Clear Thinking v. Curtis Yarvin

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This is, after all, a philosophy blog. And of all the features of this historical moment that would seem to merit at least a brief cul-de-sac is, well, the philosopher king of the neoreactionary right himself. None other than Mencius Moldbug—or as he's also known, Curtis Yarvin.

Yarvin stands as a singular figure in the landscape of contemporary political thought, a digital Machiavelli for the age of artificial intelligence and cryptocurrencies. His influence, once confined to the obscure corners of the internet, has seeped into the mainstream of American politics with a quiet but unmistakable force. To understand the ideological currents reshaping our democracy, one must grapple with Yarvin's ideas, however unsettling they may be.

Yarvin's critique of democracy isn't merely a rehashing of old authoritarian arguments. It's a comprehensive dismantling of the entire liberal democratic order, cloaked in the language of systems theory and draped with a veneer of technological inevitability. He doesn't just argue that democracy is inefficient—he posits that it's a form of cryptic tyranny, a system where real power is wielded by an unaccountable “Cathedral” of media, academia, and bureaucracy.

What makes Yarvin particularly dangerous is not just the content of his ideas, but the form in which he presents them. His writing is a labyrinth of references, a dizzying array of historical analogies and technological metaphors that overwhelm as much as they persuade. It's not meant to convince through logical argument, but to disorient and reconstruct the reader's entire worldview.

Which brings us to yesterday's events, which somehow managed to combine equal parts historical farce and danger in a single day. The spectacle that unfolded in the Oval Office was not merely a diplomatic blunder; it was a stark manifestation of the ideological rot that has been festering at the heart of our democracy.

Here we witnessed the President and Vice President of the United States, supposed leaders of the free world, berating and belittling the leader of a sovereign nation fighting for its very survival. This wasn't just a breach of decorum; it was a repudiation of the principles that have underpinned global stability for generations. In that moment, the mask slipped, revealing the true face of a leadership so divorced from reality, so consumed by its own narratives, that it can no longer distinguish between allies and adversaries, between democracy and authoritarianism.

But what makes this moment truly chilling is not just the behavior of these particular individuals. It's the realization that this event is the logical endpoint of the ideas we've been discussing. This is what happens when Yarvin's neoreactionary thought infects the highest levels of government. This is the real-world consequence of treating democracy as an outdated operating system, of viewing international relations as nothing more than a game of power to be won by the most ruthless player.

In that Oval Office, we saw the collision of multiple dangerous ideologies: the crude nationalism of Trump, the technocratic authoritarianism of Silicon Valley, and the cynical realpolitik of those who believe might makes right. It's a toxic brew, one that threatens not just American democracy, but the entire post-World War II international order.

And let's be clear: this is not an isolated incident. It's the culmination of years of erosion, of countless small surrenders to expediency over principle, of the gradual acceptance of the unacceptable. We've watched as the norms and institutions that once seemed unassailable have been chipped away, bit by bit, until we find ourselves here—at the edge of an abyss, with leaders who seem all too eager to push us over.

And what does all of this have to do with Yarvin? Well, you'll forgive me the poetic irony of employing a circuitous literary device of burying the lede of this essay. But the connection is as profound as it is disturbing.

Which, going deeper into my—admittedly—intentionally obtuse cul-de-sac in service of some poetic irony, I would draw one's attention to this post on X from Jordan Schachtel.

If you watch the full Trump-Zelensky press conference, it is very clear that Zelensky, not Trump or Vance, became the antagonist. Both POTUS and VP were very respectful and cordial until Zelensky very publicly ignited a firestorm.

It all starts at 40:30

1) Zelensky essentially rejects how VP described the mandate of POTUS to conduct foreign affairs, and he insinuates that Trump term one did nothing to stop Putin.

2) He then basically tells Vance that his ideas are faulty and that the administration's diplomacy won't work.

These two comments are *deliberately antagonistic.* Everything was all well and good, but Zelensky took two major shots in a public forum, and they had to respond. And respond they did.

