The archway at the edge of the city had sunlight streaming through. People walked beneath it with serene expressions, appearing light and unburdened. At the gate, a sign proclaimed; ‘Perfect as you are’ - The Entry Gate.
Elegant boutiques stretch endlessly, glittering with colours and voices. At the gate, a sign proclaims;
‘Here, all are already perfect. Nothing is required of you’.
Those who enter feel lightened; the burdens of discipline, correction and effort vanish. Every vendor promises to affirm your desire. The gate’s wording sounds liberating, but it quietly removes the very possibility of formation and development.
The Boutiques of Choice
Inside, every boutique reflects the customer’s desires. If one hungers for knowledge, ‘wisdom’ is offered flavoured with indulgence. If one wants morality, ‘virtue is sold in customizable packaging. The merchant’s only rule is; the customer must never be told they are wrong, for the Customer Is King! Each consumer choice looks different, but the telos is the same - satisfying appetite.
The Feeling of Freedom
Customers wander, tasting, selecting, discarding. They laugh at tales of old schools where learners submitted to masters and disciplines. “We are free,” they say, “for we choose what suits us.” They congratulate each other on escaping the old ‘oppression’ of civic formation. For now their joy is real; the happiness of appetite is genuine. The illusion only becomes clear later - perhaps even a generation or so later - when the price is to be paid.
Two Cities: Choice or Responsibility (Part 2)
James Wilson, one of the principal architects of American liberty, argued that:
The Market of Mirrors - Part 1
The arch at the city’s edge offered shade at noon and a promise at eye level; ‘Perfect as you are’. The words were carved into stone with such quiet confidence that travellers stopped reading them after the second glance. They passed beneath the lintel and felt lighter; the dust of other roads seemed to fall away.
Attendants in pale jackets greeted newcomers with a smile that never reached for correction. Each visitor received a thin band to wear; soft, adjustable and embossed with a small crown. “Sovereign fit,” the attendant said. “It conforms to you”. At no point did a realization of fashioning and consuming one’s own manacles occur to anyone. There was great pleasure in Consumer Choice, it ‘felt’ so much ‘like’ agency.
Beyond the arch, the market spread like a calm sea patterned by gentle currents. Stalls were arranged in winding streets that never quite ran straight, yet no one felt lost. Music drifted without a source; faint, agreeable, calibrated to the moment. Every sign avoided commands; each invitation was a mirror. ‘Discover your path’. ‘Select your truth’ and ‘Curate your virtue’.
A newcomer paused at a booth labeled ‘Wisdoms’. The shelves were arranged by flavour rather than by Field. “Do you prefer your philosophy crisp or mellow?” the attendant asked, placing two slim volumes on the counter. “We have fortifying editions if you want strength; soothing ones if you want peace.” The newcomer asked whether there was a difference in substance. The attendant nodded. “Certainly; the difference is what you can welcome. That is the substance that matters.”
Across the lane, a shop presented ‘Virtue Kits’, small cases in tasteful colours. ‘Courage without risk’, promised one; ‘Belonging without oaths’, offered another; ‘Integrity without penalties’, a third. A sign clarified; ‘All kits come with language cards for public use’. A couple bought two kits and compared their cards as they walked away, pleased to discover their values were compatible.
Near a fountain stood ‘The Library of Customized Truths’. The building’s face was reflective, and when the newcomer approached, the entrance widened as if it recognized a familiar silhouette. Inside, books rearranged themselves on whispering rails; the spine colors drifted to match the reader’s palette. In the reading room, each desk offered a small console; Decline passages that do not correspond to your experience. A librarian passed by and placed a seal on the newcomer’s book; ‘Authentic Edition’.
In the afternoon, a voice called out from a narrow side court. There, under faded canvas, stood a shop that looked older than the street around it. Its sign read ‘Hall of Measures’. Its owner, a woman with sawdust on her apron, set a wooden rule on the counter and tapped gently; its marks were cut into the grain. Balanced weights sat on a shelf; the brass was unpolished. “We weigh, we measure; then we teach you to weigh and measure,” she said. “It takes time.” A clerk from the lane leaned into the alley and shook his head at the newcomer. “Old methods - gatekeeping!! - We have moved on.” The newcomer smiled politely and stepped back into the broader light.
