Keen On America

“I want someone who has regrets. I want someone who’s learned the hard way. I want someone who understands that life is made of those messy compromises.” — Joel Christensen on the Odysseus he hopes to see in Matt Damon
 
Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey is out — the controversial movie of the year, much of the controversy raging before anyone had seen a frame. So, before either of us had seen the epic, I talked to the CUNY classicist Joel Christensen, author of the timely Why Odysseus? Survivor, Scoundrel, (Anti)hero.
 
What, I asked Christensen, did he most dread about Hollywood’s treatment of his beloved Odyssey? His answer: a hero too noble to be interesting. The Odysseus of the epic is a survivor, a scoundrel, an antihero — the master sergeant who does what needs to be done, from engineering the Trojan Horse to making sure Hector’s infant son doesn’t survive it. Christensen’s worry about Matt Damon came down to one word: too likeable. What he wanted instead was a man with regrets — De Niro in Raging Bull rather than anybody noble.
 
So did Christensen get the Odysseus he wanted? Below is his review, written after seeing the film when it came out.
 
Postscript: Joel Christensen’s Verdict on the Film
 
Nolan’s Odyssey is not Homer’s Odyssey. This should be clear to anyone. Nolan faced an almost impossible task well: ancient audiences knew the story already. Modern audiences do not, so he created a ring structure with the beginning union of Penelope and Odysseus anticipating the reunion at the end, also introducing plot elements like the dog Argos and the pin by which Penelope will recognize Odysseus.
 
The film is not Homer. Homer’s power is poetry; the film’s is image. Some of the images are striking: the scene when Circe turns his men into animals is the most arresting in the whole movie, showing everything that can be done with visceral imagery and a slight adaptation (Circe here is a survivor of sexual assault).
 
The changes made to the plot such as omitting the Phaeacians, Nestor, Laertes, the bed and more are not as jarring as some of the general decisions. Calling “Zeus’ Law” “do unto others…” makes an understandable translation to a Christian context, but it is somewhat nonsensical for Homer. Depicting a mutilated Helen is a strange decision that I am struggling with.
 
What the movie gets right is making humans responsible for their own suffering. In a novel take on Odysseus as a traumatized warrior, the hero spends seven years with Calypso eating Lotus to forget the loss of his men. Damon, too likeable, regrets the trick of the Trojan Horse after witnessing the slaughter during the sack of Troy. We find out as well that the “sea people” from history, bringing an end to the “civilization” are actually the Greeks returning from the Trojan War and suffering for the transgressions they committed there.
 
Is this ending an echo of Zeus’ plan to end the race of heroes in the Trojan War? Is it an allegory for our civilizational collapse in the future thanks to technology, environmental catastrophe, and fascism? Any potential social critique dissipates with the movie’s end. The traumatized veteran turns out to be merciful and kills only some of the suitors, showing many mercy. Then, guilty of violating “Zeus’ Law”, Odysseus happily goes into exile with Penelope, leaving Telemachus to be king.
 
There’s no way to make Homer’s Odyssey into a film and convey all its ambiguity and depth. That would be an unfair expectation. Nolan’s film is a compelling spectacle and it makes me wonder more about how it reflects who we are as an audience. Do we need the hero to be ultimately good, even if he messed up? Are we so simple that we need to hear about Zeus’ Law and the Sea People so repetitively? I fear that in this age where fiction and fact are so hard to disentangle, that we long for narratives that are just simpler.
 
We don’t get the Odyssey we want; we get the one we deserve.
 
Five Takeaways
 
•       A Complicated Man: The Translation Problem. Every word of Homer carries echoes no English can hold, and the fights over Nolan’s dialogue replay the fights over translation. Emily Wilson detonated a controversy by rendering polytropos — poly, many; tropos, turn — as “a complicated man,” alluding at once to Odysseus’s travels and the many forms of his character; Daniel Mendelsohn’s “man of roundabout ways” does the work too, if you can stop thinking about rotaries. Even the objection to Tom Holland’s Telemachus saying “dad” collapses on inspection: Telemachus uses the colloquial form in Homer. And the “authentic” dialect purists want was an artificial amalgam that no ancient Greek ever spoke.
 