Recall, this is the guy who interfered in our electoral politics and called VP “too radical,” and bashed Trump in an interview with New York Mag weeks before the election.

Zelensky is ENTIRELY at fault here. 100%.

I'm sorry, but I'm going to lapse a little bit here from my intellectual prose, as I feel both an intellectual and emotional need to simply recoil at the degrees of intellectual fuckery at work, here—which—I promise—is going to tie back to Yarvin. I am torturing you—I know—as I drive further afield of my core point here.

But sometimes, the sheer audacity of this reality-bending demands a more visceral response. What we're witnessing isn't just a difference of opinion or a clever spin on events. It's a full-scale assault on the very concept of shared reality, a brazen attempt to gaslight an entire nation—no, an entire world—into doubting the evidence of their own senses.

We are being asked here, by Mr. Schachtel, that despite the overwhelming weight of context. That, among other things, Vladimir Zelenskyy, a wartime president, fighting a war against a country of superior strength and industrial means, who is trying to straddle both the dignity of their sovereign independence, the weight of tragedy and suffering that has befallen them, the men and women who have died and fought under his protection, and all the moral weight that must bring down on any man with a heartbeat, that it was he who was disrespectful, when cornered with the cameras rolling and broadcasting to the world, with Vance accusing him, when Vance charges at Zelenskyy to say: “I'm talking about the kind of diplomacy that's going to end the destruction of your country. Mr. President, with respect, I think it's disrespectful for you to come into the Oval Office to try to litigate this in front of the American media. Right now, you guys are going around and forcing conscripts to the front lines because you have manpower problems. You should be thanking the president for trying to bring an end to this conflict.”

Condescending down to Zelenskyy, in such a contemptuous way. Prompting Zelenskyy, in an admittedly weak response, but still one that should be interpreted through the lens of the man overcome with the emotions of confronting Vance, suggesting to him by implication that he doesn't care about the lives of his countrymen, because he won't trade land for peace—as if this is the extent of the moral calculus. “Have you ever been to Ukraine that you say what problems we have?”

Vance, trying to suggest he has the necessary objectivity condescends to Mr. Zelenskyy, “I have been to –”, only to be cut-off by Zelenskyy, overwhelmed by the vulgarity of his condescension, rejoins with "Come on…"

Vance escalating in his moral preening to condescend on the Ukrainian president, “I've actually watched and seen the stories, and I know that what happens is you bring people, you bring them on a propaganda tour, Mr. President. Do you disagree that you've had problems, bringing people into your military?”

Zelenskyy again tries to speak, and is spoken over by Vance, to drive in a knife “And do you think that is respectful to come to the Oval Office of the United States of America and attack the administration that is trying to prevent the destruction of your country?”

No. I'm not missing any context here, Mr. Schachtel.

What Vance is saying here, very clearly, is that Ukraine is merely a pawn. And the US and Russia are kings. Who is this measly pawn to presume to represent their own perspective and own view on things, before Vance's power?

This worldview, so starkly displayed in Vance's contemptuous treatment of Zelenskyy, is a manifestation of a dangerous strain of thought that has been gaining traction in certain political circles. It's a perspective that sees international relations not as a complex web of sovereign nations with their own rights and interests, but as a simplistic game of power where might makes right.

In this twisted chess game of geopolitics, figures like Vance see themselves as grand masters, moving pieces at will, with little regard for the autonomy or humanity of those pieces. Ukraine, in this view, isn't a sovereign nation fighting for its survival and self-determination. It's merely a pawn, a troublesome piece on the board that needs to be maneuvered into place for the benefit of the “real” players.

This attitude reflects a broader philosophy that reimagines the entire concept of political legitimacy. It's not about democratic consent, moral authority, or the rule of law. Instead, it's about raw power—who has it, who can wield it, and who must submit to it. In this worldview, smaller nations exist merely as playing fields for the ambitions of greater powers, their sovereignty a quaint fiction to be respected only when convenient.

