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I went to a chiropractor in the 1980s for a stiff neck that had not improved after a month. A coworker praised him with the evangelical certainty usually reserved for miracle diets, used car salesmen, and people who have just read one book on nutrition. I was skeptical but adventurous, which is how most regrettable life decisions begin.

The adjustment worked. My neck improved. Worse still, my chronic asthma improved as well.

At the time, I was deeply unhappy in my first professional job after earning a bachelor’s degree in psychology and a master’s degree in applied behavioral science at Wright State University in Dayton, Ohio. I worked for a personnel-testing firm that marketed itself as scientific while relying on psychological instruments invented—without irony—in-house. Their psychometric rigor consisted largely of confidence, clipboards, and an aggressive font choice.

Compared with the pseudoscientific theater I was being paid to defend, chiropractic felt almost wholesome.

These tests produced false positives and false negatives with impressive symmetry, giving employers either a false sense of security or a convenient scapegoat. Qualified people quietly lost livelihoods. Chiropractic, by contrast, seemed refreshingly concrete. Hands. Spines. Patients who said they felt better. I imagined self-employment, ethical work, relief of pain, and perhaps even improved health. Compared with the pseudoscientific theater I was being paid to defend, chiropractic felt almost wholesome. In retrospect, this should have been a warning sign.

Why Chiropractic Made Sense at First

I had been trained in program evaluation, a discipline shaped by people obsessed with how to infer causality in the messy real world where randomization is often impossible and people insist on behaving like people. This was the era of stress research—Hans Selye, Thomas Holmes, and Richard Rahe—demonstrating that belief, expectation, and circumstance could predict outcomes as dramatic as Navy pilots crashing jets on aircraft carriers.

Chiropractic appeared to offer a humane alternative: a hands-on profession marginalized by a medical establishment overly confident in pharmaceuticals and procedures. Like many, I believed useful treatments had been discarded not because they failed, but because they threatened professional turf. I believed science had limits, and that those limits had been selectively enforced, preferably against someone else.

So I decided to become one myself, and in 1987 I graduated from the San Jose campus of Palmer College of Chiropractic and joined the ranks of doctors of chiropractic—eager, idealistic, and spectacularly unaware of the epistemic ecosystem I had entered.

Inside the Bubble

The dominant narrative was simple: conventional medicine had unfairly dismissed us. Scientific objections were cherry-picked. Our methods worked; medicine simply refused to look properly, or long enough, or with an open heart and an open mind liberated from all that oppressive critical thinking.

On weekends, I studied at Stanford’s Green Medical Library and noticed something curious: the library did not carry chiropractic’s premier scientific journal. I proposed that Palmer purchase a subscription for Stanford. We did. Stanford thanked us politely, in the tone such institutions reserve for unsolicited fruit baskets.

Subtle vital forces, innate intelligence, and spinal “subluxations” hover just beneath the surface of even the most modern curricula, like software that never quite finishes installing.

Old-guard chiropractors complained that we risked spilling our secrets to scientific medicine. The truth is, chiropractic education exists in a parallel universe. Its founding figure, D.D. Palmer, died in 1910, but his metaphysical afterlife remains active. Subtle vital forces, innate intelligence, and spinal “subluxations” hover just beneath the surface of even the most modern curricula, like software that never quite finishes installing.

The 1990s brought chiropractic its brief flirtation with legitimacy. The NIH’s Office of Alternative Medicine was established, fueled in part by philanthropic enthusiasm from abroad.

I interviewed for a position at an English health estate owned by Sir Maurice Laing, who had both an interest in alternative medicine and the resources to indulge it. I declined the offer, tethered as I was to America, but not before inserting myself into meetings with leaders of British complementary medicine. 

To the British Committee on Complementary medicine, I proposed a heresy: stop arguing about putative mechanisms; first determine what works, for whom, and under what conditions. Program evaluation before explanation. My suggestion was politely ignored. Before assuming his kingship, King Charles quietly stepped away from his advocacy of complementary medicine. One suspects reality intervened, possibly with charts.