•       The Culture Wars Come for Homer. Nobody remembers a brouhaha over Wolfgang Petersen’s Troy — a pretty bad movie, Christensen notes — but Nolan’s Odyssey generates more controversy than a scholar can track daily. Lupita Nyong’o’s Helen is attacked as inauthentic by one side and as cultural appropriation by the other; since 2015, classicists have watched the Western tradition weaponized by the alt-right while their own field argues about who owns it. Christensen’s advice channels the epic itself: between Scylla and Charybdis, take Scylla. You’ll lose six men. The alternative is losing the ship — and if the story doesn’t persuade in three hours, nobody will remember the armor anyway.
 
•       The Valence of Violence. Modern audiences are more accustomed to represented violence than any in history — you don’t need Natural Born Killers when Twitter serves unverifiable clips from Gaza and Iran. The question Christensen brings to the film is what the violence is for. Uberto Pasolini’s The Return gave Ralph Fiennes’s Odysseus a steady, untroubled thump of arrows; the epic’s own slaughter of the suitors, read closely, approaches Tarantino-adjacent parody. And the hardest tests are the atrocities the adaptations always cut: the mutilation of the goatherd Melanthius, and Telemachus hanging the enslaved women. Does the violence glorify the hero — or show what even the best of us are capable of?
 
•       Keep Penelope Ambiguous. The great interpretive question of the Odyssey is when Penelope knows the beggar is her husband — the suitors, dead in the underworld, are convinced she was in on it all along. The epic grants her remarkable intelligence and agency, then reins it in: Agamemnon’s ghost praises her by way of insulting all women, and she vanishes from the text. Christensen’s advice to Nolan wouldn’t be Margaret Atwood’s Penelopiad, which centers the women’s voices; it would be more screen time and total ambiguity — no access to her mind, a wife who matches her husband in wits and may even have outwitted him. Though based on Nolan’s arc, he doubts we’ll get a woman at the center.
 
•       Survivor, Scoundrel, (Anti)hero. Christensen’s worry about Matt Damon was simple: too likable. Odysseus is the master sergeant — the one who takes the hard orders, tricks Achilles into the war, engineers the Horse, and makes sure Hector’s infant son doesn’t survive to rebuild Troy. The ancient hero is neither good nor ...

In 1776 — that same year America declared its independence — Adam Smith published the equally revolutionary The Wealth of Nations, his founding explanation of national economic value. Two hundred and fifty years later, Tim O’Reilly argues in the free-market Economist that Elon Musk and his fellow tech barons are building a monarchical form of capitalism that the proto-democratic Smith would have hated. Musk, O’Reilly reports, believes that SpaceX will become “worth more than the rest of Earth”. The merchants are becoming princes, O’Reilly warns. And the rest of us are becoming peasants. Such is the road to serfdom in our AI age.
 
So who should own the AI in our bewildering age of multi-trillion dollar start-ups like SpaceX, Anthropic and OpenAI? Or as That Was The Week publisher Keith Teare asks in his latest editorial, who should own the “intelligence” of our AI age?
 
Keith uses a bottling plant as a metaphor to describe our dilemma. Since no single entity can own this intelligence — the sum total of our common experience — charging us for it would be like seizing the Earth’s water supply and selling it back to us, Coca-Cola style, in plastic bottles. Except that the Hayekian Keith approves of the bottling process. Private companies, rather than governments, he argues, are most suited to doing this.
 
For Keith, this dilemma is also an opportunity to redistribute the ownership of intelligence. He argues for a “Human Wealth Fund” into which every consequential AI company should put a slice of its equity. In the manner of Norway’s sovereign wealth fund, this fund would be distributed to all citizens.
 
Rather than Denmark, now we should become like Norway, a tiny homogenous nation with a cultural distaste for Muskian individual wealth. Not very realistic, I fear. On top of that, it’s hard to imagine our tech princes collaborating on anything. Musk and Altman aren’t on speaking terms while Altman and Amodei, who also loathe each other, are focused on their IPOs. Meanwhile, the Trump administration, which presumably would coordinate this fund, is pitching a $100,000-a-month fast feed of the president’s posts.
 
Keith’s question, “who owns the intelligence”, is the right one. But the answer won’t come from trickle-down funds set-up by our tech princes. Such supposed munificence is about as likely as America becoming Norway. Read the fine print of any “Human Wealth Fund” set up by Sam Altman and Elon Musk. As we should know all too well by now, when a “revolutionary” Silicon Valley gives stuff away, it turns out to be exorbitantly expensive. Free plastic bottles of intelligence, anyone?
 
