phrase that leaps to the lips is “rape and pillage”. And if that’s not bloodthirsty enough for you, swot up on Genghis Khan and his Mongols, who ran roughshod over China, Europe and the Middle East in the thirteenth century, killing a staggering 40 million people.
In the medieval period i recall the misnamed Pope Innocent IV’s bull of 1252, Ad Extirpanda, which authorised the use of torture to extract confessions. That’s the blueprint for the gulags and Guantanamo right there. It’s difficult to say why we feast on others’ misdeeds or misfortune – perhaps just relief at not being caught out ourselves. But maybe more than that, it’s a validation of our own invincibility. It seems fundamental to human nature that when faced with disaster or demise, we never quite grasp that it’s happening to us. These things happen to other people! Even when the Grim Reaper inevitably calls, most of us will leave the world with a look of surprise on our faces.
The Hunger Games might soon need to be moved out of the fiction section
Of course, many of the precursors to past collapses – inequality, competition between elites and environmental degradation – are key features of our own age. So it would be mad to miss out on these vital lessons of history. Especially at a time when the richest one per cent own half the wealth, while the poorest half own less than one per cent; and when our internecine wars are matched in their iniquity and ferocity only by the hostilities we inflict on the planet. It’s no wonder the 21st century has already spawned a library’s worth of books cataloguing and prophesying social breakdown. And I’m surely not the only one who’s starting to think The Hunger Games might soon need to be moved out of the fiction section.
Yet, amid all these tales of rack and ruin, there are as many lesser-discussed, more hopeful stories of adaptation and survival. When Rome fell in the fifth century, only the western half of the empire expired. With limited military resources and surrounded by volatile states the Byzantines powered on for another thousand years, downsizing and pursuing a policy of rigorous diplomacy. (There’s a lesson in there somewhere for our new prime minister.) As the American scientist and historian Jared Diamond wrote in Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Survive (2011), a civilisation’s chance of longevity depends on the ability of its population to adjust to changed circumstances. In childhood, I loved the Norse sagas, especially Erik the Red’s settlement of Greenland, which at one point grew into a community of thousands. But, like many of our species, the Vikings were prone to the “sunk cost fallacy” and ploughed on doing things in their own boneheaded way – depleting the environment, fighting with the neighbouring Inuit, and making the mistake of thinking it couldn’t get any colder – even when it must have been obvious a change of tack was required. By 1450 the Norse were gone, while the Inuit, who lived in greater harmony with their surroundings, remain the most populous group in Greenland today.
All civilisations have a shelf life and today’s major powers will pass theirs soon enough. You could argue that some once-great nations already have. But in the absence of bad luck, the end of an era doesn’t have to mean full-scale disaster. Homo sapiens might be slow learners, but ever since our ancestors made it through the Ice Age we’ve also shown ourselves to be adaptable, creative and resourceful. Change can emerge peacefully and voluntarily, if only we can recalibrate our values as a society and map a more sustainable and equitable way forward. It all depends on how we want our story to go down in history – as a tale of ruin, or of resilience.
The Paradox of “No News Is Good News”
The saying “No news is good news” has long been a rhetorical device used to highlight the often-overlooked nature of silence in a rapidly changing world. In a society where information is both a privilege and a commodity, the absence of news can be interpreted as a form of validation—a reminder that the world is not constantly crashing and burning, but rather, it is in a state of equilibrium, even if that equilibrium is fragile. This paradox is especially striking when juxtaposed with the stark realities of history, where the most significant societal shifts often occur not through headlines but through the quiet, unacknowledged endurance of civilizations. The fall of the Roman Empire, the decline of the Norse sagas, the loss of the Chinese Tang Dynasty—all of these events are not celebrated as triumphs but rather as cautionary tales of how easily societies can crumble without a clear narrative of their own.