The Cracks Appear

After years of practice and research involvement, my discomfort grew. Chiropractic diagnostics increasingly failed a basic test: face validity. 

My practice partner believed she could diagnose disease by testing the strength of specific muscles, a method known as applied kinesiology (AK). Patients loved it. The ritual was impressive. They asked why I did not perform AK, as though I were withholding a party trick. I asked her once how often her diagnoses were correct. “About half the time,” she said, without irony.

This is precisely the accuracy one would expect from a fair coin flip, except coins do not bill insurance companies or require continuing education credits. These tests were never compared to gold standards, so strictly speaking they were never correct or incorrect at all. They simply were.

What finally broke me was not only the epistemology—it was the economics. Chiropractic education devotes astonishing energy to practice management. Seminars, workshops, and consultants descend with the same message delivered in different fonts: sell care plans, sell frequency, sell fear. Some that you pay for one-to-one counsel offer referrals when referring to other chiropractors. My millionaire business coach promised me $1000 per referral that signed up—but always called a few weeks later with a sad reason not to pay. 

The mantra was explicit: ABC—Always Be Closing. The bottom line of all the chiropractic continuing education and coaching programs was to lie about how chiropractic is crucial for overall health, and the bottom-bottom line was that advising chiropractors is much more profitable than being one.

Patients were no longer people with problems to be evaluated; they were “cases” to be converted. Thirty-six-visit plans were praised. Lifetime care was normalized. Preventive adjustments were marketed with the confidence of seatbelts and vaccines—minus the evidence, testing, and regulatory oversight.

Certainty, I learned, is a remarkably precious commodity in chiropractic world.

Those who questioned this model were told they lacked confidence, commitment, and the proper chiropractic spirit. Skepticism itself became a personal failure. Success was measured not in clinical outcomes, but in collections. The resemblance to the psychometric firm I had fled years earlier was no longer subtle. With a quiet corruption of Avedis Donabedian’s classic framework—structure, process, and outcome—chiropractic leaders instead sold belief, structure, and certainty. And certainty, I learned, is a remarkably precious commodity in chiropractic world.

Indeed, one of the central problems with chiropractic is its frank comfort with ignoring evidence in favor of belief systems that “just make sense.” Plausibility substitutes for proof. Confidence substitutes for outcomes.

In practice, chiropractic operates at two largely disconnected levels of knowledge. At the top sit researchers, faculty, and administrators—those who define the profession’s identity—yet who typically know very little about the day-to-day realities of practice. At the bottom are practicing chiropractors, submerged in diagnosis codes, billing rules, collections, hiring and firing staff, training front-desk help, negotiating with insurers, and keeping the lights on.

The irony in all that is that the most influential voices shaping chiropractic practice are almost entirely those who do not practice. These are the “paycheck chiropractors,” whose authority is inversely related to their proximity to the trenches. They do not argue with insurers. They do not explain denied claims. They do not rehire front-desk staff every six months. Yet this has never impaired their confidence in advising clinicians how to act, what to treat, and what to expect from every imaginable or unimaginable combination of symptoms.

Practicing chiropractors, for their part, are remarkably comfortable with this arrangement. When things wobble or fail, blame flows inward. The practitioner assumes personal deficiency: insufficient belief, insufficient technique, insufficient commitment. It functions like a built-in self-protection virus for the profession—very convenient for avoiding collective accountability.

This arrangement is also useful when graduates eventually notice three inconvenient facts:

1. There are few jobs.
2. There is no meaningful referral network within medicine.
3. Fifty years of accumulating studies have failed to make a compelling case for chiropractic’s widespread clinical utility.

Chiropractic does not compete well with medicine—or even with itself. When studied carefully, its apparent effectiveness dissolves into non-specific factors: expectation, attention, ritual, and natural history. When chiropractic researchers properly control for placebo and natural recovery, the specific effect of spinal manipulation reliably shrinks or disappears altogether. Paradoxically, better science makes chiropractic look worse.

