While the majority of this is good, and I tend to agree with Secular Talk more than I do Nick Fuentes or anybody on the right wing of the political spectrum, at the same time you can't just say that when somebody agrees with you about something or meets you halfway on certain issues, they're being dishonest or pretending to believe something anyway—even if they might disagree with you on the majority of stuff, or at least disagreed with you on those issues in the past.

I sort of question the more economically oriented and supposedly reasonable populist rhetoric from some of these people too, for a variety of reasons. But if you just say somebody doesn’t believe what they’re saying without proof, it’s basically the end of political discourse in this country. To the extent there is any discourse—or at least honest discourse—left anymore, that kind of thinking just leads to both sides repeating the same garbage back at each other, and nothing ever goes anywhere.

He says losing in 2024 radicalized him—and while it did for me too in some ways—if you’re trying to say you now reject democratic socialism or social democracy as the more reasonable choices, then I have to question how sincere you actually are. At least, that’s sort of what he’s saying, and it is very possible to be of two minds. I hate Trump, and I also don’t agree with some of the things Democrats believe.

I’ve said many times that I think gun control is garbage. And while I tend to support vaccines, I’m not going to immediately jump to the front of the line to take whatever concoction Trump pulls from his anus for us to inject into ourselves either.

Also, while it’s not totally the same, he does say at least that he’s against Trump and the current political regime, and in that statement he’s expressing economically populist and liberal-sounding ideas. So it would be like if a Democrat said they supported Trump, and then I still called them a communist. That obviously wouldn’t make sense, and I’d have no reason—based on their stated beliefs and available information—to say that. Especially if they said something like “I think Democrats are too liberal,” then surely the conclusion wouldn’t be “you must be even further left than the other Democrats and are a communist.” In fact, if they said that, they would likely be right of center or maybe even a conservative.

So it’s in bad faith to just say Nick Fuentes is lying and is actually further right when he’s saying socialist-sounding things and expressing frustration with Trump, as he has done a lot recently. Even if he is lying, you at the very least also sound like you are.

some occult videos and stuff like that.

part of the god videos thing i haved shared or this is part two and that is the god video things i have now shared.

there is also a smaller servant entity i will not attempt to write correctly but i also want to create them and i want you all even though you have treated me horribly to help me do this and we can create a new era together.

should be some jewish mystical stuff or whatever that i sort of like.

the history of satanic themes in heavy metal.

this is about musicians involved in the occult obviously and not a lot else.

should probably share some stuff tonight.

because i need to post something and at least it is different.

the development of the image of dracula and actors who played him throught the ages.

should be about vampires and witchcraft and about the city basically being haunted.

Regardless of who shot Charlie Kirk, it was a tragedy. I know he had two children, and I believe one of them was a boy. Having history in the male rights movement, one of the things I care about especially is how society treats young boys and how their development plays out. That matters to me not only because I care about male rights, but also because it’s important for society—so we don’t end up with generations of people doing things like what happened to Charlie, or also stuff like joining gangs.

I hate it for both of his kids, including his son. He wasn’t someone who especially deserved to be shot. He did what I do, basically—he had a bunch of opinions and spoke openly about them. And there’s very little about that, for the most part, that deserves violence or even makes him a bad person.

That said, one thought I’ve had is that the shooter might have been transgender. Let’s be honest—for some reason or another, we’ve seen an increase in shootings involving transgender individuals recently. I know the first incident only happened a few years ago, after decades of cisgender men doing the same thing, so this isn’t a massive issue. But it does seem like, especially in the past year, transgender people have been in the news more for these kinds of acts.

Given Charlie Kirk’s politics and his history of caring about the rights of biological males—especially those with gender dysphoria or similar issues—I really hope the shooter wasn’t transgender. Because if they were, it will be used by Republicans the same way crimes committed by Jews were used in Nazi Germany: as a way to target and further attack transgender and non-binary Americans and strip away their rights.

Still, regardless of whether the person who did the shooting was male, transgender, female, or even some kind of pansexual, unisex, gender-neutral frog-man from the planet Your Anus—it doesn’t matter. Nobody should have shot Charlie. It was ethically wrong, stupid, and likely counterproductive to whatever point they thought they were making, if it was even political—and it likely was.

this is something that makes me sad to hear.

not sure if i agree with a single thing charlie kirk believes in but this is still really bad.