At its core, this duality reflects a fundamental tension within human culture: the need to make sense of the world through storytelling, yet the responsibility to avoid perpetuating cycles of violence and misfortune. The more we choose to ignore or sanitize the realities of our own time, the more we risk eroding the very structures that sustain our collective understanding. In this sense, the phrase “No news is good news” is not merely a cliché but a reflection of the way we, as observers, often default to the most sensationalized forms of news to make sense of the world. We seek out the stories that grab our attention, the ones that highlight the most dramatic of outcomes—be they the end of an era, the collapse of a civilization, or the fall of a monarchy. Yet, in doing so, we may be missing the broader, more nuanced picture of what is happening around us.
This phenomenon is particularly evident in the way modern societies construct narratives of progress or downfall. When the world is in flux, the most compelling stories are those that frame the chaos as an inevitable conclusion, rather than as a moment of reflection. The rise of digital media has only amplified this tendency, with algorithms prioritizing content that generates engagement over that which is objectively factual. As a result, even the most disquieting events are often reported through a lens of spectacle rather than substance. This is why, when the phrase “No news is good news” is applied to the present day, it feels so dissonant. In our age, where information is both abundant and fragmented, the absence of news is not a sign of prosperity but rather a marker of uncertainty.
The historical precedents for this paradox are plentiful. The end of the Cold War, the fall of the Berlin Wall, or the economic crash of 2008 are all moments of societal transformation that are often framed through the lens of disaster rather than of triumph. This is not to say that these events are inherently negative, but that their portrayal as such can obscure the broader patterns of resilience and adaptation that define human history. The same logic that explains why the fall of Rome is remembered as a tragedy rather than a triumph can also be seen in the way we often overlook the quiet victories of societies that defy expectations. It is in this tension that the phrase “No news is good news” becomes a powerful metaphor for the human condition: the desire to look away from the mess we are in, while simultaneously accepting the inevitability of our own decline or transformation.
The Reverse Is Also True
And yet, the reverse is also true. When we are not in the midst of a crisis, we tend to remember the most significant stories of our time not as signs of progress, but as the quiet, unacknowledged continuation of our own decline. The modern world is rife with examples of societies that, despite their apparent stability, are quietly unraveling. The rise of populism, the erosion of democratic institutions, and the growing divide between the global elite and the rest of the population are all narratives that, if not acknowledged, may be dismissed as mere happenstance or the natural result of a flawed system. Similarly, the aftermath of the Arab Spring and the subsequent rise of ISIS have been framed in ways that suggest a necessary evolution of society rather than a return to chaos. This tendency to frame our own misfortunes as part of a larger, inevitable pattern is not unique to the modern era—it has long been a feature of human storytelling.
This phenomenon, often referred to as the “myth of the phoenix” or the “illusion of control,” is deeply rooted in psychology. Humans are wired to perceive events through the lens of cause and effect, especially when those cause and effect are not immediately apparent. The most effective storytelling is one that suggests the outcome is not just a matter of chance but of fate, of destiny, or of an unseen hand guiding the world toward its inevitable conclusion. When a society is facing collapse, it is natural to seek out a narrative that frames the decline as a grand, unavoidable event rather than as a product of poor decision-making or systemic failure. This is why the fall of the Roman Empire is often seen as a tragic end rather than a mere consequence of mismanagement. The same logic applies to the decline of the Byzantine Empire, which, despite its longevity, eventually succumbed to internal strife and external pressures.
In the modern era, this tendency is both amplified and reframed. The rise of social media has made it easier for people to feel isolated in a hyper-connected world, where the loss of a once-mighty civilization is met with a sense of collective relief. The same is true for the Brexit referendum, where the overwhelming majority of people chose to withdraw from the EU—not because of a crisis of faith or a moment of reckoning, but because they believed they were outgunning the opposition. This is not to say that these events are without merit, but that their narrative is often shaped by the victors rather than the vanquished. The same can be said of the 2008 financial crisis, which was framed by the media as a warning of the fragility of modern economies rather than as the product of an overburdened financial system.
