A Discourse on Inequality (Mostly about Natural Law)

After reading this and Leviathan, I have an itching desire to clarify the subject that all these big thinkers are needlessly complicating—that of “natural law”. Now, I can’t speak for what those philosophers are trying to do with the term, but for me, the definition of this concept is one so simple that it can and should be considered obvious. So here we go.

In order to define natural law, it is necessary to understand that it is made up of two parts—the “natural” and the “law”. Putting the natural aside for now, the definition of law is apparently controversial in philosophy. Some think of it as limitations and/or regulations, some as things you can’t do no matter what, and some as things you can choose to do or not do. In this context, I will use a slightly modified version of the second; my definition of law, then, is an absolute rule that cannot in any circumstances be disobeyed or broken in any way, shape, or form, and one which is not affected in any way, shape, or form, by magnitude. We cannot disobey the law of gravity, and neither can planets. We cannot disobey the laws of motion, and neither can giant robots.

Personally, I do not think that law is a hard thing to define. Where the problem comes, however, is when people look at laws created by society and laws enforced by the world and think of them as the same thing—they are not. Law, when used by itself, is nothing more than a word and has no meaning whatsoever; it is only when another word comes in front of it that it becomes significant. This relates (ironically, I suppose) to the natural law of relativity (gravity and motion are also natural laws) which requires a reference point for anything that has the word “absolute” in its definition. Thus, a societal law—one created and enforced solely by society—is one which is absolute and cannot be broken for anyone who is a member of that society. Should a member of that society break it (killing, stealing, etc.), they will no longer be a part of that society and become a criminal. This applies regardless of whether the lawbreaker is convicted or not. If he is convicted, he is a publicly recognized criminal; if he is not convicted, he is a criminal masquerading as a citizen. Thus, someone who breaks a society’s law is ousted from that society regardless of what anyone might think or pretend; note, however, that as societies are generally indecisive, a law reform might change the status of a criminal into that of a citizen or vice versa.

With societal law now clarified, let’s get to the not indecisive natural law. Just as no member of a society can break a societal law and still be a part of that society, no member of nature can break a natural law and still be a part of nature. So, what defines a member of nature? Putting aside that “state of nature” business that Hobbes and Rousseau love to go on about so much, I put it to you that so long as we are living in this universe, we are members of nature. What defines living in this universe? I can answer metaphysically, but that would be nauseating both to read and write, so I will answer physically—so long as you are utilizing your five senses (sight, hearing, taste, smell, touch) to interact with your environment, you are living in this universe, and no amount of skyscrapers or social gatherings or video games can change that. Thus, should one break a natural law, they will be ousted from nature; but considering what defines a member of nature, is it physically possible for us to not be one? No. Although it is possible for someone to be alive and not a member of society, it is impossible for someone to be alive and not a member of nature (death is a metaphysical subject, so I’ll leave it alone). Therefore, a natural law is one that more or less adopts the basic definition of law itself—an absolute rule that cannot in any circumstances be disobeyed or broken in any way, shape, or form, and one which is not affected in any way, shape, or form, by magnitude. I won’t elaborate on the actual natural laws here, but I will state them so that you can think about how obvious they are. The two core natural laws are the law of causality and the law of relativity. The three human laws are the law of causality, the law of relativity, and the law of normality, which is a sociopolitical version of the law of gravity. Sounds obvious, doesn’t it? It’s supposed to be.

When I hear about the never ending quest of philosophers to discover the great laws of the world, I do not think that they are actually looking for laws—I think that they are looking for insights. Laws are the basic concepts from which everything stems; building blocks which are existent in every part of their contextual relatives. Hobbes and Rousseau didn’t look for these obvious building blocks, however; they searched for patterns in the structures created by these blocks. They desired to uncover secrets in these structures which are absolute and would lead them to the goal that all philosophers aim for, and there’s nothing wrong with that—I just believe that it shouldn’t be advertised as a search for natural laws when science has already found most of them.

Oh, and I enjoyed reading A Discourse on Inequality.


This text, or the part of it we were assigned, is somewhat of a hit and miss on the readability scale. When it talks about laws and where they originate from, it is engaging and thought-provoking; when it talks about the applications of those laws and their various definitions, it is convoluted and akin to reading a dictionary. I took my time with the former and scanned through the latter at a rate of approximately 7 wps.


