Pleasure vs. Perfection In ancient times, there lived a wealthy man who performed a significant sacrifice that required the sacrificer to give everything he had. This sacrifice was not just a ritual but a test of one’s sincerity and devotion. However, this man was not sincere. He wanted to gain fame and glory for making such a sacrifice, sacrificing possessions that had lost their value to him, such as old, barren, and injured cows. This man had a son whose name was Nachiketas. The boy saw that his father had done wrong, that he had broken his vow, and that he had to die. In India, children learn to regard their father and mother as living gods, and in their presence, the children cannot speak or do anything without permission but must stand and keep their peace. So the boy approached his father and, not daring to ask a direct question, asked him: “Who are you going to give me to? Sacrifice demands that you give everything.” The father was distraught by the question and replied: “What are you saying, son? Can a father give away his own son?” The boy repeated the question a second and a third time, and the angry father finally said: “I’ll give you Yama.” And the boy went to the Lord of Death. But the god Yama was not at home, and the boy had to wait outside the door of the Lord of Death for three days. On the third day, Yama returned. “Ah, polite man,” he said, “you have waited for me for three days without eating anything; you are a guest worthy of all respect. Welcome back! I’m very sorry I wasn’t home. But I’m going to make it up to you. Ask me for three things, one for each day of waiting.” “My first request,” said the boy, “is that my father stops being angry with me, be kind to me, and recognize me when I return to him.” The Hindu god of death promised he would fulfill the wish. The next wish was a request for clarification about how to make the Vedic sacrifice properly to ensure a person could go to heaven. Then the boy made his third wish: “I’m completely perplexed. When a person dies, some say they exist afterward, others say they no longer exist. I want you to clarify this problem for me!” This question confused Yama. He was ready to fulfill other requests, but here he said: “The gods themselves, in ancient times, had difficulty answering this question. This law is not easy to understand. Ask for something else, don’t insist, and free me from the need to fulfill this request.” But Nachiketas was a determined young man and said: “You say, Lord of Death, that even the gods had doubts about this problem and that this subject is difficult to understand. But I can’t find another preceptor like you, and no other favor can replace this one.” Then Yama said: “Ask for children and grandchildren who will live a hundred years each; ask for cattle, elephants, horses, gold. Ask for an earthly kingdom and as long a life as you want. Or choose other favors that you find equal to these. I can give you the ability to fulfill all your wishes. Ask even for the most difficult things to obtain in this world. Behold, behold these heavenly girls, this music, these chariots, which mortals do not know; let them serve you, O Nachiketas, but do not ask me about the mystery of death.” “All these things, O Lord of Death, are transitory,” said Nachiketas. “They drain the energy of the senses. Even the longest life is short. Keep your horses, dancers, and musicians. Man cannot be satisfied with riches. Do we keep our riches when we face you? No, we only live as long as you want us to. So the favor I’ve already asked is the only one I want from you.” Yama liked the boy’s boldness and said: “Indeed, my son, perfection is one thing, and pleasure is another. These two things, with different results, determine a person. He who chooses perfection becomes pure; he who chooses pleasure does not reach the true goal. Perfection and pleasure offer themselves to man, and only the wise man investigates them and distinguishes one from the other. He chooses perfection as superior to pleasure, but the fool chooses pleasure because of his body. You, Nachiketas, having discussed the nature of the things so coveted in this world, have rightly rejected them.” Thus, Yama began to teach Nachiketas the mysteries of life and death.

The Ring of Gyges By Plato Long ago, in the ancient land of Lydia, there lived a shepherd named Gyges. He was a simple man who worked for the king, tending his flocks in the fields as he had always done, living an ordinary, humble life with no special power or influence. One day, while he was out in the fields, a violent storm struck, followed by a powerful earthquake. Gyges noticed that the ground had cracked open where his sheep had been grazing. Curious, Gyges climbed down into the chasm. There, among the rocks and debris, he found himself inside a strange underground chamber. As he explored, he discovered a peculiar and wondrous object: a hollow bronze horse with a door on its side. Inside the horse was the body of a giant man, wearing nothing but a golden ring. Fascinated, Gyges took the ring and climbed back out of the earth. He soon realized, however, that this was no ordinary piece of jewelry. While sitting with other shepherds, Gyges absentmindedly twisted the ring on his finger. When he turned the ring’s setting toward the inside of his hand, something astonishing happened: The other shepherds began speaking as if he had left, unaware he was still sitting among them. Gyges realized that he had become completely invisible. When he turned the ring again, he reappeared, visible once more. At first, Gyges marveled at his discovery, testing it in small ways. But then a thought took root: If no one could see him, what could he get away with? He made his way to the royal palace and used his newfound power to move unseen among the corridors of the court. Without fear of being caught, he seduced the queen, plotted against the king, and ultimately killed him, taking the throne for himself. Gyges committed these acts without fear of being caught or punished. Now, dear reader, this story turns toward you as if you were the protagonist: If you had the power to act without consequences—if you could do anything you wanted without being seen or punished—would you still choose to act justly? Or would you, like Gyges, use that power to serve your own desires, even if it meant harming others?

In Dune, the struggle for power sits at the center of politics, religion, war, loyalty, and even prophecy. Herbert kept returning to a dangerous question: what happens when people surrender too much authority to those who desperately want it? By Chapterhouse: Dune, he put the problem plainly: “All governments suffer a recurring problem: Power attracts pathological personalities. It is not that power corrupts but that it is magnetic to the corruptible.” Then comes the darker warning: “Such people have a tendency to become drunk on violence, a condition to which they are quickly addicted.” Herbert turns the familiar idea that “power corrupts” in another direction. Perhaps corruption sometimes begins before power is acquired. Certain personalities actively seek positions where they can command, punish, control, and eventually justify their actions as necessary. Instead of asking only, “How do we keep good leaders from becoming corrupt?” we should also ask, “What kind of person desperately wants power in the first place?” The Dune novels repeatedly warn against placing too much faith in charismatic leaders, even leaders who appear heroic. Herbert once explained that one of the lessons running through the series was that people should distrust leaders and examine their decisions carefully. That may be Dune’s most enduring political lesson. A healthy civilization should spend less time searching for the perfect ruler and more time building institutions capable of surviving an imperfect one.

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A Wired journalist went to interview John McAfee once and described the following encounter: ‘He loads the bullet into the gleaming silver revolver, spins the cylinder. "This scares you, right?" he says. Then he puts the gun to his head. My heart rate kicks up; it takes me a second to respond. "Yeah, I'm scared," I admit. "We don't have to do this." "I know we don't," he says, the muzzle pressed against his temple. And then he pulls the trigger. Nothing happens. He pulls it three more times in rapid succession. There are only five chambers. "Reholster the gun," I demand. He keeps his eyes fixed on me and pulls the trigger a fifth time. Still nothing. With the gun still to his head, he starts pulling the trigger incessantly. "I can do this all day long," he says to the sound of the hammer clicking. "I can do this a thousand times. Ten thousand times. Nothing will ever happen. Why? Because you have missed something. You are operating on an assumption about reality that is wrong."’