The psychological underpinnings of this tendency are complex. One theory suggests that when we are not in the midst of disaster, we are less likely to notice the signs that are in front of us. This is why people often overlook the systemic inequalities that lead to societal breakdown. It is also why, even in the face of a crisis, the media tends to report the worst-case scenarios rather than the most ordinary, quiet moments of adaptation. The key difference lies in the framing: when we are in the throes of a calamity, we are more likely to remember the aftermath rather than the beginning. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so counterintuitive when applied to modern times. The absence of a headline—of the collapse of a state, the rise of a new regime, or the dissolution of a once-mighty civilization—is not a sign of stability, but of the kind of silence that allows us to move forward without being consumed by the past.
Ultimately, the paradox of “No news is good news” and its reverse—“The reverse is also true”—reflects the way we construct meaning from the stories we are told. It is not merely a rhetorical device but a reflection of our cognitive tendencies. We are creatures of narrative, and when the world is not in turmoil, we are more likely to see the “good” parts as the default state of affairs, even when that state is precarious. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant in our age. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, where the most significant stories are those of transformation, not of stagnation.
The Role of Media in Framing Catastrophe
Media plays a crucial role in shaping how societies perceive their own decline. When a catastrophe strikes, the way it is framed determines how it is remembered. In the case of the fall of the Roman Empire, the media of the time likely did not have the luxury of storytelling, but rather, the story itself was preserved in historical records. Today, however, the media is more saturated with narratives of collapse than ever before. The rise of digital platforms has transformed the way information is consumed, with algorithms prioritizing content that generates engagement over that which is objectively factual. This means that even when a civilization is in decline, the media often frames it as a necessary evolution rather than as an inevitable end.
The same logic applies to modern crises. The 2008 financial crisis, for instance, was widely reported as a warning about the fragility of global economies, rather than as the product of an overburdened financial system. This reframing is not just about the immediacy of the crisis, but about the way it is perceived. The media may present the crisis as a necessary adjustment rather than as an unforeseen event, thus allowing individuals and societies to find meaning in their own trajectory. The story of the collapse of the Roman Empire is often framed as a cautionary tale rather than as a direct consequence of mismanagement. It is this kind of narrative construction that allows us to feel a sense of relief at not being the ones to bear the brunt of the calamity.
The role of media in shaping perception is not limited to historical events. In contemporary society, the same dynamics apply. The rise of populism and the erosion of democratic institutions are often framed as part of a larger, inevitable process rather than as the result of specific misjudgments or policy failures. This is why the fall of the Berlin Wall is often remembered not as a triumph of socialism, but as a moment of collective triumph. Similarly, the rise of the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria was framed by the media as a necessary shift in the region’s political landscape rather than as the inevitable consequence of systemic failure.
This reframing is not just a matter of sensationalism—it is also a reflection of societal values. In a world where information is often consumed in a fragmented, hyper-connected manner, the most effective storytelling is one that frames the outcome as a grand, unavoidable transformation rather than as a mere misstep. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, where the most significant stories are those of transformation rather than of stagnation.
The Human Tendency to Avoid Catastrophe
Perhaps the most striking aspect of the “No news is good news” phenomenon is the way people tend to avoid the stories of their own misfortune. This avoidance is not merely a matter of convenience—it is a psychological reflex deeply tied to identity, status, and self-perception. When faced with their own downfall, people often seek out the narrative that frames it as an external force rather than as something they themselves have caused. This is why the fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered as a tragedy rather than as a testament to the empire’s own mismanagement. The same logic applies to the rise of populism and the erosion of democratic institutions. These are not the result of a single misstep but of a slow, cumulative process that people tend to overlook in the moment.
