Following the November release of his latest polemical work, Question Authority — a provocative critique of contemporary culture and politics — I sat down at Trinity College with Professor Mark Kingwell from the Department of Philosophy to discuss his ideas and arguments from the book. 

Question Authority is an immense achievement of rigour and reason. Through a blend of critical passion and personal reflection, Kingwell elevates philosophy and political theory into an exercise in radical optimism. To my surprise, despite his keen insight into the failures of our social and political systems, Kingwell expressed striking hope for the humanity within them. As we sat down in that corner of Strachan Hall to talk, I had no idea what wonder I would witness.

Divine Angubua, The Varsity: What do you see as the central purpose of your book, and how did your decision to blend polemic and meditation shape its narrative and your presence as the writer within the text? 

Professor Mark Kingwell: I’ve never fully believed in the fiction of the objective observer, so I wanted to use personal anecdotes to ground philosophical arguments and destabilize the idea of textual authority. When considering the nature of authority, delivering authoritative-sounding claims about the crisis in authority felt like an obvious performative contradiction, especially since one central feature of that crisis currently is the broader loss of faith in universities and expertise. 

Concerning polemic and meditation, I wanted to combine two forms often seen as distinct or even oppositional. Polemic is a passionate, action-driven argument, while meditation is reflective and withdrawn. I wanted to show how meditation can be a form of passionate engagement and how effective polemic relies on thoughtful reflection. 

TV: In Question Authority, you mention affective polarization. How do you see the rise of affective polarization in contemporary democracies shaping our current political landscape?

MK: Affective polarization certainly underpins the current, obvious political and ideological divides, often stemming from deeper emotions and the assumption that one’s feelings are self-evidently justified. This shapes both identity and action. By allowing this, we fail to examine the passions and desires beneath political disagreements, preventing us from questioning what we truly want or aim to achieve, which creates a psychological dysfunction akin to addiction, where we become fixated on the dopamine rush of being right or dominating others, and act solely based simply on our perceived sense of identity. 

TV: This ties back to “compassionate skepticism,” another idea you discuss in the book. How would you define this? 

MK: So I wanted to offer a defensible response to the polarization and crisis of trust we constantly hear about. Compassion is often criticized for relying on emotional sensitivity. If you lack that sensitivity, you seem to fail at compassion. Others argue compassion is too soft, focusing on feelings rather than tough policy. I aimed to conjoin an idea of compassion, which was immune from these critiques, with a questioning of authority. 

TV: Do you think compassionate skepticism can function not just as a neutral means of communication but as a transformative force in today’s climate — reshaping both discourse and our embodied selves?

MK: Skepticism should always be present, but with compassion, we must recognize others as vulnerable and capable of suffering, not necessarily indulging their emotions but understanding our shared humanity. This creates a framework for interrelation, where despite disagreement, we approach each other with skepticism while recognizing the shared project of being here together. It’s an optimistic view of interpersonal relations, but that’s the role of philosophers.

TV: This brings us to language, where much of this engagement unfolds. Given language’s central role in sense-making and power dynamics, especially in the context of American politics in a post-Trump, pre-Trump, and now intra-Trump world, how do you see the purpose of language evolving? You’ve written that “language is the battleground for shaping meaning and distributing power.” You also mention a dialectical method that thrives on the tension between opposing positions. Could you expand on this?

MK: I mean, language is never neutral. It encodes and extends power, shaping relationships of dominance and submission, but it’s also great for its infinite subversive capability. The very structures language creates and maintains can also be undermined through its use. The dialectic exists within language as human activity — as order, as well as resistance. Language is where possibilities for both normalization and disruption emerge — it’s the central place for me.

TV: In Question Authority, you reference philosopher Roland Barthes’ idea that “nothing is natural until we make it so,” calling nature a sham and suggesting it has become a human invention, constantly redefined to suit the ideologies of the time. How do you see this shifting our understanding of nature — and what we consider “natural” — shaping not just how we extract physical resources like oil and gas, but also how we derive meaning and construct identity?