What we're witnessing is the logical conclusion of a system where society is viewed through the lens of corporate management rather than democratic governance. Ukraine isn't seen as a partner to be respected or a nation with its own interests. It's treated like a troublesome subsidiary that needs to be brought to heel, a resource to be managed rather than a sovereign entity to be engaged with as an equal.

The sheer contempt displayed in this exchange—Vance's patronizing tone, his dismissal of Zelenskyy's perspective as mere “propaganda,” his implication that Ukraine should be grateful for whatever scraps of consideration the U.S. deigns to offer—all of this reflects a worldview where democratic norms and international law are seen as quaint anachronisms, obstacles to be overcome by the truly powerful.

This is the Dark Enlightenment in action—a return to a might-makes-right philosophy dressed up in the language of realpolitik and efficiency. It's a vision where the complexities of international relations, the moral weight of sovereignty, and the human cost of conflict are all reduced to simple power calculations.

And perhaps most chillingly, this exchange reveals the true danger of these ideas when they infect the halls of power. It's not just about abstract philosophical debates anymore. It's about real people, real nations, real lives being treated as expendable in service of a worldview that sees power as its own justification.

But the point of this essay, which seems so far away, but is hiding in my narrative structure here—I recognize I’m being very “meta” right now— is to demonstrate the true nature of what is happening here. A wall of faux nuance and faux intellectual honesty, that simply stares at you and insists you are blind to the realities of the world because you haven't absorbed "context". In this case, Mr. Schachtel's hypothesis, put forward as it was, that the reason why someone like me would ethically misinterpret the exchange I just laid out, stemmed from a failing on my part, to sit through the entirety of a forty-minute video.

This rhetorical strategy is as insidious as it is effective. It's a form of intellectual bullying, cloaked in the guise of rigorous analysis. The implication is clear: if you don't agree with their interpretation, it's not because their argument might be flawed or their perspective skewed. No, it's because you haven't done your homework. You haven't invested the time. You haven't absorbed the full context.

This tactic serves multiple purposes. First, it creates an artificial barrier to entry for criticism. By insisting that only those who've watched the full video can have a valid opinion, they effectively silence a large swath of potential dissenters. It's a form of gatekeeping that masquerades as intellectual rigor.

Secondly, it shifts the burden of proof. Instead of defending their interpretation, they put the onus on critics to prove they've done due diligence. It's a clever sleight of hand that distracts from the substance of the argument and focuses instead on the credentials of the arguer.

Thirdly, and perhaps most perniciously, it creates a false equivalence between time invested and moral clarity. The implication is that if you just watch enough, read enough, absorb enough, you'll inevitably come to their conclusion. This ignores the possibility that more information might actually strengthen the opposing view, or that moral judgments can sometimes be made swiftly and clearly without the need for exhaustive study.

What's truly at stake here is not just the interpretation of a single event, but the very nature of how we engage with reality. This approach suggests that truth is not something that can be grasped intuitively or judged on its merits, but rather something that must be excavated through exhaustive, often obscure study. It's a worldview that privileges complexity over clarity, obfuscation over illumination.

And here's where we begin to see the true danger of this mode of thinking. It's not just about winning arguments or controlling narratives. It's about reshaping the very way we perceive and interact with the world. By insisting that reality is always just out of reach, always requiring more context, more nuance, more study, they create a state of perpetual uncertainty. In this fog of endless context, clear moral judgments become impossible, and power flows to those who can most convincingly claim to see through the haze.

Which brings us back to Mr. Yarvin. Last night I submitted myself to about ninety minutes of reading. The material, Yarvin's Substack, Gray Mirror. It's by no means the first time I've read Yarvin's work. I have had on-again, off-again phases where I have allowed myself to pay closer attention to him. But last night, after perusing his writings, I offered an observation of my thoughts upon ceasing the torturous exercise of trying to find substance in Yarvin's allegedly brilliant interventions:

Reading Yarvin is like staring into a waterfall. Hypnotic, relentless, indifferent to whether you understand it. Ideas crash down in torrents, occulting meaning in a frothing cascade. He doesn't argue. He overwhelms. He doesn't persuade. He drowns. And his followers mistake the flood for insight.