The concept of the “sunk cost fallacy” is particularly relevant in this context. Humans are often reluctant to accept that their own actions have led to a negative outcome because they are unwilling to acknowledge that their previous choices were not the cause of the problem. This is why people tend to frame their own misfortunes as the result of something else—their children’s rebellions, their spouses’ divorces, or the sudden rise of a competitor. It is not that they are doomed to failure, but that they are more likely to remember the parts that seem to have been arranged by fate rather than by their own decisions. This psychological tendency is especially evident in the case of the American Civil War, where the war was framed as a necessary adjustment rather than as a direct consequence of the South’s decision to secede.
The same logic applies to the modern era. The rise of climate change, the erosion of social trust, and the intensification of inequality are all framed in ways that suggest they are not the result of a single misstep but of an inevitable outcome. This reframing allows individuals to feel a sense of detachment from the crisis, as if they are not the ones to bear the brunt. The media often plays a role in this, framing the situation as part of a larger, unavoidable transformation rather than as a direct consequence of policy or leadership. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, where the most significant stories are those of transformation rather than of stagnation.
The Relief of Not Being Caught Out
The human tendency to frame their own misfortunes as the result of fate or external forces is not only a matter of cognitive comfort but also of social identity. When people are caught in a crisis, they often seek out narratives that suggest they are not entirely responsible for the outcome. This is why the fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered as a tragic end rather than as a direct consequence of mismanagement. It is not that the empire was doomed, but that it was not their fault. This same logic applies to the rise of populism, the erosion of democratic institutions, and the growing divide between the global elite and the rest of the population. These are not the result of a single misstep but of a systemic failure that people often attribute to forces beyond their control.
This reframing is particularly evident in the case of the Syrian refugee crisis. While the situation is undoubtedly dire, the way it is framed in the media often suggests it is part of a larger, inevitable transformation rather than as a result of individual choices. The same is true for the Arab Spring, where the fall of the regime is often attributed to an external force rather than to the flawed decisions of the leaders. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, where the most significant stories are those of transformation rather than of stagnation.
The psychological underpinnings of this tendency are complex. One theory suggests that when we are not in the throes of disaster, we are less likely to notice the signs that are in front of us. This is why people often overlook the systemic inequalities that lead to societal breakdown. It is also why, even in the face of a crisis, the media tends to report the worst-case scenarios rather than the most ordinary moments of adaptation. The key difference lies in the framing: when we are in the midst of a calamity, we are more likely to remember the aftermath rather than the beginning. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, where the most significant stories are those of transformation rather than of stagnation.
The Importance of Historical Narratives
Historical narratives are not merely tools of storytelling—they are also essential to understanding the present. The same events that are remembered as triumphs or tragedies often serve as blueprints for the challenges we face today. The fall of the Roman Empire, for instance, is not just an episode of history but a cautionary tale about the fragility of empires and the inevitability of change. Similarly, the decline of the Norse sagas, the loss of the Byzantine Empire, and the rise of the Islamic State are all framed in ways that suggest they are inevitable outcomes rather than the result of specific misjudgments. These narratives are not only about the events themselves but also about the societal structures that allow such transformations to be perceived as inevitable rather than as the product of human agency.
The same can be said of modern society. The 2008 financial crisis, the rise of populism, and the erosion of democratic institutions are all framed in ways that suggest they are part of a larger, unavoidable process rather than as the result of individual choices. This reframing is not just about the immediacy of the crisis but about the way it is perceived. When people are not in the midst of disaster, they are more likely to frame it as a necessary evolution rather than as an unforeseen event. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, where the most significant stories are those of transformation rather than of stagnation.
