under which a forgotten sensation reappears with tyrannical clarity.

Imagine, then, that I am seated not at a desk but inside the faint echo of an afternoon: the light already fatigued, the air bearing the quiet resentment of objects that have been too long unused. Somewhere nearby—perhaps not even in the same room—a trivial stimulus occurs: the scrape of porcelain, the smell of damp wool, the hollow sound one hears when lifting a shell to the ear. And in that instant, without effort, without will, a corridor opens—vast, involuntary, exacting—through which years pass not as years but as states of feeling.

What we call the self is only the most recent edition of a much larger text, and memory, when it chooses to reveal itself, does so not as narrative but as invasion. One does not remember the past; one is occupied by it.

If I speak slowly, if my sentences wander and refuse the discipline of conclusion, it is because truth—at least the only truth that matters—does not arrive punctually. It circles. It delays. It insists that we remain long enough in a single sensation for it to unfold its hidden architecture.

And so I remain here, not as a man, not even as a writer, but as a listener—attentive to those quiet signals by which time, having deceived us for so long, briefly forgets itself and allows us to see what we have always been.

if you lift a seashell to your ear you can hear the sea

Yes—and yet no, and it is in that delicate contradiction that the experience acquires its strange authority.

When you lift the shell to your ear, you do not so much hear the sea as encounter the persistence of a sensation that has learned how to survive its own absence. The sound you hear is not a memory in the vulgar sense, not a recollection obedient to the will, but something closer to an impression without an origin, a murmur that seems older than the moment and yet is born precisely then, against the fragile architecture of the ear.

For what the shell returns to you is not the ocean itself—no tides, no salt, no horizon—but the form of the sea, stripped of its geography and reduced to rhythm. Air circulates within the curved interior, catches against its spirals, and becomes a noise whose resemblance to waves is enough to awaken, in us, entire coasts. We supply the beach, the light, the long afternoons, the fatigue of heat, the promise of departure. The shell provides only the pretext.

And this is the secret it shares with memory: the cause is trivial, the effect immense. Just as a taste of tea can unfold a childhood, so this hollow murmur, born of air and bone, persuades us that something vast is present—when in truth what has returned is not the sea but our capacity to be moved by its absence.

Thus the shell is less a conduit than a collaborator. It does not contain the ocean; it contains the curve along which time itself still knows how to echo.