Structurally, the profession is a two-tiered, one-directional system that rarely improves, because the real problems are invisible at the top and permanently personalized at the bottom. Some leaders continue selling early-20th-century dogma, steering chiropractic safely away from medicine by avoiding diagnosis and disease altogether.

When a profession cannot hear its own failures, cannot correct its own assumptions, and cannot tolerate honest uncertainty, leaving stops feeling like betrayal and starts feeling like hygiene.

At some point, the pattern became impossible to ignore. When a profession cannot hear its own failures, cannot correct its own assumptions, and cannot tolerate honest uncertainty, leaving stops feeling like betrayal and starts feeling like hygiene. That was when I knew I was done.

Many of my former classmates reached the same conclusion, some more quickly than I did. Privately, several admitted that much of what we had been taught was baloney. They were not amused. A $200,000–$400,000 investment over four years had produced clinicians who knew just enough medicine to realize how little they could safely treat. The coping mechanism was predictable: at least we help 50 percent of patients—better than nothing.

Some eventually realized that 50 percent accuracy in a two-outcome probability space is not success at all.

At the end of last year I wrote an article in Quillette called “Can art convey truth?” (archived here). I contended that while the object of science is to find the truth about the universe (including humans, of course), the goal of much of the humanities—the arts—is not to find truth; humanities have other aims. As I said,

The real value of art, then, is not that it conveys knowledge that can’t be acquired in other ways, but that it produces emotional and cognitive effects on the receiver, usually conferring an experience of beauty. Art can enrich how we think about ourselves and other people, and, crucially, allow us to view the world through eyes other than our own. Through reflection, this expansion of experience can enhance our knowledge of ourselves. But that is subjective rather than propositional knowledge.

Because of this, we can’t say that the purpose of universities is to “find and promulgate truth” so long as universities teach the visual, literature, music, cinema, and so on. That doesn’t diminish the value of universities, but slightly changes what we see as their mission.

I was prompted to write this because at a Heterodox Academy meeting in Brooklyn last year, I was roundly criticized by scholars like John McWhorter and Louis Menand, who maintained that there was indeed agreed-upon “truths” to be found in art (McWhorter later recanted a bit). I think they were wrong, perhaps wedded to the idea that admitting that art isn’t “truthy” would be an admission that it’s inferior to science. (It isn’t; they are simply different.) And reader of this site will know of my respect and admiration for art.

Now an artist has weighed in on this argument, (also in Quillette) and she’s on my side. The artist is Megan Gafford, who is quite accomplished, and I like her work (see examples here).  I will first show her view that, in general agrees with mine, and then discuss a few reactions I have to her contentions. I am not saying where she’s wrong, but merely commenting on her commentary.

You can read Ms. Gafford’s article by clicking on the title screenshot below, or, if you can’t see the original, find it archived here. Her piece also contains one of her lovely drawings.

Here’s her opening, which I was pleased to read (I took a lot of flak for saying that art does not uncover “truths”):

In a recent Quillette piece Jerry Coyne argues that “unlike science, the literary, visual, and performing arts are not about truth.” When he made a similar assertion last June at a Heterodox Academy conference, it “resulted in Louis Menand and John McWhorter telling me, in so many words, to stay in my lane,” he writes. Wary that people might perceive him as “just another narrow-minded disciple of the science-as-hegemony school,” Coyne writes about art from a defensive crouch—but because I’m an artist, and well within my lane, I have no such qualms. Coyne is correct when he writes:

The real value of art … is not that it conveys knowledge that can’t be acquired in other ways, but that it produces emotional and cognitive effects on the receiver, usually conferring an experience of beauty. Art can enrich how we think about ourselves and other people, and, crucially, allow us to view the world through eyes other than our own. Through reflection, this expansion of experience can enhance our knowledge of ourselves. But that is subjective rather than propositional knowledge.