The importance of these historical narratives lies in their ability to provide context and reflection. They remind us that civilizations are not immune to collapse, and that even the most seemingly stable systems can be shaken by internal or external forces. The Roman Empire’s fall, the Norse sagas’ decline, and the rise of the Islamic State are all examples of how societies, even those that seem to have survived, are not immune to eventual transformation. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” is so dissonant when applied to our age. It is not merely a rhetorical device but a reflection of the way we construct meaning from the stories we are told. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The Illusion of Stability
Perhaps the most striking element of the “No news is good news” phenomenon is the illusion of stability that accompanies the absence of catastrophic news. When the world is not in turmoil, people tend to remember the most significant stories as the default state of affairs, even when that state is precarious. This is why the fall of the Roman Empire is often seen as a triumph of the times rather than as a direct consequence of mismanagement. It is not that the empire was doomed, but that it was not their fault. Similarly, the decline of the Norse sagas is often remembered as a testament to their own resilience rather than as the product of environmental degradation or internal conflict.
This illusion of stability is not limited to historical events but is also a feature of modern society. The rise of populism and the erosion of democratic institutions are often framed in ways that suggest they are part of a larger, unavoidable transformation rather than as the result of specific misjudgments. The same can be said of the growing divide between the global elite and the rest of the population. These are not the result of a single misstep but of a systemic failure that people tend to overlook in the moment. The key difference lies in the framing: when we are not in the throes of disaster, we are more likely to see the “good” parts as the default state of affairs.
The psychological underpinnings of this illusion are complex. One theory suggests that when we are not in the midst of disaster, we are less likely to notice the signs that are in front of us. This is why people often overlook the systemic inequalities that lead to societal breakdown. It is also why, even in the face of a crisis, the media tends to report the worst-case scenarios rather than the most ordinary moments of adaptation. The key difference lies in the framing: when we are in the throes of a calamity, we are more likely to remember the aftermath rather than the beginning. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, where the most significant stories are those of transformation rather than of stagnation.
The Role of Media in Framing Catastrophe
Media plays a crucial role in shaping how societies perceive their own decline. When a catastrophe strikes, the way it is framed determines how it is remembered. The fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered not as a direct consequence of mismanagement but as a tragic end that was inevitable. Similarly, the rise of the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria is framed in ways that suggest it is part of a larger, unavoidable transformation rather than as the result of specific policy failures. This reframing allows individuals to feel detached from the crisis, as if they are not the ones to bear the brunt of the problem.
The same logic applies to modern crises. The 2008 financial crisis is often reported as a warning about the fragility of global economies rather than as the product of an overburdened financial system. This reframing is not just about immediacy but about the way it is perceived. The media may present the crisis as a necessary adjustment rather than as an unforeseen event, thus allowing individuals to find meaning in their own trajectory. The story of the fall of the Roman Empire is not just about the empire’s own decline but about how it was framed as a necessary transformation rather than as a mere misstep.
This reframing is not limited to historical events. In contemporary society, the same dynamics apply. The rise of populism and the erosion of democratic institutions are framed in ways that suggest they are part of a larger, unavoidable process rather than as the result of specific misjudgments or policy failures. The same can be said of the growing divide between the global elite and the rest of the population. These are not the result of a single misstep but of a systemic failure that people often attribute to external forces.
The role of media in shaping perception is not just about the immediacy of the crisis but about the way it is framed. The more we are able to see the world as a series of inevitable transformations rather than as a matter of individual choice, the more we are able to feel a sense of detachment from the crisis. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, where the most significant stories are those of transformation rather than of stagnation.
The Psychological Underpinnings of Narrative Framing
The way societies frame their own decline is not merely a matter of media but also of psychological factors. One such factor is the human tendency to perceive events as part of an external, inevitable force rather than as the product of individual choices. This is why the fall of the Roman Empire is often seen as a necessary transformation rather than as a result of mismanagement. It is not that the empire was doomed, but that it was not their fault. Similarly, the rise of the Islamic State is framed in ways that suggest it is part of a larger, unavoidable process rather than as the result of specific policy failures.
This reframing is also tied to the concept of the “sunk cost fallacy,” where individuals are reluctant to accept that their own actions have led to a negative outcome because they are unwilling to acknowledge that their previous choices were not the cause. This is why people often overlook the systemic inequalities that lead to societal breakdown. It is also why, even in the face of a crisis, the media tends to report the worst-case scenarios rather than the most ordinary moments of adaptation. The key difference lies in the framing: when we are not in the throes of disaster, we are more likely to see the aftermath as the default state of affairs.
