It has long been the secret pleasure of the educated classes to pretend that the world is, in some sense, knowable. This charming delusion — passed down from Aristotle to the present day like an heirloom teapot nobody actually uses — persists despite overwhelming evidence that the universe is, at best, a polite liar.
One must admire the confidence with which generations of scholars have announced, with straight faces, that they have finally discovered the correct model of reality. The Flat Earth Society insisted that the world resembled a dinner plate; Newton declared it a clock; Schrödinger suggested it was a cat having an existential crisis; and certain contemporary physicists assure us it is a hologram projected by a cosmic entertainment system of questionable taste.
In this illustrious tradition of dignified confusion, I humbly present Relational Monism — yet another model, another approximation, another attempt to coax the universe into revealing its secrets, only to discover that it has once again changed the locks.
Let us be clear: Relational Monism does not claim to be true.
It merely claims to be less false than certain alternatives, which is the highest honour any metaphysical system can reasonably aspire to.
The world, as far as one can tell, is not composed of things, substances, particles, essences, or any other comforting ontological furniture. It is composed of relations, which behave rather like aristocrats at a garden party: they appear substantial only when observed from a distance, and dissolve into ambiguity upon closer inspection.
Every model — mine included — is a map drawn by someone who has never actually visited the territory. The best we can do is produce increasingly elegant cartographic fictions. Some prefer their fictions geometric, others probabilistic, and a few eccentric souls insist on drawing the universe as a jellybean jar. I do not judge. I merely observe.
Thus, Relational Monism is offered not as a revelation, but as a polite suggestion. A metaphysical shrug. A gentlemanly attempt to say, “The world is unknowable, but here is a diagram that makes the ignorance look respectable.”
If future generations discover that the universe is, in fact, a cosmic spreadsheet maintained by an underpaid intern, I shall not be offended. My model will simply join the distinguished ranks of theories that were wrong in interesting ways. And that, dear reader, is the only kind of wrong worth being.
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