Five Takeaways
 
•       Intelligence, Not AI. The week’s framing shift: the word AI is too small, because AI is merely the tool for harvesting and delivering the thing itself — intelligence, the sum total of our common human experience. Keith argues the renaming is not semantic but political: the moment intelligence sits at the center of the discussion, everyone’s opinion has to be shaped by what it actually is, and the idea that any single entity could own it starts to look as bizarre as owning the world’s water supply. Andrew’s rejoinder: they’re still just words — though he concedes intelligence is the better one.
 
•       Bottled Intelligence Is Good — The Question Is Who Benefits. Keith refuses the critic’s role: bottling intelligence, like Google’s bottling of the world’s words into search, is a good thing, because only massively capitalized private companies can innovate at that scale — and between private entities and governments as owners of intelligence, he’ll take the companies every time. What’s wrong is the distribution of the benefits. Even insiders are complaining: Alex Karp is publicly angry at OpenAI and Anthropic’s pricing, while China’s Kimi K3 — released the day of recording and, Keith claims, better than Claude Fable — signals that very good models are about to get very cheap.
 
•       Capitalism Adam Smith Would Hate. Tim O’Reilly argues in The Economist that Musk and his type are building a capitalism Smith would despise — founders as monarchs, a point Henry Farrell reinforces with a slide from Peter Thiel’s startup class placing the king of a monarchy and the founder of a startup side by side. Keith’s response is characteristically unsentimental: Smith would have hated everything since the Federal Reserve, and the founder-king structure — Larry and Sergey’s voting shares, Zuckerberg’s special rights, corporations bigger than countries with user bases bigger than China — is simply the stage of capitalism we’re at. The question is whether there’s a path from here to somewhere better.
 
•       The Human Wealth Fund. Keith’s path comes in two versions: government-down, a sovereign wealth fund holding AI equity for every citizen; or company-up, the AI companies voluntarily endowing a global fund — and it only takes one to move first, because everyone else would have to react. His proxy is Norway, where every citizen benefits from ownership — not payouts, ownership — in the oil fund; AI revenues, unlike Norwegian oil, could eventually drive most of a doubled global GDP. His critique of the Brynjolfsson economists’ much-signed statement is that “must act now” is vacuous: he’d have added a point four naming the actual mechanism.
 
•       The Bet. Andrew’s counter-case: Musk and Altman loathe each other, the mob hates AI so thoroughly that no pro-AI politician can survive, the states from Newsom’s California to Florida are embracing nothing, New York just enacted the first data center moratorium, and the founders — eyes on their IPOs — are in the pockets of the banks. Hence the wager: 5% of the Teare Wealth Fund says no Human Wealth Fund this year, and none in the twenties. Keith declined the bet, on principle: he’s an advocate, and only through advocacy does public opinion change. As Andrew put it: keep fighting the good fight — maybe one of the crazy ideas will stick.
 
About the Guest
 
Keith Teare is the founder and editor of the That Was The Week tech newsletter, and Andrew’s weekly co-host. A British-born Silicon Valley entrepreneur and investor, he was a co-founder of TechCrunch and runs the Palo Alto–based venture firm SignalRank. He and Andrew have been arguing about technology — productively — every week for years.
 
References:
 
•       That Was The Week — Keith’s newsletter; this week’s editorial argues that the word AI is too small, and that the central question of the age is who owns intelligence.
 
•       Tim O’Reilly in The Economist — on Elon Musk building a form of capitalism that Adam Smith would hate, quoting Musk’s claim that SpaceX will become worth more than the rest of the Earth.
 
•       Henry Farrell — the big tech critic’s companion piece, featuring the slide from Peter Thiel’s startup class that plac...

“We have a Justice Department which is now 100% the political pawn of the president,” warns Brookings senior fellow Jonathan Rauch. “He points, and they shoot.”
 
Point and shoot. Like an old Kodak camera. Not exactly assuring words, you might think, from a man who begins our conversation looking back at the first six months of 2026 by announcing that he’s significantly less alarmed than he was a year ago. Yes, Rauch acknowledges, Trump’s approval ratings have sunk, the courts have pushed back, Elon Musk’s DOGE rampage has petered out. And yet the pointing and the shooting goes on.
 