The role of media in this reframing is significant. It is not just about the immediacy of the crisis but about how it is perceived. The more we are able to see the world as a series of inevitable transformations rather than as a matter of individual choice, the more we are able to feel detached from the crisis. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to our age. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The Illusion of Progress
Perhaps the most dissonant aspect of the “No news is good news” phenomenon is the illusion of progress that accompanies the absence of catastrophic events. When the world is not in turmoil, people tend to remember the most significant stories as the default state of affairs, even when that state is precarious. This is why the fall of the Roman Empire is often seen as a triumph of the times rather than as a direct consequence of mismanagement. It is not that the empire was doomed, but that it was not their fault. Similarly, the decline of the Norse sagas is often remembered as a testament to their own resilience rather than as the product of environmental degradation or internal conflict.
This illusion of progress is not limited to historical events but is also a feature of modern society. The rise of populism and the erosion of democratic institutions are framed in ways that suggest they are part of a larger, unavoidable transformation rather than as the result of specific misjudgments or policy failures. The same can be said of the growing divide between the global elite and the rest of the population. These are not the result of a single misstep but of a systemic failure that people often attribute to external forces.
The psychological underpinnings of this illusion are complex. One theory suggests that when we are not in the throes of disaster, we are less likely to notice the signs that are in front of us. This is why people often overlook the systemic inequalities that lead to societal breakdown. It is also why, even in the face of a crisis, the media tends to report the worst-case scenarios rather than the most ordinary moments of adaptation. The key difference lies in the framing: when we are not in the midst of calamity, we are more likely to see the aftermath as the default state of affairs.
The role of media in this illusion is significant. It is not just about the immediacy of the crisis but about how it is perceived. The more we are able to see the world as a series of inevitable transformations rather than as a matter of individual choice, the more we are able to feel detached from the crisis. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to our age. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The Tension Between Survival and Legacy
Survival and legacy are two sides of the same coin in human history. The fall of empires is often seen as a necessary transformation rather than as a direct consequence of mismanagement. The same applies to the rise of populism and the erosion of democratic institutions. These are not the result of a single misstep but of a systemic failure that people often attribute to external forces. The key difference lies in the framing: when we are not in the throes of disaster, we are more likely to see the aftermath as the default state of affairs.
This tension is particularly evident in the case of the Byzantine Empire. While it is remembered as a long-lived civilization, its decline was not just a matter of external pressure but of internal decay and strategic misjudgment. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. It is not that the world is stable, but that it is in a state of constant flux. The same logic applies to the rise of the Islamic State: even though it was framed as a necessary shift, its impact was felt across the globe.
The importance of this tension lies in the way it shapes societal memory. When a civilization survives, it is not just about its own longevity but about how it is remembered. The Byzantine Empire’s survival was not without cost, as it eventually succumbed to internal and external forces. The same can be said of the Norse sagas, where their decline was not just a matter of environmental degradation but of a failed attempt at adaptation. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” is so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, where the most significant stories are those of transformation rather than of stagnation.
The Importance of Balanced Narratives
Perhaps the most dissonant aspect of the “No news is good news” phenomenon is the need for balanced narratives that do not merely frame the world as one of either triumph or disaster but as a series of intertwined events that shape our understanding of progress and decline. The fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered as a tragedy rather than as a direct consequence of mismanagement. Similarly, the decline of the Norse sagas is framed as a testament to their resilience rather than as a result of environmental degradation or internal conflict. This reframing allows individuals to feel detached from the crisis, as if they are not the ones to bear the brunt of the problem.