Content-wise, Leviathan is a great resource for political scientists. The talk of contracts, rights, and everything in-between is an excellent way of analyzing sociopolitical structures in my opinion, which might not be worth much considering that I’m not a political scientist. However, Hobbes makes two fundamental mistakes (imo) with concern to philosophy; the first I won’t say, but the second is that he is a total environmental determinist. Wait, looking that term up, I see that I’m not applying it correctly, so what I actually mean is that he believes in all nurture and no nature. No, those terms don’t work either…okay, what I truly mean is that Hobbes believes that we only exist in the physical realm. He made this quite clear when he said that dreams are derived from memories, maintaining that we are everything we can sense and nothing more. Now, this basis is perfectly functional when applied to political science, and he shows just how functional it is by deriving the three human laws from it. Many issues arise, however, when he begins to apply them to absolute concepts, which I won’t elaborate on since it would just turn into a convoluted mess. That aside, although I say that his physical determinism is flawed, the fact is that it’s the best mold from which to work out political science, as society itself is, in the end, an illusion. Hobbes does a good job of masking the issue, stating that every human has equal right to all things in existence, is equal to every other human in relation to the world, and are only able to lose that right by willingly forfeiting it. The first two points I agree with, but the third, unfortunately, is both the one most necessary for society and the one most false. For although a truly stable society can only be created through the transferring of rights, a human is not capable (i.e. does not have the right) of giving away their own right. The reason for this lies (1) in the falsehood of physical determinism and (2) in the structure of the space-time continuum. Hobbes masks this contradiction using the most popular way to do so (morality), and although his is certainly one of the best ethic codes I know, it is not…well…I’ll just leave it by saying that I consider moral philosophy an invalid term. 

Robinson Crusoe

As irritatingly long as this novel was, it was also interesting enough that I at times actually became motivated to read for the content. The story is a classic adventure tale, containing a somewhat compelling protagonist and a lot of extremely convenient plot devices which were integrated well enough overall. My biggest problem would be with the way it was written, but considering the context of when it was written, I suppose that there’s not much point in complaining about that.


Now, not that I’m an animal rights activist or anything, but the way Crusoe proclaims himself the undisputed king of his island felt rather pretentious considering the variety of wildlife already existing in it. This mindset really shows just how sad it is when the guy, out of loneliness, maims a bunch of birds and other animals to keep him company. He drowns puppies and shoots cats, but keeps a few as pets for his entertainment. PETA would have a field day with this novel had it been written in modern times (which would definitely be more plausible than attacking Pokémon).


That aside, there is an interesting tension in the plot (the main tension) where Crusoe fights with himself on whether to seek adventure or stay at home. In a sense, this represents two desires—the desire for change, and the desire for stability. I find this an interesting psychological topic as there are many instances of both being true in regards to the human condition, which may show that neither of the two are absolute desires. On a philosophical level, however, I have yet to be proven wrong that all humans require change (i.e. conflict) on some level in order to exist, and this is no exception. Translated into psychology, I’d say that the desire for stability stems from mental conflict whereas the desire for change stems from physical conflict. Someone seeks change when they desire physical interaction and conflict with their surroundings, whereas someone seeks stability when they are in constant mental/inner conflict. Everything, of course, needs to be considered in their relative rather than absolute terms, and in reality every perceivable factor influences their reference to some degree. In the case of Crusoe, his desire for change may have formed due to an excess of stability (i.e. his father). Being guaranteed a life of comfort is basically the same as being told how your life is going to play out, and Crusoe most likely perceived this guarantee as a stagnation of conflict. Thus, being naturally compelled to seek conflict, he chose to go to sea. Of course, he regretted it soon after as he found that the stability he took for granted was in fact not so guaranteed, but even so, we see that he forsook his many chances to return home in favour of eventually getting shipwrecked on an isolated island. We see, then, that poor Crusoe suffered from a common case of short-term memory throughout his life. 

