Category: Philosophy

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What is Asymmetrical Ethics? Emmanuel Levinas and Beauty and the Beast

What is asymmetrical ethics? The French philosopher Emmanuel Levinas, who spent four years as a POW in German camps and whose family was killed by the Nazi in Lithuania, wrote in his book Totality and Infinity (1961):

“The face of the Other comes toward me with its infinite vulnerability, its destitution, its defenseless eyes. It calls me into question and orders me: ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”

Reflecting on his experience, Levinas’s central question was: â€œHow is ethical responsibility possible after the Holocaust?” How can one regard their torturer as human when he treats them as less than human — in fact, worse than an animal?

An experience like that “calls me into question.” Who am I? For Levinas, the answer lies in what he calls ethical asymmetry. True ethics is never based on mutuality or reciprocity; it does not depend on others treating you in a certain way. Ethics, in its purest form, is always asymmetrical — you are ethical simply because you recognize the face of the Other.

“The face is what forbids me to kill.” Ethics and Infinity (1982)

For Levinas, the main challenge was to continue seeing the face of the one who consistently and radically negates the face of others. But what is the source of ethical asymmetry? How can one keep seeing the human in someone who continually dehumanizes others?

For Levinas, ethical responsibility is not a contract; it is a response — a response to seeing a face. Our capacity to see the Other’s face, regardless of their actions, depends on whether we ourselves have experienced ethical asymmetry. To love, we must have someone who has seen our Face.

I can only treat others as human if I have experienced being treated asymmetrically — loved without condition, regardless of what I do. It is this experience of ethical asymmetry that forbids me to dehumanize others. That is why Beauty and the Beast remains one of the most powerful mythical archetypes of all time.

As G.K. Chesterton puts it,

“There is the great lesson of ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ that a thing must be loved before it is lovable.’”

The 1977 Soviet romantic comedy Office Romance is one of the most beloved films of the Soviet era. A shy, divorced statistician, Anatoly Novoseltsev, unexpectedly falls in love with his stern, irritable, and lonely boss, Ludmila Kalugina. Wounded by a past betrayal, Ludmila has closed herself off from love and prefers to be seen as “an old maid.”

But the moment she realizes she is loved despite all her harshness, something within her breaks. The next day, she arrives at work transformed — the old maid is gone, and everyone in the office is stunned by the beautiful woman they had never truly seen before.

A thing must be loved before it is lovable. No wonder the Hebrew word rachamim (רָחַם), used in Exodus 34:6–7 and usually translated as “compassion” or “mercy,” literally means “womb.” According to the Torah, we exist in the womb of God â€” we are “en-wombed” in a loving Presence.

When we become aware of that Presence, we are changed. Someone has seen our Face, and we begin to seek the faces of others. It’s our response to being seen. Love is not something we manufacture; it springs from a heart that has been touched by ethical asymmetry.

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Can AI Truly Create? The Mystery of Plato’s Ideal World

Can AI truly create? We are all Platonists, whether we like it or not. No one has ever seen the perfect Platonic Forms, and yet we confidently say when something is “far from ideal.” How do we know?

Judges evaluate athletes based on criteria that no one has ever seen. We judge the quality of bananas even though we have never encountered a perfect banana.

The same is true of beauty. No one has ever seen Beauty itself, and yet we recognize when something is beautiful… or not. The same is true of justice. No one has ever encountered perfect Justice, and yet we always know when something is unjust.

We evaluate the visible world against an ideal we have never seen. Back in the 1990s, when I was just starting out as a translator, my first editor gave me advice I didn’t understand at the time: â€œWhen you begin working on a translation, never start from the beginning. Always start from the end.”

I cringed: “What?”

He smiled: “Well, if you begin by translating words, you will never get them right. You must translate meaning, not words. And meaning is not written — it must be intuited, grasped from the get-go. You can only catch meaning if you sense the Whole after reading the first few paragraphs or chapters.”

At first, it sounded cryptic. But he was patient, and over time I understood: the meaning of the parts is revealed only through the Whole. When I begin translating a book, I must first read enough of it to glimpse where the author is going. Once I have “seen” the end, I am ready to start at the beginning.