The same logic applies to modern society. The rise of populism and the erosion of democratic institutions are framed in ways that suggest they are part of a larger, unavoidable transformation rather than as the result of specific misjudgments or policy failures. The growing divide between the global elite and the rest of the population is also framed in similar ways. These are not the result of a single misstep but of systemic failure that people often attribute to external forces. This reframing is not just about the immediacy of the crisis but about how it is perceived.
The importance of balanced narratives lies in their ability to provide context and reflection. They remind us that civilizations are not immune to collapse, and that even the most seemingly stable systems can be shaken by internal or external forces. The fall of the Roman Empire is not just about the empire’s own decline but about how it was framed as an inevitable transformation. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to our age. It is not merely a rhetorical device but a reflection of the way we construct meaning from the stories we are told. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The Role of Storytelling in Society
Storytelling is an essential part of human existence, shaping our understanding of the world and our place within it. In a world where information is abundant and fragmented, the most compelling narratives are those that frame the outcome as a grand, unavoidable transformation rather than as a direct consequence of individual choices. The fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered as a necessary end rather than as a direct result of mismanagement. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times.
The same logic applies to the way modern societies frame their own decline. The rise of populism and the erosion of democratic institutions are often framed as part of a larger, unavoidable process rather than as the result of specific misjudgments or policy failures. The growing divide between the global elite and the rest of the population is also framed in similar ways. These are not the result of a single misstep but of systemic failure that people often attribute to external forces. This reframing is not just about the immediacy of the crisis but about how it is perceived.
The role of storytelling in shaping perception is significant. It is not just about the facts but about the way they are framed. The more we are able to see the world as a series of inevitable transformations rather than as a matter of individual choice, the more we are able to feel detached from the crisis. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to our age. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The Paradox of “No News Is Good News” in Modern Times
Perhaps the most dissonant aspect of the “No news is good news” phenomenon is the way modern societies frame their own decline as part of a larger, inevitable transformation rather than as the result of individual choices. The fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered as a necessary end rather than as a direct consequence of mismanagement. Similarly, the rise of the Islamic State is framed in ways that suggest it is part of a larger, unavoidable process rather than as the result of specific policy failures.
This reframing is not just about the immediacy of the crisis but about how it is perceived. The more we are able to see the world as a series of inevitable transformations rather than as a matter of individual choice, the more we are able to feel detached from the crisis. The phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to our age because the world is not in an unbroken state of peace but in a state of constant flux. This is why the phrase feels so counterintuitive when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace; it is in a state of transformation that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The importance of this paradox lies in the way it highlights the need for critical thinking and narrative analysis. It is not merely about the absence of news but about the way we perceive the world through the lens of cause and effect. The more we are willing to acknowledge that our own misfortunes may not be the cause of the crisis, the more we are able to feel a sense of relief at not being the ones to bear the brunt. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace but in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The Importance of Narrative in Shaping Perception
Narratives play a crucial role in shaping how societies perceive their own decline. When the world is in flux, the most compelling stories are those that frame the outcome as a grand, unavoidable transformation rather than as a direct consequence of individual choices. The fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered as a necessary end rather than as a direct result of mismanagement. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times.
The same logic applies to modern crises. The rise of populism and the erosion of democratic institutions are often framed in ways that suggest they are part of a larger, unavoidable process rather than as the result of specific misjudgments or policy failures. The growing divide between the global elite and the rest of the population is also framed in similar ways. These are not the result of a single misstep but of systemic failure that people often attribute to external forces. This reframing is not just about the immediacy of the crisis but about how it is perceived.