Rauch, who only months ago diagnosed eighteen “distinct and unmistakable signs” of an American fascism in a much touted Atlantic piece, now admits he may never crack the Trumpian code. Every time you nail it to the wall, he says, it morphs, creeps or sails away. Like an Iranian gunboat in Hormuz. Slippery stuff for the liberal Brookings analyst. Fascism one month, McKinley-style imperialism the next, then Gilded Age plutocracy — although without those ontologically undeniable Carnegie libraries. Meanwhile, America’s 250th birthday party fizzled into what Rauch calls a “damp squib,” its reflecting pool turning an opaque green rather than a clarifying blue. A muddy madness in DC.
 
Still, amidst all the opacity, Rauch remains a defiantly optimistic liberal. In contrast with yesterday’s guest, the reality hallucinating Turi Munthe, Rauch believes not only that there is an ontological reality, but that it’s good. Frank Fukuyama was right, Rauch insists. Liberalism is not only the only political system that creates wealth, produces knowledge and settles disputes, but also establishes an undeniable reality. Liberals just need to relearn how to clearly tell its story. Perhaps. Though storytelling is certainly simpler when nobody is waving a gun at you.
 
Five Takeaways
 
•       Less Alarmed, Still Scared. Rauch opens with the good news: he is significantly less alarmed than he was a year ago, when the administration was running rampage, putting agencies out of business and demanding Greenland. Approval ratings have dropped, so Trump has less political space; the courts have pushed back, so he has less judicial space; Stephen Miller has vanished from view. And then comes the caveat that gives the episode its title: the Justice Department is now 100% the political pawn of the president — he points, and they shoot — and Trump has shown that as his ratings fall, he becomes more willing, not less, to use those tools.
 
•       I May Never Crack the Code. Only months ago, Rauch diagnosed eighteen distinct and unmistakable signs of a modern American reinvention of fascism in The Atlantic. He doesn’t regret the essay — but he has gone back to being confused. The Trump phenomenon is slippery: every time you nail it to the wall, it morphs, creeps or slides away. Fascism one month, McKinley-style imperialism in Venezuela the next, an Iran war with no rationale at all. Trump is such an improviser, and so disorganized, that Rauch concedes there is an element of randomness he may never decode — though he accepts Andrew’s suggestion that attention is now the coin of the political realm.
 
•       Not the Gilded Age — No Carnegie Libraries. The new inequality, Rauch argues, is different in kind: a class of people almost superhuman in the wealth they control, and strangely narcissistic and nihilistic toward the broader society. The Gilded Age tycoons did some bad things, but they also built — Carnegie’s libraries, Mellon’s National Gallery, Rockefeller’s University of Chicago, Stanford’s university. This group builds rockets and sounds, in the case of Marc Andreessen, like a parody of an Ayn Rand novel — or, as Andrew corrects him, not a parody at all: they simply repeat what they’ve read. Even so, Rauch is not sorry to see politics reacting to a world where Musk can casually drop $300 million into a presidential race.
 
•       The Gloves-Off Court and the Accelerating Presidency. The Supreme Court term brought the clearest statement yet of the conservative agenda: Humphrey’s Executor overturned after eighty years, making it far easier for presidents to fire agency heads at will; what remained of the Voting Rights Act effectively gutted; birthright citizenship surviving by a shockingly narrow margin. The imperial presidency is not new, Rauch notes — what’s new is the speed. A president can now simply refuse to run a congressionally mandated agency, and the Senate, forty quietly nixed nominations notwithstanding, remains lacking in spine. The Todd Blanche nomination, he says, is the next test of whether any line exists at all.
 
•       Fukuyama Was Right — and Liberals Should Say So. Rauch sees a moral vacuum and, for the first time, a craving to fill it: the pope’s AI encyclical, multi-faith clergy bearing witness in Minnesota, the Episcopalians and Latter-day Saints finding their voices. His prescription for the second half of 2026 is a liberal one, in the nineteenth-century sense — science, markets, constitutions, rule of law. Fukuyama, widely misunderstood, was right: there is only one system that produces knowledge, peace, freedom, and wealth on a global scale, and it’s ours. It needs fixing — he cheers the bipartisan housing bill Trump refused to sign — but liberals must relearn how to tell that story, and how to brag.
 