Would-be defenders of art make a serious category error when they insinuate that beauty is inferior to truth—as if beauty were an insufficient goal. But it is impossible to champion art effectively unless you believe that beauty is its own justification. Coyne offers examples of poems and paintings that he admires for their beauty. But he does not go far enough. Beautiful art can guide us through places where scientific truth can’t help us.

One comment I have on her piece is that she never really defines “beauty”.  It can of course be construed in several ways, including the most common interpretation: something that pleases the aesthetic senses (especially sight). This would include music you find appealing, paintings by Johannes Vermeer, literature that is appealing to the ear (for me that would be Yeats or Joyce’s “The Dead”), and so on.

But one could argue that much great art is not “beautiful” in that sense, for many works of art are upsetting and distressing, or conveys emotions that are not pretty.  I’ve thought of a few, including Dante’s Inferno, Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, 1984, art depicting war (“Guernica,” Goya’s paintings), or upsetting art like Serrano’s “Piss Christ” or Munch’s “The Scream”. I’m a fan of Jackson Pollock, but it’s unclear whether the artist intended his “drip paintings” to be beautiful, and certainly many people don’t find them so.  By concentrating on “beauty” as the goal of art, Gafford herself doesn’t go far enough—unless “beauty” and “what I consider great” are taken as synonymous. That makes the argument tautological, though.

I will now give a few quotes from Gafford along with my response:

Beautiful art can guide us through places where scientific truth can’t help us.

I’ll use my favourite novel as an example. John Steinbeck recasts the Cain and Abel story in his 1952 saga East of Eden, and his wisest character ponders different English translations of that Bible story with mutually incompatible interpretations. He wants to understand the precise meaning of what God told Cain after he slew Abel, so he consults the original Hebrew to sort out what it really means:

I won’t reproduce Gafford’s argument, here, but her example from Steinbeck doesn’t seem to me to convey “beauty” unless it’s seen as s proper (and therefore more meaningful) translation of the Hebrew for the Cain and Abel story, which itself was a model for East of Eden.

Another:

Physicists have long tried to figure out whether we’re living in a deterministic universe, a question with obvious implications for free will. But for now, we don’t know—and maybe we cannot know. Reality can be inscrutable. It is the task of scientists to answer questions like “do we live in a deterministic universe?” And it is the task of artists to summon beauty that helps us bear the uncertainty. These roles are equally important. They are not interchangeable.

I won’t argue about free will here (except to say that I don’t think we have it in the libertarian sense, and there’s strong evidence for that contention), but rather would note that art has a wider purpose than “summoning beauty to help us bear the uncertainty” (of life and thought, I presume). Again, great art may not alleviate our distress, but exacerbate it. There is a lot of great art and literature that is simply disturbing. Do you think the painting below is beautiful?  It’s  “Head VI”by Francis Bacon (from Wikipedia), one of the versions of Bacon’s famous “Screaming Pope” series. Those paintings are not beautiful in any conventional sense, but they’re mesmerizing and, I’d say, great art. This resembles Munch’s “The Scream”, and I doubt that Bacon meant it to convey beauty. Rather than soothe our anxiety, it heightens it:

Fair usage, Wikimedia.

Gafford also notes that writers and artists talk about revealing “truth”, for example:

Artists often treasure the truth, as when Paul Cézanne wrote to a younger painter, “I owe you the truth in painting and I shall tell it to you.” By this he meant an authentic impression of nature grounded in immediate perception, rather than any inherited formulae or conventions. Likewise, Ernest Hemingway claims in his memoir A Moveable Feast that “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

Clearly Cézanne and Hemingway are talking about subjective rather then objective truth: they are talking about expressing their own views or feelings clearly.

Finally, Gafford talks about how scientists themselves speak of the beauty of their fields, for example a “beautiful experiment” (the Meselson and Stahl experiment comes to mind) or a “beautiful equation”:

Just as artists treasure the truth, scientists frequently extoll beauty. Ulkar Aghayeva argues that “every practicing scientist has an intuitive sense of what a beautiful experiment is.” She details different reasons why scientists have called experiments beautiful. The aesthetic sensibilities of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century scientists were “centered on nature unveiling its innate beauty,” she writes, while contemporary theoretical physicist Frank Wilczek regards a beautiful experiment as one where “you get out more than you put in” because “beautiful experiments exhibit a strong information asymmetry between the input from the experimenter and the output of the system under study.”