The role of media in this reframing is significant. It is not just about the facts but about the way they are presented. The more we are able to see the world as a series of inevitable transformations rather than as a matter of individual choice, the more we are able to feel detached from the crisis. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace but in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The Paradox of “No News Is Good News” and Its Modern Resonance
Perhaps the most dissonant aspect of the “No news is good news” phenomenon is the way it resonates in modern times. The phrase is not just about the absence of news but about the dissonance it creates when applied to our age. The fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered as a necessary end rather than as a direct consequence of mismanagement. This is why the phrase feels so counterintuitive when applied to our age. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace but in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
This paradox is especially evident when considering the rise of populism and the erosion of democratic institutions. These are not the result of a single misstep but of systemic failure that people often attribute to external forces. The same logic applies to the modern age, where the absence of catastrophic news is not a sign of stability but of the kind of silence that allows us to move forward without being consumed by the past. The phrase “No news is good news” is not just a rhetorical device but a reflection of our cognitive tendencies. We are creatures of narrative, and when the world is not in turmoil, we are more likely to see the aftermath as the default state of affairs.
The importance of this paradox lies in the way it highlights the need for critical thinking and narrative analysis. It is not merely about the absence of news but about how we perceive the world through the lens of cause and effect. The more we are willing to acknowledge that our own misfortunes may not be the cause of the crisis, the more we are able to feel relief at not being the ones to bear the brunt. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to our age. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace but in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The Role of Media in Framing Catastrophe
Media plays a crucial role in shaping how societies perceive their own decline. When a catastrophe strikes, the way it is framed determines how it is remembered. The fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered not as a direct consequence of mismanagement but as an inevitable transformation. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The same logic applies to the rise of the Islamic State and the erosion of democratic institutions. These are not the result of a single misstep but of systemic failure that people often attribute to external forces.
The key difference lies in the framing: when we are not in the throes of disaster, we are more likely to see the aftermath as the default state of affairs. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” is so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace but in a state of constant flux, where the most significant stories are those of transformation rather than of stagnation. The role of media is significant in this reframing, as it is not just about the immediacy of the crisis but about how it is perceived.
The importance of this reframing is that it allows us to feel detached from the crisis. It is not just about the absence of news but about how we perceive the world through the lens of cause and effect. The more we are willing to acknowledge that our own misfortunes may not be the cause of the crisis, the more we are able to feel relief at not being the ones to bear the brunt. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to our age. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace but in a state of transformation that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The Need for Critical Thinking and Narrative Analysis
The phrase “No news is good news” is not merely a rhetorical device but a reflection of our cognitive tendencies. We are creatures of narrative, and when the world is not in turmoil, we are more likely to see the aftermath as the default state of affairs. This is why the phrase feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered as a necessary end rather than as a direct consequence of mismanagement. This is why the phrase is so counterintuitive.
The importance of this dissonance lies in the need for critical thinking and narrative analysis. It is not merely about the absence of news but about how we perceive the world through the lens of cause and effect. The more we are willing to acknowledge that our own misfortunes may not be the cause of the crisis, the more we are able to feel relief at not being the ones to bear the brunt. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to our age. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace but in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
The Balance Between Progress and Decline
Perhaps the most dissonant aspect of the “No news is good news” phenomenon is the need to balance between progress and decline. The phrase is not just about the absence of news but about how we perceive the world through the lens of cause and effect. The fall of the Roman Empire is often remembered as a necessary transformation rather than as a direct consequence of mismanagement. This is why the phrase feels so counterintuitive when applied to modern times.
The same logic applies to the modern age, where the absence of catastrophic news is not a sign of stability but of the kind of silence that allows us to move forward without being consumed by the past. The phrase is not just about the absence of news but about the way we perceive the world through the lens of identity and self-perception. It is not that we are doomed to failure, but that we are more likely to see the aftermath as the default state of affairs.
The importance of this balance lies in the way it shapes societal memory. When a civilization survives, it is not just about its own longevity but about how it is remembered. The Byzantine Empire’s survival was not without cost, as it eventually succumbed to internal and external forces. The same can be said of the Norse sagas, where their own resilience is often framed as an inevitable outcome. This is why the phrase “No news is good news” feels so dissonant when applied to modern times. The world is not in an unbroken state of peace but in a state of constant flux, and it is this flux that shapes our understanding of progress and decline.
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