About the Guest
 
Jonathan Rauch is a senior fellow in Governance Studies at the Brookings Institution and a contributing writer at The Atlantic. He is the author of nine books, including The Constitution of Knowledge: A Defense of Truth (2021), Cross Purposes: Christianity’s Broken Bargain with Democracy (Yale, 2025), and Kindly Inquisitors: The New Attacks on Free Thought. A recipient of the National Magazine Award, he serves on the boards of Heterodox Academy and Civic Life, and is a longtime friend of the show.
 
References:
 
•       Rauch’s Atlantic essay identifying eighteen “distinct and unmistakable signs” of a modern American reinvention of fascism — the piece he stands by, even as he admits the phenomenon keeps morphing.
 
•       His recent essays for The UnPopulist on why liberal societies need grand stories about themselves, and why liberals must relearn how to brag about liberalism.
 
•       Jonathan Rauch and Peter Wehner in The New York Times — the earlier argument, which Rauch says still holds, that the Republican Party is more dangerous to the constitution and the rule of law than the Democratic Party.
 
•       Tim O’Reilly in The Economist — on Elon Musk building a form of capitalism that Adam Smith would hate.
 
•       Francis Fukuyama — whose widely misunderstood The End of History thesis Rauch defends: there is only one system that creates wealth, produces knowledge, and settles political disputes on a global scal...

“If you can only explain the arguments of the other side because they’re mad or dangerous or dumb, the problem is with you.” — Turi Munthe
 
On yesterday’s show, the psychiatrist Sally Satel described how Americans imagine their own mental condition differently, depending on their politics and age. Which is a nice segue for today’s conversation with the Anglo-French journalist turned media entrepreneur Turi Munthe. It’s not just in our mental health self-evaluation, Munthe argues, that we hallucinate reality. Indeed, the French born Munthe often sounds like one of his post-structuralist compatriots in his defiantly slippery notion of ontological reality.
 
In Why We Think What We Think: The Unexpected Origins of Our Deepest Beliefs, Munthe argues that our deepest convictions turn out to be shaped by genetics, brain shape and sometimes even by the agricultural legacy of our distant ancestors. Left and right thinkers, Munthe argues, are different political phenotypes — each hallucinating their own version of reality.
 
Total relativism, then — the full French post-structuralist monty? Not quite. Here’s where Munthe’s Englishness kicks in. Following the Anglo-Russian philosopher Isaiah Berlin, Munthe insists pluralism and relativism are different. So Turi Munthe doesn’t just think what he thinks because of his English or French origins. Borrowing from the cognitive scientists Dan Sperber and Hugo Mercier, Munthe defines thinking as a “contact sport”. So, for example, believing that the 2020 election was stolen is what Munthe calls a social commitment, because humans would rather be wrong together than right alone.
 
Speaking of convenient segues, Munthe’s thoughts on thinking set the scene for next Tuesday’s conversation with Emily Eakin, author of The Frenchmen. It’s her history of seductive post-structuralists like Foucault, Derrida and Lacan who corrupted a whole generation of literary American Ivy Leaguers (including Eakin) into hallucinating reality.
 
Five Takeaways
 
•       Pluralism Is Not Relativism. Munthe opens with Isaiah Berlin’s distinction: registering the sincerity and value of opinions across the political, religious, and ethical spectrum does not relativize truth. That Charles Windsor is King of the United Kingdom is a statement of fact; whether you’re a monarchist or a republican is where opinion begins. The book confines itself to the second category — beliefs, values, and opinions that cannot be factually proven — and asks what the nonrational influences on them actually are. The answer is humbling: genetics account for perhaps half of political persuasion, and the rest is shaped by everything from brain anatomy to the agriculture of our ancestors.
 
•       Different Political Phenotypes. At the margins, left and right differ neurologically: right-leaners are on average more readily startled by loud noises and more attentive to threat, while left-leaners carry a slightly larger anterior cingulate cortex — the brain region where we process ambiguity and split hairs. That anatomy, Munthe argues, explains the ideological capture of academia and media better than any conspiracy: hair-splitters go where the hair-splitting is, and a conservative 22-year-old doesn’t volunteer for a newsroom where 80% of colleagues think differently. We are, in his phrase, different political phenotypes, each hallucinating a different version of reality.
 