I’m not sure how much of a role aesthetics plays here, compared to cleverness and simplicity that yield decisive results (Meselson and Stahl experiment) or E = mc², which is “beautiful” in its simplicity and its economy. But there are lots of important equations that are not nearly as simple or economical.

Finally, while of course appreciating science, Gafford seems to see art as a way to give us a respite from science, which is conceived of as wearing and tedious. Gafford first quotes the philosopher C. Thi Nguyen:

“The tightly structured and highly collective nature of scientific work seems to arise from our desire to actually get things right. We use experts and inferential reasoning in science in order to cope with the vast, sprawling nature of the world. Our separate minds just aren’t large enough to do it on our own. So scientists create a vast store of publicly accessible data, and then use this collective database to make accurate predictions. This methodology requires a radical degree of trust. Scientific conclusions are based on long chains of reasoning, which cross different specialties. Engineers rely on chemists, who in turn rely upon statisticians and molecular physicists, and on and on. And much of this involves trusting others beyond one’s ability to verify. A typical doctor cannot vet, for themselves, all the chemistry, statistics, and biological research on which they rely. The social practice of science is oriented towards epistemic efficiency, which drives us towards epistemic dependence. Scientific conclusions are network conclusions. …

Our artistic and aesthetic practices offer us a respite from that vast, draining endeavor. We have shaped a domain where we can each engage with the world with our own minds—or in nicely human-sized groups. We have shaped a domain where we can return to looking at particular things directly, instead of seeking general principles. This form of aesthetic life functions as a relief from the harsh demands of our collective effort to understand the world. Our aesthetic life is a constructed shelter from science.”

. . . and adds this in her own words:

And so, no matter how well beauty and truth complement each other, we should not conflate the value of art with that of science, lest we weaken both. Can scientists reach their full potential without art as a shelter from the psychic cost of surrendering autonomy? Can artists summon beauty into the world if they do not value it as an end unto itself?

I agree with her conclusion about conflation, but disagree with her claim that doing science incurs a “psychic cost of surrendering autonomy”, meaning that we have to dissolve our egos into the collective enterprise of science to do it properly.  But I’ve never felt that to produce a psychic cost: I find it joyful to do my science  in a community, for that is where you get many of your ideas. Only a few scientists, like Einstein, do their work in isolation, and presumably like it that way.

This is just a commentary on a commentary, and, as I said, not a critique of Gafford, but a scientist’s expansion on her ideas—part of a continuing dialogue on science and art.

 

Simulations of Australopithecus hominins’ anatomy suggest that when they gave birth, they may have exerted tremendous pressure on their pelvic floors, putting them at risk of tearing

The Jesus and Mo artist has resurrected a strip called Fluid, called “a Friday Flashback from almost exactly 8 years ago.” It’s a classic, with Mo donning a niqab as an expression of his feminine side. Unfortunately, that side applies only to his garments, not to his temperament.

There are a few simple things you can do to make your digital life much more secure, says cybersecurity expert Jake Moore - follow these tips to tighten up your passwords

A trumpet-shaped, single-celled organism seems able to predict one thing will follow another, hinting that such associative learning emerged long before multicellular nervous systems

Abby Thompson, a UC Davis mathematician, is back with more photos (and a video!) from the intertidal of northern California. Abby’s captions and IDs are indented, and you can enlarge her photos by clicking on them.

Jellyfish!

I thought I’d throw some jellyfish into the lull between the great winter tides and the great summer ones.

The reproductive cycles of the tidepool creatures are wildly varied, with behaviors ranging from maternal (see Epiactis prolifera from my last post), chancy (see mussels), through incessant (see nudibranchs).   But for sheer baroque complication, I vote for the jellyfish.    Many who stroll on a beach will see the quivering gelatinous masses of jellyfish stranded by the tide, and the less fortunate will have encountered their stinging tentacles while in the water.  This describes, a little, how they get there.