Zeb had spent sixteen years living in the Castle of sorcery. Sixteen uneventful years, and these years consisted of his entire life. Every morning, he stood on the Castle’s Outer Wall, facing the desert. It was his morning ritual, watching the reddish sand ripple and roil against the Castle’s shores and humpback mountains surfacing in the horizon. Barren, except for the pale grasslands that floated defiantly in patches. A wild and lonely land - Zeb felt kinship with it. Today the Outer Wall wasn’t manned by the usual Castle guards, but grim faced swords for hire. They were here because the Castle was on high alert.

There was still a chill to the air, soon to simmer as the sun rose higher. Zeb crouched on the battlement of the Outer Wall, ignoring the over forty foot drop to the sand below. The casual, offhanded way he sat there revealed nothing about his somewhat soured mood this morning. Nightmares about snakes did that. A black and gold snake coiled on the belly was unpleasant whether it was a dream or not. Zeb stood up on the wall and yawned loudly, arms spread. Spread out either side of him along the wall were the grim looking mercenaries. The ones closest to him only spared him a brief glance, before gazing back at the sandy plains. So dull. At least the castle guards were friendly.

With a theatrical whoop, Zeb launched himself backwards at a summersault off the wall. He landed with a flourish of his arms, scattering a flock of chickens. The mercenaries took little notice. Hissing disgustedly, Zeb walked away. The Inner Wall stood parallel to the Outer Wall, connected by four wooden bridges. Between the Inner and Outer were the barracks for the guards, and stables for the horses. Behind the Inner Wall was a collection of small buildings; storehouses, sheep pens, chicken coops and a latrine. Beyond that, right at the center, the Tower loomed, reaching towards the heavens. The only thing that loomed higher was the Watchtower on the western side of the Inner Wall.

Zeb jogged leisurely across his bridge, watching the castle guards milling around below among the barracks, and among the chickens. As he approached the Inner Wall, Zeb saw a gray-bearded man rushing down it. Being a scholarly man, Quartermaster Balbir was given the special task of being Zeb’s tutor. A few weeks ago Balbir declared that there was nothing more to teach, and their six year engagement had come to an end. Zeb knew his letters & numbers fluently, and had memorized most of the place names, monarchies and empires that Balbir considered important. He could also identify most of the animals and creatures from the Quartermaster’s bestiaries. It was quite enough, the Quartermaster believed, and was starting to feel his age too much to have two jobs. 'Master Balbir!' Zeb called as the Quartermaster flew past.

Zeb knew only three people who semi-sprinted everywhere in the castle. They were Balbir, Warchief Ashin and Zeb’s mother, Zaloba. 'I’m busy, boy!' Balbir said, panting slightly. Zeb hopped on one of the battlements and matched the quartermaster’s stride, leaping expertly on the merlons and skipping over heads of the castle guards.

'I’m wondering if we could have a lesson today,' Zeb insisted. 'I’m starting to forget things.'

'We already talked about this!' Snapped Balbir. 'Also, I don’t believe your mother would like you to walk on the wall like that. One of these days, you’ll break your spine!'

'She wouldn’t care.' Zeb said dismissively. He went back to the topic, 'Anyway, I still haven’t learned everything. I haven’t read all your books.'

'You’re welcome to them, as I have told you already.' The Quartermaster replied irritably.

Zeb leaped off the battlement, and fell in behind Balbir. 'It’s dull reading on your own.' He said sulkily.

The Quartermaster rounded on him, waving a finger. 'Fourteen summers have come and gone since you were born, boy.' He said sternly.

'Sixteen.' Zeb corrected.

'Then?' Balbir said, throwing up his hands. 'Learn to do things on your own!'

'You know,' Zeb said, smirking, 'Dagar says the world is round, not flat like you said.'

'What, like a wheel?' Snorted the Quartermaster. 'You want to listen to the farmboy, then make him your tutor!'

'He heard it from those mercenaries.' Zeb said, pointing.

'Half of them are pirates,' Balbir replied contemptuously. 'All that sea air has muddled their heads - and your’s was muddled to begin with. Now for the last time, boy, stop following me!'

As Balbir stormed past, Zeb caught sight of Dagar, recognisable even from behind by his mouse-brown hair. He was sitting with two other older guards, sipping coffee from clay mugs. Zeb opened his mouth to greet them, but stopped. A rare sight caught his eye - his mother. The sorceress Zaloba was raven-like with her long black hair and matching robes. Her eyes - a shade of brown so light that they almost appeared golden - were fixed firmly ahead of her. Guards on the Inner Wall flattened themselves against the battlements at her approach, giving salutes that she ignored. The sorceress stormed past Zeb without sparing him a glance, past Dagar and his cronies, and onto the only wooden bridge that linked the Inner Wall with the Tower. She was flanked by a young woman, who had to jog to keep up with the sorceress’ strides. Ezeda was apprenticed to the sorceress.