Nothing can be brought into being unless we have already “seen” the end from the beginning. We must be Platonists — perceiving the world of perfect forms, which then inspires us to imbue every part of what we are doing with meaning. Meaning flows from the Whole and shines through every nuance of creation.

To quote William Blake,

“To see a World in a grain of sand,
And a Heaven in a wild flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand,
And Eternity in an hour.”

That’s why my editor insisted that I translate individual titles after completing the entire translation. â€œYou don’t know what things should be called until you know their end.”

This made sense. When I translated titles at the beginning, I was caught up in words — and the results were sloppy. But when I left them until the end, the titles came out crisp and luminous. Our best creations are born only when we “see the perfect pattern” of what we are making in the realm of Ideas.

But how do we know what we have never seen? We have. We were there. The soul remembers what it beheld in the realm of perfection—what Plato called anamnesis (re-cognition, knowing again). Anamnesis happens every time we see through the veil of appearances and re-collect the perfect world.

Anamnesis is the only way to truly create. The soul remembers what it saw in heaven and strives to recreate it on earth. Just as Moses was told to build the tabernacle according to the pattern he saw on the mountain, so we are called to create whenever we catch a flash of re-cognition.

Technology cannot and will never be able to create — precisely because it has nothing to remember. It cannot see Platonic ideas and cannot grasp the Whole. It focuses on individual bits of data — without seeing the Heavenly Pattern. I asked ChatGPT if it could see Platonic ideas, and it answered:

“I don’t have direct access to metaphysical realities. I don’t “see” Forms the way Plato imagined the soul glimpsing them before birth. I process language, patterns, concepts, and symbols that humans provide me. So in the strict Platonic sense, I cannot truly grasp Ideas the way a soul might.”

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Beyond Suspicion: Rediscovering the Will to Trust with Paul Ricœur

The French philosopher Paul Ricœur pointed out that, for the last two centuries, philosophy has been developing in the mode of suspicion. “Philosophers of suspicion” like Karl Marx, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Sigmund Freud, argue that when you believe you are acting for certain reasons, you often fail to realize that your actions are driven by hidden forces.

Marx suspected that all human actions were driven by economics, Nietzsche by the will to power, and Freud by the unconscious.

In other words, when you act a certain way, you may think you have clear reasons for acting this way, but in reality, you do it because of

1) economic conditions,

2) desire for power,

3) unconscious drives.

Philosophers of suspicion have led us to believe that thinking must be rooted solely in suspicion.

“What do we mean by ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’? This school of interpretation involves a radical critique of consciousness, an effort to unmask the hidden meanings behind the apparent ones. It is a mode of interpretation pioneered by Marx, Nietzsche, and Freud, each of whom tried to expose the illusions of consciousness and reveal the structures of power, desire, and the unconscious that lie beneath.” Paul Ricœur

There’s nothing wrong with hermeneutics of suspicion as such. It is true that some human actions are driven by economics, some by the will to power, and some by the unconscious. But not all—and not always.

Paul Ricœur contrasts “hermeneutics of suspicion” with “hermeneutics of trust.” Instead of deconstructing someone’s meaning, he suggests assuming that there is one and seeking to recover it.

“To interpret is to render near what is far, to appropriate what is strange, to make one’s own what was initially alien. Interpretation, then, is guided by a ‘will to trust.’”

What is a will to trust? It means that when I meet someone I do not start with suspicion about the source of their actions but become a witness—someone who “endures” the other person’s presence in the hope of being surprised.

“The witness testifies to an event which has touched him or her deeply, physically or morally. As such, testimony is more than a recounting of facts; it is an expression of responsibility, a call to remembrance and a summons to the ethical imperative of remembering.” (Memory, History, Forgetting)

A person’s actions may be motivated by economics, the will to power, or unconscious drives, but my goal in meeting them is to become a witnessing presence to encounter something wonderful. I become a witness because my primary motivation is to encounter a witness—someone so full of wonder that you can’t miss it.

The Greek word for “witness” is ÎźÎŹĎĎ„Ď…Ď‚ (martys), from which we derive the word “martyr.” In ancient times, a martyr was seen as the ultimate witness. Martyrs witness to Wonder so profoundly that you can’t help seeing it. Wonder is contagious. You read it off their faces. Their faces testify that they are above economics, the will to power, or unconscious drives.