The Tempest

This play is, apparently, one of Shakespeare’s two original works, all his other plays being either derivatives or blatant knock-offs of other peoples’ stories. In any case, it is apparent that the man came into this with a rather large amount of sentimentality, considering that it was also the last play he would write (or write entirely by himself). Why is it apparent? Because he quite literally takes possession of Prospero at least once (twice, if I remember correctly) and goes on monologues about things of which it is obvious that Shakespeare himself is the speaker (Ferdinand and Miranda just thought he was going crazy). When Prospero talked about the “Great Globe,” he was referring to the Elizabethan theater that Shakespeare’s plays were performed in. When he went into his concluding monologue of which the line “we are such stuff as dreams are made on” was used, he was referring to the end of the play as a play with actors and props and lighting and all that. He structured the play itself to be conveyed almost like a dream, and the end of that dream marked, I believe, somewhat of an end to his career, for although The Tempest wasn’t his last play, it was, again, the last one that he wrote alone. The guy probably teared up a bit (or a lot) upon finishing this play, and who can blame him. What’s interesting to note about the play itself, then, is that it does, in fact, have a happy ending. This would, normally, classify it as a comedy, but where the strangeness comes in is that it possesses qualities that are quite unlike comedies. It is, therefore, a tragicomedy, which to me is just a wishy-washy way of saying that it could’ve ended either way. Now to clarify, I’m no expert on the subject (just a proficient user of google), but when you think about it, this melodramatic happy-go-lucky ending could easily have transformed into a rather unpleasant tragedy. Ariel could have decided to defy Prospero because he/she was sick of his abuse, thereby allowing Antonio and Sebastian to kill Alonso and Gonzalo. Stephano and Trinculo could have been not so utterly stupid, allowing Caliban to lead them to ambush Prospero (who forgot about them during the banquet). Prospero could have dropped his forgiveness thing and just executed Antonio and Sebastian (like many vengeful Shakespearian protagonists before him). Finally (and this was actually falsely foreshadowed), Ferdinand and Miranda could have, rather than playing chess like intelligent people, given in to passion and copulated before marriage (like a certain pair of lovers), thereby inflicting upon themselves Prospero’s curse. Heck, if I was writing this and wanted to make the most sickening tragic possible (which I don’t, if you’re wondering), I would have spun it so that Caliban actually did rape Miranda, and she was just hiding it from her father. That would have added a whole new batch of psychological trauma to the mix, which would then affect both Caliban’s attitude and Miranda’s, especially when she was with Ferdinand. My point is, then, that any one of these things could have broken the happy ending, and yet none of them happened—everything went perfectly. This makes me consider exactly what Shakespeare was trying to say in writing this, and whether or not the phrase “we are such stuff as dreams are made on” is really hinting at something. 

The Prince

I enjoyed reading this text. It was not only happily bereft of the mostly irritating fluff that dominated The Republic, but also had far more valid arguments overall. I found myself agreeing or at least half-agreeing with many of the policies that Machiavelli presented, although some—such as his ban of mercenaries/auxiliaries and his distaste of neutrality—are biased views. However, the reason I have few problems with his guidelines is because they are just that—guidelines. He somewhat blatantly dodges the issue of what exactly a ruler should do in specific situations, instead only giving general principles that, although legitimate, are not particularly insightful. Of course, maybe it’s just me; or rather, maybe it’s just our current society that marks off his arguments as obvious. The concept of an opportunistic and ruthless ruler—one who moderates what should be moderated and excesses what should be excessed—is a concept that I’m quite familiar with and one that I’d be surprised if half the population wasn’t at least aware about. Unfortunately, that guideline is one of the only ones that have stood the test of time; in our modern age, many of Machiavelli’s points are invalid. The masses still exist and the elite are still elite, but the nature of both classes has changed dramatically over the years. It is no longer advisable to maintain large armies as opposed to investing in technological warfare (e.g. WMDs), and the world power balance has made it so that the invasion of other countries is no longer something you can do with half-baked reasoning (with the exception of a certain superpower). Politics is now dominated by economics, economics is now dominated by the people, the people are now dominated by the environment, and the environment is now dominated by information. What has without a doubt changed the most between Machiavelli’s time and ours, however, is the ruler itself. The ruler is no longer the great center of power in most governments, but instead a figurehead that directs (or is manipulated to direct) the power. It is extremely hard to be feared as a ruler without being hated, and even harder to be loved as one without the influence of external fear (being hated is still pretty easy though). The ruler is now, in essence, always at the mercy of its people, and a large chunk of its people probably have the means to get a scoped rifle and snipe the ruler on his/her morning walk. So, not that I blame Machiavelli for not being able to foresee the future, but the truth of the matter is that this text has lost much of its importance.