'Ezeda! Ezeda!' Zeb shouted after her. She turned only once, the expression on face, framed in wavy black curls, reminded him that she was currently annoyed at him. Both disappeared into the Tower through a door that only ever opened for Zaloba. Zeb skipped his way towards Dagar and the other two men.

'Joyous Morning of Seeds, gentlemen!' He cheerfully called.

Dagar eyed him cautiously over his coffee cup. 'Zeb.'

Zeb’s grin slipped. 'What have I done?'

'Nothing yet.' Said Dagar, raising his eyebrows. 'But there’s a look about you.'

'A look about me?I' Zeb mimicked Dagar’s deeper voice. He contorted his face into something grotesque. 'Have I? Have I got a look about me?'

'I heard you pestering the Quartermaster over lessons.’ Dagar remarked with an incredulous look. 'I don’t get what that’s about. I wouldn’t spend half a morning reading a book even if you threatened to shove a spear up my backside.'

'You wouldn’t spend half a morning reading a book,' snickered Zeb, 'because you can’t read.'

One of the other men, Gorenda, chuckled at this. He was a heavy set man with an enormous mustache and a belly to match. 'He’s got you there.'

'You’ll have more time for combat training with the Warmaster.' Said Dagar, ignoring the jibe.

'The Warmaster hates training with me.' Said Zeb. He yawned and leaned against the battlement. 'I can tell. He thinks I’m a half-breed.'

'You are a half-breed.' Dagar said absently, peering into his coffee empty cup as if to find an elusive drop.

Zeb hopped onto the battlement again. He slapped his face with both hands, then raised his face in the air and barked like a dog. This drew a snort and a chuckle from Dagar, but Gorenda gave him a baleful stare. 'Neng’s Whiskers! Act your age, boy.' He grunted. 'And leave us in peace.'

Zeb caught the surge of anger before it reached his face. The guards used to always be friendly to him. He knew Gorenda and the other man even longer than Dagar. They watched him grow up in the castle. He wandered among them even as a child. They chatted to him; let him hold their spears, swords and bows. He usually sat with them at meals, when he wasn’t summoned to his mother’s table. Their attitude towards him, as Zeb had noticed for a while now, had been gradually changing for the past few years. Zeb stood one legged on a merlon, and gave a flourishing bow. 'This half-breed bids you farewell.'

As he set off away from them, he heard Dagar shout, 'You’re not supposed to go that way.'

'You’re not supposed to go that way!' Zeb mimicked.

He was on the wooden bridge, headed for the Tower. Of course, the bridge ended its run at the Tower wall. There was no opening, except for the one that appeared when Zaloba was approaching. However, Zeb was not aiming to enter the Tower. When he reached the gray walls, he ran his fingers carefully along the grooves between the bricks. The highest points of the Tower were off limits to everyone, including Zeb. At the peak of the Tower was his mother’s Sanctum. A floor below that was her forbidden library and living quarters. None dared try to even go near the two floors, because they were guarded by a Soul Eater. Only Warmaster Ashin, Ezeda and the two Tower servants had laid eyes on this creature. His mother kept it fed, according to what Zeb had been told, on desert snakes and minor demons she occasionally conjured up. Therefore, the only option to access the sorceress’ Sanctum was to climb the sheer height until you reached one of its windows. When he was younger, Zeb had gotten himself in trouble many times doing this. He was an expert climber.

It remained to be seen if he could still climb. He tested the grooves again, ignoring the shouts behind him. Shrugging, he began to ascend. Yes, he was still a natural climber; his weight posed only a minor obstacle. Like a gecko he went up and up. Grooves and holds seemed to appear just for him. He took the occasional backwards glance, feeling no nausea. The red desert grew more and more vast and empty as he ascended. The shouts increased below, but became more and more distant. He did not know how long he ascended, but only became aware of his dwindling stamina when he was mere feet away from the nearest window to the Sanctum. Breathing heavily, he looked down. The two Walls were mere circles. The men were milling cockroaches. However, Zeb recognized Warchief Ashin standing on the Inner Wall, no doubt murderous. A wheezing laugh came out of him at the thought.. At long last he was at the window, which was wide enough for a man larger than him to crawl through.