Yes, I have been reading Gray Mirror tonight. Trying to understand why people who used to be my friends take such insight from his weaponized cynicism. Yarvin doesn't persuade. He corrodes. He strips away the burden of morality, leaving only power, hierarchy, and inevitability

This visceral reaction to Yarvin's work cuts to the heart of what makes his philosophy so dangerous. It's not just the content of his ideas, which are troubling enough on their own. It's the very form in which he presents them—a relentless torrent of references, historical analogies, and pseudo-profound observations that overwhelm the reader's critical faculties.

Yarvin's writing style is not accidental. It's a carefully crafted rhetorical strategy designed to disorient and exhaust. By flooding the reader with information, by constantly shifting ground, by burying his core arguments beneath layers of obscure references and convoluted logic, he creates a cognitive quicksand that pulls the reader in deeper the more they struggle to make sense of it.

This approach serves multiple purposes. First, it creates the illusion of depth. The sheer volume and complexity of Yarvin's output can make it seem as though he must be saying something profound, even if that profundity remains perpetually out of reach. It's intellectual shock and awe, designed to batter the reader into submission rather than convince them through reason.

Secondly, it serves as a form of ideological inoculation. By exposing readers to a constant barrage of cynical, hierarchical thinking, Yarvin gradually erodes their resistance to these ideas. It's a form of intellectual attrition, wearing down moral and democratic instincts until all that's left is a cold calculus of power.

But perhaps most insidiously, Yarvin's style mirrors the very world he claims to describe. Just as he argues that democracy is a sham, that real power lies hidden behind a veil of institutions and norms, his writing creates a labyrinth where truth always seems to be just around the next corner, always requiring more context, more background, more study to fully grasp.

This is the dark genius of Yarvin's approach. He doesn't just describe a world of shadowy power and hidden hierarchies—he recreates it in prose, pulling his readers into a reality where nothing is as it seems, where every institution is corrupt, where every norm is a lie, and where the only truth is power itself.

And in doing so, he accomplishes something truly pernicious. He doesn't just change what people think—he changes how they think. He replaces the clear light of reason and moral judgment with a fog of cynicism and inevitability. In Yarvin's world, and in the minds of those who fall under his sway, there are no moral absolutes, no democratic principles worth defending. There is only power, hierarchy, and the grim satisfaction of believing you've seen through the lies to the dark truth beneath.

Here we encounter a perfect encapsulation of the intellectual gatekeeping that surrounds Yarvin's work. An infrequent sparring partner of mine on X around neoreactionary thought, Alex, intervened against my observation with a suggestion that perfectly illustrates the tactics we've been dissecting, last night:

I would start with An Open Letter To An Open-Minded Progressive from [Unqualified Reservations], or the Clear Pill essays for Claremont. Gray Mirror builds on concepts laid down over nearly 20 years of blogged ramblings and a sidecar library of revisionist history. You should feel violated reading it.

This response is a textbook example of the artificial barriers to entry we've discussed. It's not just a reading suggestion; it's an attempt to shift the entire burden of comprehension onto the reader while simultaneously shielding the writer from criticism. The implication is clear: if you don't understand or agree with Yarvin, it's because you haven't done your homework. You haven't invested the time. You haven't absorbed the full context.

My rejoinder cuts through this smokescreen with, if I may say, surgical precision:

You know, this notion that my failure to perceive the supposed profundity in Yarvin's words must stem from my own intellectual inadequacy—or some lack of effort on my part—is pretty wild. I've read everything from Malory to Heidegger, so I think I have a fairly wide repertoire. The idea that Curtis Yarvin is the first thinker in my entire intellectual life whose wisdom is uniquely beyond my grasp is, frankly, a fascinating hypothesis.

But in the world of Bayesian reasoning, where we weigh probabilities and assess cognitive coherence, there's a far simpler and more elegant explanation: you are mistaking obscurantism for profundity. What I see—clearly, without the need for elaborate mental gymnastics—is a hollow cynicism, dressed up in self-indulgent rhetorical flourish. The real trick isn't understanding Yarvin; it's realizing there's nothing there to understand.