Christopher Columbus

I don’t like reading history. The reason—because reading it is basically nothing more than studying the entire, mostly boring existence of people you most likely don’t care about anyway. Now, I’m well aware that a lot of not boring history is out there (and people you would actually care about), but a small speck of gold does little to brighten a dreary pile of coal. With that said, Christopher Columbus is rated quite high on the list of historical figures I don’t care about. In fact, seeing some books on him was one of the main reasons I passed on the other Arts One group, which I suppose was a futile attempt as I still have to read him in this group. But who knows; maybe this compilation of letters is actually interesting? Maybe I’ve been missing out on the wonders of history all this time? Maybe the tale of Admiral Columbus taking his ships, going out to semi-unexplored lands, and subjugating Indians is in fact a great epic story of fascinating discovery and amazement? Maybe reading a hundred pages of his Excellency whining about how awful his life is, how selfless he is, and how subjugating Indians is a great rehabilitation method is actually a hundred pages of deep, philosophical text? Yeah…no; it was pretty boring overall. I can’t deny that I went into it with biased (and fully realized) standards, so maybe I’m just not reading it properly. Of course, this text does its job as a historical record—it shows us the viewpoint of Columbus and his questionable mental state at all stages of his journey, giving us insight into his thoughts and emotions at the time. It also shows us…no, that’s about it. Since these are letters written solely from Columbus’ point of view, we really can’t believe anything that he says. He obviously left out many crucial and potentially damning events that he may or may not have incited, and he quite overbearing tries to victimize himself whilst antagonizing everyone and everything that is against him. He is playing suck-up to the majesties throughout, and as such wouldn’t tell them anything he doesn’t think they need to know. Personally, the most irritating thing about this book for me was the incessant need to tie god to everything. Even the footnotes contained crosses or double-crosses, and the people who compiled this book are also clearly Christian. Not that I have anything against Christianity in general, but objectivity was clearly the least of anyone’s worries in the creation of this book. It certainly does reflect the historical context, but this leads to my other major problem with history—it is, and always will be, biased. The record of “objective” events will always be recorded by a subjective writer, and thus, nothing read in a history book should ever be taken as is. There is always another side.


Beowulf is another one of those tales that are meant to be heard rather than read, preferably with a gruff and atmospheric voice in this case. It is a tale of epic proportions that is the perfect story to recite around a dinner table or bonfire in a crowd of drunken men. It is a viable method of getting the morale and blood of soldiers rolling high before a large battle. It is even a fairly effective propaganda tool for implanting the ideals of a “hero” into youth. What it isn’t, however (or at least not intended to be), is a deep, multi-layered story. It isn’t The Odyssey, isn’t Medea, isn’t Odysseus, and definitely isn’t The Republic, the last of which goes without saying. What it is in our modern perspective is a historical work, the kind which we analyze not because of its philosophical meaning but because of its cultural context. Not to say that it doesn’t have any merits as a work of literature (Tolkien can attest to that), but the truth is that if some random person wrote the exact same story using modern writing conventions, the majority of readers would call it a crappy story. Now, that actually applies to quite a few books in our reading list, but it’s especially clear with this one, at least in my opinion.