There are several jellyfish species common on the Northern California beaches; here are some of them:

Aurelia labiata (Greater Moon Jelly):

Chrysaora fuscescens (Pacific sea nettle):

Chrysaora colorata (purple-striped sea nettle) These are big, about a foot across:

Another Chrysaora colorata (handsome creatures):

Genus Aequorea (crystal jelly):

Polyorchis haplus:

Scrippsia pacifica (giant bell jelly):

The Chrysaoras and Aurelia labiata are in the class Scyphozoa; the rest are in the class Hydrozoa.

For all of these, males and females get together in the same vicinity, and release eggs and sperm (see “chancy” above), which form little “planulae”.    Then things get complicated.     Because (usually) the planulae settle down and attach themselves to something, and become polyps.  Like these tiny things:

Genus Sarsia:

Hydrocoryne bodegensis:

But how do they get from here (e.g. something like Sarsia) to there (e.g. something like Polyorchis haplus)?   Well they don’t, always, and sometimes they don’t get from there to here, either, but here’s an illustration of the process when it goes through a “typical” complete cycle:

And in fact if you look closely at that photo of H. bodegensis, you can see a little medusa just budding off, circled in the photo below:

Here’s a video of a set of newly-formed “baby jellyfish” (they look excited) which swam into my microscope view.    I didn’t know what I was seeing, so don’t have a photo of the polyp from which they likely emerged.   This means I have no idea of the genus (or even the class- if these are Scyphozoa then these are really ephyrae which will turn into medusae).

There seem to be many species for which the complete reproductive  process is not documented –  for example, if you search for the polyp stage of Polyorchis haplus, the answer is that we don’t know what it is, nor where it can be found.

 

A final oddity of this elaborate reproductive process is the existence of the so-called “immortal” jellyfish. (not found in the cold waters of Northern California).  If damaged at the medusa phase, this one can revert to its earlier (genetically identical) polyp phase- and so on ad infinitum, apparently.  As though, when things go wrong in your life, you could go back to your childhood and try again.

I’m grateful for help with IDs from experts on inaturalist and elsewhere.    All mistakes are mine.

A growing body of research shows that we tend to discount a person’s good deeds if they stand to benefit from them. Columnist David Robson explores where this instinct comes from – and whether we should resist it

Time is running out to grab one of the few remaining cabins for Málaga, Spain to Nice, France on the SV Royal Clipper AND announcing our next adventure to New Orleans followed by the Mysteries of the Maya cruise to the Yucatán Peninsula!

Learn about your ad choices: dovetail.prx.org/ad-choices

With Dr. Jay Bhattacharya in power, the headlines now read "Americans Trust Fauci Over RFK Jr. and Career Scientists Over Trump Officials."

The post Now That It’s His Job to Control Measles, Dr. Jay Bhattacharya Suddenly Expects People to Trust Everyone & Everything He Spent 6 Years Attacking first appeared on Science-Based Medicine.

The errors that quantum computers make are holding the technology back. But recent progress in quantum error correction has excited many researchers

Gold and other heavy elements are born in some of the universe’s most violent events—but scientists still struggle to understand the nuclear steps that create them. Now, nuclear physicists have uncovered three key discoveries about how unstable atomic nuclei decay during the rapid neutron-capture process, the chain reaction responsible for forging elements like gold and platinum.

Gold and other heavy elements are born in some of the universe’s most violent events—but scientists still struggle to understand the nuclear steps that create them. Now, nuclear physicists have uncovered three key discoveries about how unstable atomic nuclei decay during the rapid neutron-capture process, the chain reaction responsible for forging elements like gold and platinum.