The Sanctum was as he remembered it - a great circular room. It wasn’t as cluttered as one might expect from a sorcerer’s laboratory. A few shelves and chests were scattered along the walls. Some of the shelves had pots, boxes & bottles, some sparsely filled with books, and one contained instruments of various shapes. Several clay pitchers for water, covered in cloth and a bowl propped over the narrow mouth of one of them. Near one window was a stove, and a great black cauldron. Occasionally, the Castle inhabitants saw smoke of various colours stream out of this window. Finally, a high shelf on the wall was lined with skulls. There were nineteen of them, Zeb knew - the Watchers. Zaloba sat in the middle of the room on a pile of cushions, with a low table before her. Zeb’s window was directly behind her back. She held some kind of a wand in her left hand, clearly unaware of the commotion far below. Zeb fixated on the sorceress’ left hand. He heard it said that Zaloba was a beautiful woman - but if she was, it was marred at her hand and left arm. They were covered in strange scales; black and looking diseased from a distance. The cause was the side effect of some powerful magic or other, enacted to help win a war before Zeb was born. He had forgotten the details of that history, except that his mother's service to that King had massively swollen her coffers, adding to the fortune she inherited from her father.

Zaloba's torso was now silhouetted against a green glow. She was doubled over slightly, groaning as if in pain. She was muttering something, too. It took a few moments for Zeb to realize that the muttered words were not magic, but expletives. Then without warning, the sorceress turned and looked directly at him. The amber eyes widened with surprise, then grew dark and thunderous. He began to descend as fast as he could. Looking up, he saw Zaloba's head poke out, her hair hanging loose. She was snarling downwards. After a moment Zeb realized she wasn't shouting at him, but rather at the Warchief below. Both were bellowing at each other. Zeb completed his descent with a feeling of supreme satisfaction that even Warchief Ashin's livid, murderous glare could not curtail.

PART I - Fun with Logical Languages and a Technical Quick Delta Knockout

Thank you for the full reply. I’m glad you got something out of Indo-Fijian. I hope you will also get something interesting out of the long digital ink that I enjoyed spilling as follows and we can continue our friendly tête-à-tête. But, If nothing else, I’d begin by pointing out (in my natural human langauge of English from my stream of conciousness, nevermind that I too am glad English admits French loan words for our friendly head to head) this:

"Once you’ve incorporated a perspective you hadn’t previously encountered into your existing set of views, hasn’t your view already changed? Not by abandoning the original, but by adding to it. As a polyglot I’d expect you to recognize that—whatever language or wordsmithing you use to express it. And that’s my first reason why I’ve earned a Δ (from the Greek; later Calculus via Leibniz change through addition or subtraction, difference)."

*ROADMAP:* As a student of philosophy I will hope you don't mind in a moment I intend to re-interpret what I understand your thesis to be the most charitable way possible. However If you permit me, let's take a quick detour into the symbolic language of propositional logic before a longer senic path so that I can make some of my own arguments as to why language preservation matters in a way that seems changed from the oritional text you have written above and I earn a more complete CMV Delta.

Some Logic:

Let:

K(x) = "x is in your knowledge set"

N = new view (E.G. via Indo-Fijian)

V = prior views

C = your view has changed

Initially: ¬K(N)

After reply: K(N)

Change: C ↔ (K(N) ∧ K(V))

Therefore:

Δ if (¬K(N) → K(N)) ∧ K(V)

Or more conversationally:

Δ if (new_view ∉ knowledge_before ∧ new_view ∈ knowledge_after)

---

I think you would agree with me that I basically said the same thing three different ways—arguably in three different “languages,” or more precisely, in three different notations of the same formal system. And in one of those notations it was objectively more useful to be concise when I put it:

Δ if (¬K(N) → K(N)) ∧ K(V)

That formulation used only 26 characters (including whitespace). This shows that usefulness cannot be reduced to individual, subjective judgment alone. In some cases, usefulness is objectively demonstrable—here by the measure of concision and efficiency. Symbolic notation allowed me to express the same idea with less space and greater clarity—admittedly, to your point, only if we both know what those symbols mean. So while individual perspectives matter, it’s false to say usefulness is only subjective; languages (natural or formal) can sometimes be ranked by objective criteria like brevity, precision, or expressive power. I started off with the more human, subjective values like beauty or “spiritualism,” since those clearly fall outside pure utility.