So what really happened in this poem? To sum it up, some great king decided to create a great hall and party all day long in it. As a result of this incessant noise-making, Grendel became grumpy and decided to eat them all so that they would finally give him some peace and quiet (and because he was evil and hungry and all that stuff). Then, wanting to get his partying days back, the great king called for the extermination of the party-crasher but was met with continuous failure, despair, and the transformation of his party buddies into high-protein meals. Then came Beowulf, one of those rare lunatics who can actually back his boasting with divine muscles, along with his own party buddies who all turned out to be useless except for one. Beowulf heard about the great party king’s woes of only being able to throw sad one-man parties in his hall and decided that he would put an end to grumpy Grendel—with his bare hands, because he’s that awesome. Hearing this, the great king was delighted and decided to throw a huge party (because he’s the great party king), until night came and went back to his sleeping chambers so that he could party another day. Beowulf, waiting in the hall with his mostly useless party buddies, was eventually met with grumpy Grendel coming for a late night snack. After munching on a party buddy who was probably useless anyway, Beowulf did his battle cry and ripped Grendel’s limbs off. So came the sad end of grumpy Grendel, who limped away and died in a ditch somewhere, a damned soul who just wanted some peace and quiet but was too shy to ask. The great king returned to a victorious Beowulf, and they all started partying again. Upon hearing about her son’s vicious murder, however, Grendel’s mother was enraged (who can blame her) and decided to take up Grendel’s noble cause of party-crashing. Thus, she came in and did away with the great king’s best party buddy, bringing him to despair as his parties will now never be the same again. Hearing this, testosterone-permeated Beowulf decided to take revenge for Grendel’s mother taking revenge on her son who Beowulf killed in revenge because Grendel exceeded his diet quotient for the past seven years. Deciding, however, that even he was not awesome enough to do this barehanded, Beowulf took a powerful sword that turned out to be useless and entered the lake where Grendel’s mother dwelled alone (because his party buddies were clearly useless by this point). After a huge struggle in which Beowulf actually managed to find a sword that wasn’t completely useless, he slayed Grendel’s mother and brought her head back on a pike so that everyone could see how much of a lunatic he was. Discovering that all his troubles were gone, the great party king partied happily ever after and Beowulf went back to do more of his lunatic deeds, the last of which involved killing a dragon with his one not useless party buddy supporting him. He died, his men got treasure, and he got a giant sea beacon built for him so that everyone would know how awesome and how much of a lunatic he was in times to come. The end.



After diligently reading and earmarking potential quotes from the three Theban plays, I discovered that we were only supposed to read one of them. Fabulous.

Anyway, Oedipus the King, tied with Colonus as the play with the least earmarked quotes, has a different format to it as opposed to other plots with prophecies hanging over them like black signboards dyed in the stink of a convenient gimmick. In this play, the prophesized individual does not learn about his “destiny” until after he’s already fulfilled it, which in my opinion is a much better way to go about it if the writer is for some inexplicable reason compelled to add that kind of stink to the plot. Because of this, Oedipus does not suffer self-fulfilling prophecy syndrome, nor did he constantly second-guess himself about whether his fate is his own and all that annoying angst when he was doing the Sphinx’s puzzle (I didn’t read that so I could be wrong). Of course, I know that I’m looking at this from the viewpoint of a modern reader; fate back then was completely tied to the gods, so plays about prophecies in that era were simply tools to solidify people’s trust in divine power.

The concept of prophecies aside, the prophecy itself in this play is a rather peculiar one. First of all, Oedipus’ father did suffer from self-fulfilling prophecy syndrome, as his choice to throw Oedipus off the cliff was what led to his eventual death at the hands of his son. Secondly, I am still unsure whether or not Oedipus’ mother knew what she was doing when she married her son—she seemed to me to have been hiding it from him until it couldn’t be hidden anymore, after which she promptly committed suicide. I’m not absolutely sure that she wasn’t actually just refusing to see the truth herself, however, though I suspect that I’d get a better idea if I read the play involving her first meeting with adult Oedipus. Finally, Oedipus’ reaction when he learned about the prophecy and his connection to it was, to put it mildly, not a happy one. He cursed everything about himself and ripped out his eyes in his self-hatred, moving straight past normal angst and into absolute angst. What made this play interesting to me, however, was what happened after that (in Colonus, which we weren’t supposed to read but whatever). Oedipus, after going through his cycle of turmoil, actually leaves it and attempts to get his life back together. The prophecy of doom is fulfilled, despaired at, and finally…accepted. Killing his father, marrying his mother, and ripping out his eyes wasn’t the end for Oedipus. Instead, there was a whole other play after that depicting him as an almost mystic figure who (ironically) had the power to give prophecies that were always right. His end was described as quite a spectacular sight as well, showing perhaps that even after suffering such pain and anguish, it is possible to attain redemption and a decent end. 

Republic Continued

Based on this book, I have to say that although Plato is a man with many legitimate arguments, he ultimately possesses misguided fundamentals coupled with even more misguided theories of application. His ideal of justice is nothing more than a state-regulated lifestyle of moderation and conformity, while his ideal state is nothing more than an assembly line with which to pump out the “just” masses and have them lead utterly uninteresting lives. Uninteresting to me, that is—as par one of Plato’s legitimate arguments, the pumped out masses would definitely be hard-wired to love their respective lifestyles. A foundation of society is, after all, to make the masses think they’re happy.