As AI systems began acing traditional tests, researchers realized those benchmarks were no longer tough enough. In response, nearly 1,000 experts created Humanity’s Last Exam, a massive 2,500-question challenge covering highly specialized topics across many fields. The exam was engineered so that any question solvable by current AI models was removed. Early results show even the most advanced systems still struggle — revealing a surprisingly large gap between AI performance and true expert-level knowledge.

Scientists have found a promising new way to manufacture one of industry’s toughest materials—tungsten carbide–cobalt—using advanced 3D printing. Normally, producing this ultra-hard material requires high-pressure processes that waste large amounts of expensive tungsten and cobalt. The new approach uses a hot-wire laser technique that softens the metals rather than fully melting them, allowing manufacturers to deposit the material only where it’s needed.

Scientists analyzing a gravitational-wave signal have discovered that a neutron star and black hole spiraled together on an oval-shaped orbit just before merging. This unusual motion, detected in the event GW200105, contradicts the long-held expectation that such pairs settle into nearly perfect circles before collision. The eccentric orbit suggests the system likely formed in a chaotic stellar environment with strong gravitational interactions.

Toys powered by AI show a worrying lack of emotional understanding. But we need to understand the risks and benefits of the technology so the industry can be regulated, not outright banned

What happens when a solar superstorm hits Mars? Thanks to the European Space Agency’s Mars orbiters, we now know: glitching spacecraft and a supercharged upper atmosphere.

• Any group differences in outcomes can be traced to systemic racism.
• If systemic racism exists at all, it works against so-called privileged groups.
• Abortion is murder, period.
• The sanctity of human life is a made-up concept.
• Jews have a biblical right to Israel.
• Hitler was right about a few things.
• Masculinity is inherently toxic.
• If women ran the world, we would still be living in grass huts.
• The colonialists need to give back the land they stole.
• Indigenous people need to get over the fact that they were conquered.
• Providing sex is an obligation within a marriage.
• Any sexual coercion constitutes rape.

Do any of these statements resonate? Make you angry? Do some not even merit a response?

I can’t tell you exactly how I would respond to someone who defended Hitler, but I know what I would not do: stalk him on social media, contact his employer to try to get him fired, or ask my government representative to help criminalize such talk. 

Does this make me a free speech absolutist? Not quite. Like Robert Jensen, a professor emeritus at the University of Austin and prolific blogger, I suspect that most people who call themselves free speech absolutists don’t actually mean it. They wouldn’t countenance speech like “let’s go kill a few Germans this morning. Here, have a gun.” Instead, Jensen writes they’re prepared to “impose a high standard in evaluating any restriction on speech. In complex cases where there are conflicts concerning competing values, [they] will default to the most expansive space possible for speech.”

In other words, they’re free speech maximalists. A more contemporary and nuanced variant of absolutism, the maximalist position grants special status to free speech and puts the burden of proof on those who wish to curtail it. While accepting some restrictions in time, place, and manner, free speech maximalism defaults to freedom of content. It aligns with the litmus test developed by U.S. Supreme Court Justices Hugo Black and William O. Douglas, which holds that government should limit its regulation of speech to speech that dovetails with lawless action:

Let’s go kill a few Germans? Not kosher. 
The only good German is a dead one? Fair game.

Some pundits view this position as misguided. A 2025 Dispatch article titled “Is Free Speech Too Sacred?” laments America’s descent into an era of “free speech supramaximalism,” in which “not only must speech prevail over other regulation, but nearly everything is sooner or later described and defended as speech.” A New Statesman essay about Elon Musk, written a few months before he acquired Twitter (now X), decries Musk’s “maximalist conception of free speech usually adopted by teenage boys and libertarian men in their early 20s, before they realise its limitations and grow out of it.” The implication: free speech maximalism is an unserious pitstop on the way to more mature thinking. Only testosterone-soaked young men, drunk on their first taste of freedom, would spend more than a minute on such a naïve view.

This 69-year-old woman disagrees. I grew into my passion for free speech during the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic, when the pressure to conform in both word and deed reached an intensity I had never witnessed before. Any concerns about the labyrinthine lockdown rules elicited retorts like “moral degenerate” or “mouth-breathing Trumptard.” (Ask me how I know.)