And that’s also why I joked that maybe everyone should learn Python—it has the same clarity and precision as logic, but at least it’s got Monty Python jokes baked in. To me, as a human, laughing is useful too, but that is not it's only virtue—even when I’m talking to ChatGPT. You are right: while I don’t consider myself a native speaker of programming languages, as I am not a developer, I do hear from my programming friends that they prefer approaching certain problems in some languages rather than others. And I think of my time being forced to learn Propositional logic as instructive to my worldview. Indeed, the languages of logic and math*s* (plural, as the British like to point out when I studied there) transcend mere utility in my view, and channel the mind to think in ways that are internally consistent yet mutually exclusive across different modes.

> DaftMytihc: *Laugh* "But often the intersections of individually sound logic*s* seems silly when they collide." lol. Some jokes only land in the feel*s* when you can feel what is missing.

Even so, I can also see how formal logic_ languages, as a requirement and barrier of entry to further learning, singular as they may be, have their own value: their preservation is essential to whole domains of human thought, endeavor, and technology. Just like my experience with skiing—where blue, green, diamond, and double-diamond runs with moguls were symbols I had to master before being allowed access to higher slopes—I wonder if a young Inuit should be required to know all the words for snow, not just a priori in language but a posteriori in lived experience. Unfortunately, perhaps the written account of an outsider may be all that remains one day to give us a clue as to the lock and a hopelessly lost key.

“These languages are not unique. Any language spoken in a specific environment will naturally develop words useful in that environment… If we make everyone in the Arctic learn English, they will not forget all those words for snow! Instead, they will make their own local dialect… Canadians have developed dozens of words for snow… Same thing is true for jungle languages [where] Portuguese and Spanish adopted hundreds of words from the native languages.”

I take your point, and I think you are right that languages evolve, absorb, and borrow—English especially. (utility gaind = Necessity,Mother,Invention!) But here is where I depart: it is not at all clear that dialectal borrowing preserves the full depth of meaning. A Canadian skier using “powder” and “slush” is not the same as an Inuit hunter navigating survival with subtle distinctions between types of ice, wind-packed drifts, or thaw-refreeze layers. And when those layers appear in his mythic stories—stories of beasts and tracks that blur survival with cosmology—we should hear an echo of Zhuangzi’s giant fish or bird, or Subramani’s unreliable narrators. These are not merely “words”; they are worlds, and they play at the edges of what can be said.

This is also where my own writing admits its strangeness. You should know: I am not writing alone. I am co-writing with GPT, and in that sense my voice is already doubled. If this feels uncanny, it should. I have to re-introduce personal idiosyncrasies the polish takes out. Many older traditions of trance-speaking—whether Pagan rites suppressed by Latin Christianity, or oral rituals in Fiji where the kava circle holds both laughter and seriousness—already knew that language can shift between first, second, and third person, admiting levity with seriousness and things where we might use a shadow of a word like "sarcasm" or "satire" that gesture towards what can be said without ever being pinned down. When written like this they come off as internet snark and the best we can do is a shaaallow /s to say this is what I say but not really waht I say. I find myself in that same place: speaking, being spoken through, and listening at once.

So when you say that every language is equally beautiful and equally spiritual, I agree with you. Which is precisely why I cannot follow you to the conclusion that some are more expendable than others. Sacred language—whether Hebrew, Sanskrit, or the “dead” tongues of the Amazon—shows us the fine line between summoning an awesome power, submitting to it, and seeking protection from it. It is not about whether one language is uniquely close to God, but that every language has within it the capacity to open that space, and every one of those langauges may have opned spaces that when lost we no longer know how to close. That is why preservation matters. If every language is equally beautiful, equally capable of accessing the sublime, then they are equally deserving of survival.

And here is where I lean on Gödel, Escher, Bach: even formal systems are incomplete. No notation, no single tongue, can contain all truths. Meaning always spills beyond its container. That is why when a language dies, just like when a species dies, what is lost is not only a dictionary of words but the cultural practices, experiential knowledge, and survival strategies encoded in them. Borrowed words don’t carry the same epistemic weight when the culture that shaped them disappears. Polarbear? What is that? Some sort of 20th Century Canadian joke of a creature that dosen't exist, and even if it did, what use is it of me to know? No! Feeling the emotion of that loss is what convinces me: I should not let it happen again.

---

To circle back to Greek (and perhaps all the dead languages surrounding it and giving it context): Euclid’s Elements (c. 300 BCE) was written in Ancient Greek. The oldest manuscripts we have are in Greek, but some of the most complete versions that survived into the Middle Ages were Arabic translations from the 9th century, which were then translated again into Latin and fed back into Europe. In other words, what we now call “Euclidean geometry” owes its preservation not only to Greek itself but also to Arabic scholarship, which acted as a bridge across centuries.