This response encapsulates a crucial insight: the danger of mistaking complexity for depth, obscurity for profundity. It's a pattern we see not just in Yarvin's work, but in a broader trend of intellectual posturing that prioritizes the appearance of wisdom over genuine insight.

This tendency to equate difficulty of comprehension with depth of thought extends far beyond any single thinker. It's a tactic we see employed across various fields, from academia to politics, where obfuscation often serves as a shield against criticism and a tool for intellectual gatekeeping.

The real issue at stake here is not just about Yarvin or any particular philosophy. It's about how we engage with ideas, how we distinguish between genuine complexity and artificial obscurity, and how we maintain the integrity of intellectual discourse in an age of information overload and strategic disinformation.

Yarvin's obscurantism serves a very obvious purpose. At the core of his philosophical project is the notion that democracy is a lie. That the Iron Law of Oligarchy represents a devastating intellectual blow to the idea that democracy can exist in any real form at all, that it is always, at best, performative. And so one not feel so emotional about the difference between living under a dictator or a democracy. In fact, Yarvin seeks to ultimately convince you, the former will be better run.

But to truly understand the insidious nature of Yarvin's approach, we must recognize that his obscurity is not a bug—it's a feature. The reason for this deliberate obfuscation is that Yarvin well understands that democracy is culturally embedded. He knows that people would instinctively recoil at the central notion of his project, which, stripped of its rhetorical flourishes, essentially boils down to: “I want a king.”

In Western societies, particularly in the United States, democracy isn't just a system of government—it's a core value, a fundamental part of our collective identity and moral framework. If Yarvin were to state his thesis plainly, he would face immediate and overwhelming rejection. Most people, raised on ideals of self-governance, individual liberty, and the power of the ballot, would instinctively dismiss such a blatantly anti-democratic statement without any serious consideration.

So instead, Yarvin employs a kind of intellectual rope-a-dope. He exhausts the reader's democratic defenses with wave after wave of historical references, philosophical tangents, and cynical observations about the failures of current systems. He doesn't directly attack democracy so much as he gradually erodes faith in its possibility.

This approach serves multiple purposes. It allows Yarvin to introduce anti-democratic ideas in small, more palatable doses. It creates a sense of insider knowledge, making readers feel as if they're privy to hidden truths about how the world “really” works. It plays on intellectual vanity, encouraging readers to see themselves as part of an elite group who can see through the “illusions” of democracy. Perhaps most dangerously, it fosters a kind of learned helplessness about the possibility of meaningful democratic governance, making autocracy seem like a logical alternative.

By the time Yarvin gets around to suggesting that maybe a king wouldn't be so bad after all, the reader has already been primed to consider the idea seriously, rather than rejecting it outright. This is the true danger of Yarvin's work. It's not just a set of arguments to be debated—it's a comprehensive attempt to rewire how people think about governance, power, and their own role as citizens.

Recognizing this strategy is crucial for anyone engaging with Yarvin's ideas or similar neoreactionary thought. It reminds us that sometimes, the most effective defense of democracy isn't just to argue for it, but to expose the rhetorical tricks and manipulations used by those who would undermine it. In the fog of Yarvin's prose, the stark moral differences between democracy and dictatorship become blurred, and the reader is left vulnerable to accepting a worldview that, stated plainly, would be repugnant to most.

Yarvin is, of course, the source of the “red pilling” phenomenon. Something I detailed in another essay, which parlays into the point I'm making here now, and is also worth a read once you've finished up here.

The concept of “red pilling,” borrowed from the Matrix films and popularized in online discourse, is a perfect encapsulation of Yarvin's rhetorical strategy. It's a metaphor that promises hidden truths, a glimpse behind the curtain of reality—or in this case, the supposed illusions of democracy. This framing is crucial to understanding how Yarvin's ideas spread and take root.