Unexpectedly jolted into awareness of free speech principles, I began reading John Stuart Mill and Jean-Paul Sartre and writing essays about freedom of expression in the COVID era. One thing led to another, and in 2025 the newly minted Free Speech Union of Canada found a spot for me on its organizing committee. What most of us in the group shared, along with age spots and facial wrinkles, was a maximalist position on free speech. Perhaps we’re all immature. Or maybe we’ve lived long enough to understand exactly what we lose when free speech goes AWOL.

But but … critics sputter … what about hate speech? Free speech maximalism posits that you can’t regulate an inherently subjective concept. As Greg Lukianoff and Ricki Schlott note in their 2024 book The Cancelling of the American Mind, “as soon as you start legislating based on a concept as loosely defined and subjective as offense, you open the floodgates to every group and individual claim of offense.” This argument may well explain why Canada’s proposed Bill C9—the Combatting Hate Act—remains stalled after protracted parliamentary debate.

Is “you cannot change sex” hate speech or merely opinion? Is “you have a big Black butt” an offensive remark? It depends on who says it, how it’s said, and who hears it. One person may react to the big butt comment with reflexive outrage, while another may simply shrug. When said tenderly to a lover, the statement may elicit a full-throated laugh. Offense is in the eye of the beholder. 

Someone can tell you that the sky is green, or that women can’t think logically, or that Hitler was right about some things, and you allow the words to bounce off your emotional core. It’s a liberating habit of mind. 

A case in point: In 2017, the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office refused to register the name “The Slants” (an Asian rock band) because of its derogatory, or hateful, connotations. The bandleader sued and the Supreme Court ultimately agreed that “giving offense is a particular viewpoint” and a law restricting expression on the basis of viewpoint violated the First Amendment.

Here’s the thing: when you embrace viewpoint diversity as an ideal, you tend to get less offended about things. You may profoundly disagree with a statement, but it won’t cause you to puff up in outrage. Someone can tell you that the sky is green, or that women can’t think logically, or that Hitler was right about some things, and you allow the words to bounce off your emotional core. It’s a liberating habit of mind. 

And if you do get offended? Big whoop. You’ll survive. During a recent bus trip from Whistler to Vancouver my seatmate, a doctor, took it upon himself to share his candid opinions about women with me: they can’t take a raunchy joke, they make poor leaders, they’re responsible for cancel culture, and society would work better if they stayed home. Ugh. Seriously? But I survived. I wasn’t traumatized. Truth be told, I quite enjoyed our conversation. He listened as much as he spoke. I even found a few grains of value in his arguments, and perhaps a couple of my retorts gave him pause. And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Humans of all stripes challenging and learning from each other. 

Here I must pause to express disappointment in my own sex. Women, I have found, value free speech less than men do, and studies corroborate my perception. In one survey, 71 percent of men said they gave priority to free speech over social cohesion, while 59 percent of women held the opposite view. An article reporting on the survey affirmed that “across decades, topics, and studies, women are more censorious than men.” Boo.

Even with carte blanche to express ourselves, it’s impossibly difficult for us humans to lay bare our true thoughts. Self-censorship is baked into our DNA. Free speech maximalism serves as a counterweight to this force. It allows us to rise, even if timidly, above the lead blanket of social conformity flung over us by the finger-wagging classes. By exposing little bits of our true selves, we shed light on the glorious contradictions in the human condition—a benefit that serves not just angry young men, but women with age spots and everyone else.

To those concerned about the dangers of loosening our tongues, I offer Greg Lukianoff’s bracing maxim: “You are not safer for knowing less about what people really think.” 

Rocky planets are found in abundance around M-type stars (red dwarfs), so finding another one doesn't always generate headlines. But an international team of astronomers say that one recent M-dwarf rocky planet found by TESS is especially noteworthy. This one can serve as a benchmark for comparative studies of this type of exoplanet and their at-risk atmospheres.