            In any case, where Plato’s fundamentals go wrong is at the very start of his logic. The problem, however, is not that he only sees one answer to every question (every question does only have one answer in relation to it). The problem is that he sees only one answer to all questions, and subsequently only one path to the said answer. That answer, of course, is justice, and the path to it is a moderated and conformed lifestyle. Even the philosophers, who he sees as the highest class of citizen, must follow this established path every step of the way. The main issue with such two-dimensional thinking (aside from the fact that it’s nothing short of ignorance), is that it is fragile against anything that even has a semblance of being able to prove it wrong. It is a thin and brittle tower built from the ground up, and anyone with the slightest curiosity could just poke at it and cause the entire thing to crash right back down. In this case, the tower crashers are anyone beyond the ideal citizen that Plato described; he is well aware of this fact, which is why he explicitly stated that his state cannot let anyone who doesn’t conform to his standards enter the city. It is also why he says to censor the poems and the songs, and eliminate the greatest highs and the lowest lows. He is desperate to retain the illusion that his ideal is absolute, and has devised every method he is capable of conceptualizing to maintain that illusion, which of course won’t stop anyone from nuking the city of crazies if they by some miracle actually manage to survive that long. Thankfully, however, the man has enough sense to admit that creating such a state is virtually impossible. The closest you could probably get to it in reality is the state depicted in George Orwell’s 1984, and even then you’d be hard-pressed to maintain it. So, for all intents and purposes, Plato’s argument (or at least the state part) is realistically impossible as well as utterly unappealing to those who have lived outside of its illusion.



This book is definitely an interesting one to read as it contains subject matter that is still yet to be fully resolved today. I myself am enjoying it thoroughly, though reading it on a bus where I’m prone to motion sickness has proved to make the experience a bit more nauseating than it would be otherwise. The content is indeed heavy and requires some measure of concentration to absorb properly, but the arguments themselves are mostly based on chains of simple variable logic that can be connected together without having to scan every word. With that said, I’ll give my thoughts on some of the arguments discussed.

Somewhere in the book, there is an argument brought up against Socrates that injustice is by nature more profitable than justice due to the “naïve” and “exploitable” nature of justice itself. There was also talk of a 2D classification diagram which was rather interesting and amusing to read, but that’s beside the point. Anyway, it was argued that injustice is by far more profitable than justice because injustice can gain the advantages of justice (i.e. public support) and at the same time possess the advantages of injustice. Justice, on the other hand, cannot possess the advantages of injustice and will also likely not possess the advantage of public support according to the argument presented. Thus, injustice that cloaks itself as justice is by far more profitable than justice itself and anyone who follows justice is a complete and utter fool who is naïve and cannot handle the moral strains of committing injustice.

While this argument can be pretty convincing when viewed by itself, its flaw lies in the fact that it doesn’t see the bigger picture. Socrates presented a very effective counterargument (half the contents of which I can’t recall at the moment) detailing exactly what that bigger picture is. To paraphrase it without all the complicated metaphors and moral jargon, injustice is by nature something which only takes away but cannot contribute. Because it cannot contribute, it is nothing more than a parasitic existence that cannot survive without its host (i.e. justice). Because it cannot survive without justice, the advantage of injustice is also fundamentally insecure and prone to unstable lapses in the degree of advantage provided. Furthermore, the advantage gained from the parasitic injustice is of a lesser level to the advantage gained by the nonparasitic and contributing justice should it associate with other nonparasitic and contributing justices. Thus, it can be depicted like this

Justice + Injustice = Advantage for Injustice, Disadvantage for Justice

Injustice + Injustice = Disadvantage for Injustice

Justice + Justice = Great Advantage for Justice

Though injustice can profit from the contributions of justice, that profit is smaller than the potential gain that could be produced from multiple justices working together. We see then that rather than calling justice naïve and weak, it would be far more appropriate to call injustice small-minded and useless due to their inefficient philosophy. This also connects to the part of the book where Socrates talks about the ideal city, which is in essence a city full of justices working together to prosper mutually. I won’t go too much into this topic here as that would take far more words than I’m willing to write for a blog entry, but the problem with Socrates’ argument may be that he is neglecting to view the smaller picture. Though absolute justice and ideal efficiency is great, there is a certain level of the human consciousness that cannot be measured and compared to a standard. That’s all for now.