The “red pill” narrative taps into a potent mix of intellectual curiosity, disillusionment with current systems, and the allure of insider knowledge. It suggests that by accepting Yarvin's worldview, readers aren't just adopting a new political philosophy—they're waking up to the true nature of reality itself. This framing is particularly effective in our current era of institutional distrust and information overload.

What makes this approach so dangerous is how it mimics the structure of genuine intellectual discovery. Just as learning about, say, the complexities of climate science or the nuances of economic theory can feel like having scales fall from one's eyes, Yarvin presents his anti-democratic ideas as revelations. The difference, of course, is that while scientific or historical insights are backed by evidence and peer review, Yarvin's “truths” are largely constructions of rhetoric and selective interpretation.

This “red pill” framework also serves to inoculate Yarvin's ideas against criticism. Once a reader has accepted the premise that they've been awakened to hidden truths, any pushback can be dismissed as coming from those still trapped in the “blue-pilled” world of democratic illusions. It creates a closed epistemological system, where the very act of questioning Yarvin's ideas becomes proof of their validity.

Understanding the “red pill” phenomenon in relation to Yarvin's work is crucial for anyone seeking to counter its influence. It reminds us that we're not just dealing with a set of arguments, but with a comprehensive worldview that positions itself as hidden knowledge. Countering this requires not just refuting specific points, but addressing the underlying appeal of this supposed awakening.

In the end, the “red pill” offered by Yarvin and his ilk is less about revealing truth and more about constructing a new set of blinders—ones that obscure the very real differences between democratic and authoritarian systems, and the moral weight of those differences. Recognizing this is the first step in maintaining our critical faculties in the face of such seductive, but ultimately corrosive, ideas.

I'd be remiss if I failed to push into some of the psychological implications of a man like Yarvin, who would advance such a narrative. One might even ask if he is pining for his own submission in a sense. But then one takes note of his benefactor, and the wannabe oligarchs that surround him and consider him “The Prophet”. He expects to be the wizard in their court. His motivations, not so hidden it would seem.

This observation cuts to the heart of the psychological underpinnings of Yarvin's philosophy and his role in the broader neoreactionary movement. On the surface, Yarvin's call for a return to monarchical or authoritarian rule might seem like an advocacy for universal submission to authority. However, a closer examination reveals a more complex and, frankly, more self-serving motivation.

Yarvin doesn't envision himself as a mere subject in his proposed neo-monarchical order. Rather, he seems to fancy himself as the éminence grise, the power behind the throne. His verbose writings and complex theories aren't just intellectual exercises—they're auditions for the role of court philosopher in the techno-feudal future he envisions.

This positioning is crucial to understanding the appeal of Yarvin's ideas to certain segments of the tech elite and aspiring oligarchs. He offers them a philosophy that not only justifies their accumulation of wealth and power but elevates it to a moral imperative. In Yarvin's world, the tech billionaire isn't just a successful businessman—he's a natural aristocrat, uniquely qualified to rule by virtue of his intelligence and competence.

The psychological dynamics at play here are fascinating and disturbing in equal measure. Yarvin's writings serve as a kind of intellectual flattery to those already in positions of power and wealth. They whisper seductively—your success isn't just about money or influence. It's proof of your natural right to rule. The constraints of democracy are holding you back from your true destiny as a benevolent autocrat.

For Yarvin himself, this philosophy offers a path to relevance and influence far beyond what his technical skills or business acumen might afford him. By positioning himself as the intellectual godfather of this movement, he secures a place of importance in the power structures he envisions.

Understanding this psychological dimension is crucial to seeing through the smokescreen of Yarvin's philosophy. It's not just an abstract theory about governance—it's a bid for power and influence, cloaked in the language of historical inevitability and technological progress.

In the end, Yarvin's motivations aren't so hidden after all. Behind the dense prose and historical allusions lies a rather transparent desire: to be the wizard in the court of tech oligarchs, shaping the future from the shadows. It's a role that offers all the influence of power with none of the accountability—a tempting prospect for someone who views democracy as an inconvenient obstacle to be overcome.

A smokescreen, which hopefully now, you can see clearly into—a “gray mirror,” if you will.

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