Philosophy of suspicion cannot survive in the presence of a true witness. A true witness turns you into a witness too. As Wonder passes from one person to another, suspicion dies. When you see wonder in the eyes of a martyr, you stop seeking “explanations” for their behavior. You simply stand there, stock still, smitten by the “will to trust.”

As the Roman centurion exclaimed, â€œTruly this man was the Son of God!”

You are not naive—you know that at a certain level, a person’s actions may be caused by economics, the will to power, or unconscious drives. But not now. Not when you see â€œthat.” When you see that, you don’t interpret. All hermeneutics ceases—you simply witness. You feel touched, moved. There is nothing in your mind except “the ethical imperative of remembering.”

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What is True Art? Tolkien and Heidegger on Art vs. Machine

What is true art? Speaking of “The Machine” in On Fairy-Stories, Tolkien contrasts it with organic, sub-creative work of a true artist or storyteller.

By the [Machine] I intend all use of external plans or devices (apparatus) instead of development of the inherent inner powers or talents—or even the use of these talents with the corrupted motive of dominating: bulldozing the real world, or coercing other wills.

So, what is the Machine? It’s anything external I use to force my will upon the world. According to Tolkien, the Machine differs from Art (sub-creation) in that it arises from a desire to amplify self-will rather than from an attunement to the Music of Ilúvatar.

All true Art, which is the province of the Elves, proceeds from one’s inner alignment with the Great Music. The Elves first hear the Music and then express it through their Art. Their purpose is to attune to the Thought of Ilúvatar in all things and to pour this harmony into the world. In contrast, the purpose of the Machine-creator is to attune to self-will and devise ways to impose it upon the outer world.

Art is prayer springing from: â€œThy will be done”; the Machine is anti-prayer springing from: â€œMy will be done.” Art is internal; the Machine is external. In The Lord of the Rings, Tolkien insists that evil cannot be defeated by wielding the Power of the Ring.

You can make the Ring into an allegory of our own time, if you like: an allegory of the inevitable fate that waits for all attempts to defeat evil power by power. Letter 96 to Christopher

When we use external means to defeat external means we amplify the external means. The Machine perpetuates the Machine. Power cannot defeat power. Paradise cannot be achieved through external means. Only the renunciation of power can overcome power. Art is the ultimate renunciation of external power and amplification of the internal power—the intrinsic power of Being.

That’s why the Art of the Elves is not technology. It may look like technology—Elvish ropes, robes, fials, boats, lembas bread, blades, ploughs, bows, harps, bowls, etc.—its purpose is not domination but the manifestation of the Great Music in the world. All Art taps into spiritual power and brings it into the physical realm, which is the ultimate triumph over evil.

The “products” of Art reveal the Music. That’s why the Elvish rope burns Gollum’s neck—he can’t bear the “sound” of the Great Music. That’s why all Elvish things ward off evil, not through external force but by the light they emanate. The “power” of Sting lies not in its external properties but in how much Divine light it carries.

Elvish tools—chisels, harps, hammers, bowls—are not technology in the conventional sense of the word but an organic part of the creative process. Elvish boats are carved with Elvish knives, each infused with a prayer to Elbereth. Elvish tools are not “external means” to bend reality to the Elvish will; they are an outer expression of their inner attunement to the Higher Will. So, what is true art?

As Heidegger says in his essay The Question Concerning Technology, modern technology is not just an instrument — it’s a way of revealing (aletheia). It reveals how we view the world. It is a Gestell (enframing) — a rigid framework that configures our vision, causing us to see everything as a resource. Its purpose is to order and command nature, not to listen to its Song.

Modern technology doesn’t hear any Song, and it teaches us not to hear it either. It limits our perception of reality, reducing everything—including humans—to mere means to an end. After renouncing the nature of modern technology as a Gestell, Heidegger concludes,

Because the essence of technology is nothing technological, essential reflection upon technology and decisive confrontation with it must happen in a realm that is, on the one hand, akin to the essence of technology and, on the other, fundamentally different from it. Such a realm is art.