•       Thinking as a Contact Sport. Drawing on Dan Sperber and Hugo Mercier’s research, Munthe argues that reason didn’t evolve for solitary contemplation — Rodin’s Thinker is the wrong image — but for argument: to convince you to hunt the buffalo with me, I need reasons that look objective to you too. The evidence is everywhere, from the most impactful academic papers being written by pairs and groups to the creative density of small university towns. The implication is political: the people we disagree with are not obstacles to good thinking but the condition of it — the loyal opposition that helps us get out of ourselves.
 
•       Wrong Together Rather Than Right Alone. Munthe’s reading of January 6 and the stolen-election faith is social rather than psychiatric: an enormous number of our beliefs matter more for what they do than for what they say, and professing them is a commitment to a group. From an evolutionary perspective, believing what your village believes — even about the god who is a giant rock at the end of the field — is intelligent, because the ostracized lose the protection of the group. The terrifying data point is the marriage test: in the 1950s, around 4% of families would have objected to a child marrying across party lines; today it approaches 45%. That is affective polarization, and it can pull societies apart.
 
•       The Problem Is With You. Munthe spent his twenties unable to fathom American gun rights — supporters had to be bought, dumb, or morally corrupt — until he did the work and found a tradition he now calls beautiful and heroic, whether or not he shares it. His rule of thumb: if you can only explain the other side’s arguments as madness, danger, or stupidity, the problem is with you. This is not centrism — there was no middle ground on slavery or the Holocaust — but a defense of the clash itself: societies need the left to fix inequality and the right to defend the village, and we think best when the two are, in his words, continually bashed against each other.
 
About the Guest
 
Turi Munthe is a journalist and policy analyst turned media entrepreneur. He founded Demotix, which became the largest network of photojournalists in the world before its sale to Corbis in 2012, and Parlia, an encyclopedia of opinion. He has written for The Economist, The Guardian, the TLS, The Nation, and The Spectator, has sat on the boards of Index on Censorship, openDemocracy, and the Bureau of Investigative Journalism, and is a board member of the Italian media group GEDI, publisher of La Repubblica and La Stampa. He studied Arabic and History at Oxford. Why We Think What We Think: The Unexpected Origins of Our Deepest Beliefs (Penguin/Hutchinson Heinemann) is out now in the UK, with US publication early next year.
 
References:
 
•       Why We Think What We Think: The Unexpected Origins of Our Deepest Beliefs by Turi Munthe (Penguin/Hutchinson Heinemann, 2026). Timothy Garton Ash: “Thinking is a contact sport.”
 
•       Isaiah Berlin — the Anglo-Russian philosopher whose insistence that pluralism and relativism are not the same thing frames the whole book.
 
•       Dan Sperber and Hugo Mercier...

“You can do as many brain scans as you want, but you’ll never be able to distinguish an impulse that wasn’t resisted from one that’s irresistible.” — Sally Satel on why social media addiction can’t be proven in court
 
When Meta and YouTube lost the so-called landmark social media addiction trial back in March, there was jubilation inside and outside the courtroom. Finally, Big Tech seemed a bit less big. Justice, it seemed, had finally been done.
 
Or maybe not. (Full disclosure: my wife is head of litigation at Google, so I might be a bit biased). But today’s guest, the psychiatrist Sally Satel, doesn’t have a dog (or husband) in the fight, and she’s a skeptic of the trial’s outcome. A senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute and the medical director of a Washington methadone clinic, Satel argues that the concept of addiction — her clinical specialty — was distorted in the trial to serve a $1.4 trillion litigation pipeline. The plaintiffs’ theory reifies addiction as behavior beyond control. If that were true, Satel argues, none of her patients would ever get better.
 
Satel comes at this as a doctor rather than a moralist. Clinically, she acknowledges, social media addiction exists — excessive use, loss of control, continued harm — and the treatments are the same behavioral strategies she uses at her clinic. But legally, where causation is everything, the plaintiff argument collapses. No brain scan can ever distinguish an impulse that wasn’t resisted from one that’s irresistible. The mechanism of harm is unprovable — a ludicrously brittle foundation, Satel argues, for a trillion dollars of lawsuits against social media companies.
 