MK: The critique of naturalization from Barthes challenges claims of what is “natural” by exposing their ideological roots. For example, the idea that a family must consist of a man, a woman, and biological children is often framed as “natural,” but this arrangement is not inevitable or necessary — as other family structures exist. Denaturalizing such assumptions reveals their contingency and opens space for critical reflection. The second layer of this critique is the concept of “nature” itself. Even as we question naturalized norms, we often assume a “natural world,” which is also a human construct. With climate change, we’re seeing the limits of this construct, especially our framing of the natural world as a collection of “resources” for human extraction. In a sense, we’re seeing the revenge of our circumstances upon our arrogance, and if we don’t recognize these constructs and critically pivot our behaviour, we risk losing the world altogether. 

TV: In your book, you mention philosopher Dan Williams’ idea that misinformation and superstition aren’t distortions but rather the natural epistemic state. Through the lens of compassionate skepticism, what does this reveal about human nature? 

MK: That’s an important point about misinformation. People often treat it as an aberrant phenomenon, but it’s more accurate to see reliable information as a rare, hard-won achievement — a relatively recent evolutionary development. Compassionate skepticism plays a vital role here, not only in guarding against deception but also in committing to the shared project of creating meaningful, reliable communication. Many people think their responsibility ends with identifying and resisting misinformation, but that’s only half the battle. We also have a positive duty to contribute to truthful, constructive discourse. 

TV: Does this suggest that, despite the inherent artifice of our lives, living meaningfully requires us to consciously craft and share our stories while embracing each other’s joys and pains? 

MK: Not to sound too grandiose, but the shared stories we tell must come from a collective effort to shape our discursive imaginations. These stories are fictional or contingent not because they’re false, but because their truth is part of our larger world-building capacity. We are capable of creating either good or bad worlds. The goal, I hope, is to build a better one.

TV: So, what I gather from what you’re saying is that the pursuit of objective truth is not the ultimate goal, or the thing that matters the most?

MK: It’s a false trail, and revealing its contingency is important, not just because objective truth has historically been used to exploit people, but because it’s simply wrong, albeit in a pretty interesting way. In the book, I suggest that our craving for certainty becomes a kind of toxin, a metaphorical addiction. Objective truth is like the pusher on the corner, offering fleeting hits of certainty, which feel good but ultimately cost more. Recognizing this contingency shouldn’t make us pessimistic; rather, it should emancipate us, opening up the potential for the infinite project of creating a better world — one where our imaginations and engagement with others give us real power. Even in the most difficult circumstances, human imagination offers possibilities. I’m optimistic, partly because, to me, there’s no alternative.

TV: In a journalistic context where the “natural” is revealed as socially constructed, can the pursuit of objectivity itself create distortions? What dangers does unchecked reason pose, and how can journalism avoid becoming complicit in rationalizing its own ‘monsters?’

MK: When I was a student journalist at The Varsity in the 1980s there was a lingering belief from the ’60s that objectivity in journalism was a dangerous, false god. At the time, I saw this as mostly an excuse for lazy journalism, treating it as a branch of fiction. However, I’ve come to appreciate this perspective to some extent. There’s a place for personal journalism — like Tom Wolfe’s artful first-person reporting in the ’60s — but it should push off some ideas, not of objectivity, but fairness. I think it’s important to see journalism as part of a broader discursive sphere. It should remain verifiable, and when opinions are included, they must be distinguishable from facts. The real danger of polarization is that people retreat into their bubbles and stay there, which isn’t good for anyone.

TV: When objectivity is used as a blunt instrument, stripped of awareness of its biases and limitations, do you think it can be as dangerous — if not more so — than an unapologetically biased narrative? In this context, is the journalist ever truly an artist of truth, or does this make them vulnerable to becoming an unwitting agent of subtle misdirection?

MK: There are definitely people who become the unwitting actors you describe — people addicted to their own opinions, whose certainty reinforces their beliefs. These make dangerous journalists, as they use objectivity as a blunt instrument to assert, “This is the truth.” An activist journalist is less dangerous though because their agenda is more transparent. Ideally, what we need is a dialectical fusion of both: a commitment to accuracy without objectivity becoming this blunt tool while avoiding the activism that only serves a personal agenda, and serving the public good by fostering a vigorous discourse in democratic societies. 

The press, as the fourth estate, is supposed to critically check the power of the other three estates — the clergy (First Estate), the nobility (Second Estate), and the commoners or townspeople (Third Estate) — safeguarding against corruption and depredations of government. If journalists embrace this noble role, they do the world a service, but their devotion should curb any tendency toward extreme activism and blind objectivity.