So when is “addiction” really addiction? Satel’s upcoming book Not a Disease: Rethinking Addiction in the Heart of America’s Overdose Crisis, which will be out in early 2027, addresses this awkward truth. And we’ll certainly have her back on the show to discuss.
 
Five Takeaways
 
•       The $1.4 Trillion Distortion of Addiction. The March bellwether verdict awarded “Kaley” $6 million from Meta and YouTube, but the real story is the litigation pipeline behind it — four states suing Meta in a single day, with total claims reaching $1.4 trillion. Satel’s objection is professional: the lawsuits invoke brain science at the most superficial level and reify addiction as behavior beyond control. If addiction truly extinguished self-control, her methadone patients would never get better — and they do. Kaley herself had fragilities that long predated the platforms, one therapist testified social media barely came up in her sessions, and her stated career plan is to become an influencer.
 
•       Clinically Real, Legally Incoherent. Satel’s central distinction: in a clinic, social media addiction is a recognizable condition — excessive use, loss of control, continued harm — treatable with the same strategies she uses for drugs, from identifying idiosyncratic cues to self-binding tactics like grayscale screens and switched-off notifications. In a courtroom, where causation is everything, the concept falls apart. No brain scan can distinguish an impulse that wasn’t resisted from one that’s irresistible; the technology simply doesn’t exist. The mechanism of harm at the center of the litigation is not just unproven but unprovable.
 
•       Demoralization Is Not Depression. At her methadone clinic, nine patients out of ten arrive reciting diagnoses — bipolar, PTSD, depression — that closer examination reveals they don’t have. What’s medicated as depression is often demoralization: the entirely understandable response to crumbling public housing and an abusive partner. Younger people now diagnose themselves by internet, because a diagnosis has become valorized — a built-in excuse, a victim category, less expected of you. Gratifying in the short run, Satel argues, and developmentally retarding in the long run: less engagement with risk, with challenge, with the world.
 
•       The Therapeutic Culture Meets Woke Therapy. Sixty years after Philip Rieff’s Triumph of the Therapeutic, the medicalization of ordinary sadness is complete — grief becomes a prescription, and resources drain away from the seriously ill. The newer turn is political: counselor training now teaches that the therapist knows what’s wrong before the patient speaks — oppression — and a congressional investigation is examining antisemitism within the American Psychological Association. Satel’s emblematic story: a young man fired by his therapist for gently suggesting his rabbi’s sermon had become too politicized. You don’t fire a patient, she notes. The therapist’s moral commitments bled into the room.
 
•       The Good News About Fentanyl. Fentanyl deaths are falling significantly — not because fewer people use, but because far fewer die. Narcan is flooding the streets, nailed up in boxes on telephone poles and handed out free at clinics; the Chinese supply has tightened and Mexican distribution has been disrupted; and, as in every drug epidemic, the upcoming generation is opting out — the same dynamic the rappers documented during crack. The morbid factor is real too: many long-term users have died. Satel’s book Not a Disease — rethinking addiction from the front lines of the overdose crisis — arrives in early 2027.
 
About the Guest
 
Sally Satel is a psychiatrist, a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute, and the medical director of a methadone clinic in Washington, DC. She is the author or co-author of PC, M.D., One Nation Under Therapy, and Brainwashed: The Seductive Appeal of Mindless Neuroscience, and her essays appear in Persuasion and The Free Press. Her new book, Not a Disease: Rethinking Addiction in the Heart of America’s Overdose Crisis (MIT Press), is out in early 2027.
 
References:
 
•       Not a Disease: Rethinking Addiction in the Heart of America’s Overdose Crisis by Sally Satel (MIT Press, early 2027) — drawn from her years on the front lines of the overdose crisis.
 
•       Satel’s recent Persuasion essay arguing that social media addiction is more complicated than the litigation suggests, and her Free Press pieces on social media addiction and on why fentanyl deaths are falling.
 
•       One Nation Under Therapy and Brainwashed: The Seductive Appeal of Mindless Neuroscience — Satel’s earlier assaults on the therapeutic culture and superficial brain science.
 
•       The Age of Diagnosis by Suzanne O’Sullivan — the book behind the episode’s framing question: which comes first, the diagnosis or the anxiety?
 
•       Philip Rieff — whose The Triumph of the Thera...