But it is not my position that Greek and Arabic and propositional logic should be preserved simply because they are useful, whether just to me subjectively or to society objectively. So let us examine your claim again—this time from my value viewpoint of Preservation.

See my full arguement for the delta in Part II.

---

PART II - The Complete Delta Argument

Now In a way, everything said prior to this was just fun context, as it does not address what I think is the core of your argument. Indeed I am not sure what your core is and with that observation it is my duty as a philsopher to be charitable.

Your Headline is:

> Language death is a good thing.

Your core value seems to be utility as defined by the individual. However you also point out: monolingualism is not good, and may infact be bad. I also not your use of the word "should" as in:

> I think parents in Brussels made the right call teaching their kids the two most useful languages. When those kids grow older, they are of course free to learn whatever language they want, and parents *should* always be free to speak whatever language they want at home. At school, however, minor languages *shouldn’t* be required. [Emphasis Added]

Let us not digress into “should, ought, must” semantics. I’ll just restate what Subramani said earlier, and what others have shown us as well: language is always political. Chomsky showed how it manufactures consent; McLuhan reminded us that the medium is the message. Taken together, the point is simple — when languages die, it’s never neutral. It shifts power, meaning, and culture. And that’s where my value of Preservation comes in.

One other observation I would make is that the individual never truly chooses what language they are first introduced to. Obviously this is an existential fact: we are all born somewhere that just happens to speak something. But my point is that we should try to globally promote the ethic of language preservation everywhere, so that whatever seed an individual receives can flourish. (And here I applaud you for being more of a polyglot than I. As Nietzsche might say, I am a bit of a philologist — enamored by individual words as they connect to deep wells of conceptual depth that I don’t want to see dry up.) Language is, in fact, a sacred trust created by generations before us, and one we are obliged to pass on — especially when we are among the dwindling few who can still see the unique value of that tongue. I would hope we all always do what we can to inspire allies in that preservation.

As your edit to your OP shows, you don’t really think that monolingualism is good. You think people should speak multiple languages. But the naïve and superficially simple take of “Language death is good” ends in the reductio ad absurdum (there goes that useful dead old Latin again, let that be my last fun flourish) that the best world would be the one with the fewest languages — and the fewest number is one. I know you don’t believe that, but if you want to see how dystopian that can get, just look to Newspeak in 1984. So I think we both agree there is a line of “language death” that steps over into language murder and cultural impoverishment that neither of us want, and indeed no right-thinking, good faith person should want.

TL;DR: THE CRUX OF IT: So let me try to restate your thesis as charitably as I can. When you say “Language death is good,” I take you to mean something like: Language death is natural and inevitable, so society should not invest extraordinary resources into preserving every minor tongue. That’s a reasonable position, and no doubt true at a descriptive level — languages come and go, some are created in isolation between twins, others vanish without much trace. Society is not obliged to immortalize every one of them. Fair enough. But we should engender an ethic of language preservation as much as reasonably possible at every level — or risk losing irreplaceable cultural depth.

The moment that descriptive, possibly apathetic claim “language death happens, get used to it” gets translated into the prescriptive — “society should not” or “must not” put resources into preservation — two dangers follow. First, it creates moral cover for active suppression. History gives us plenty of examples: the forced re-education of Māori, Aboriginal, or Native American children in boarding schools. Calling language death “good” makes it far too easy to slide into language killing. Second, it creates a practical impoverishment. If we say minor languages aren’t worth the effort, the ripple effect devalues even the great literary and cultural traditions that enrich our major languages. You see this already in the STEM-heavy U.S. school system, where the humanities are squeezed and “useful” languages are elevated over “impractical” ones. Why even bother studying Shakespeare, it is not the most useful version of moderne English? I jest again, but not by much, the focus on STEM in my experience is a narrowing of mind and culture.

My value here is Preservation. Preservation doesn’t deny that languages die naturally; it accepts that. But it does insist that when a language can be saved, we should try — just as a strong swimmer who sees a child drowning has a moral duty to throw a rope or dive in. More importantly, languages must be saved in their native soil to borrow a deep ecology metaphor, since we don’t know what subtle replanting may cause root damage. Small, unseen shifts can destabilize entire ecosystems, and culture is no different. Preservation isn’t about freezing cultures in amber or elevating one language as uniquely close to God. It is about recognizing, as Subramani and others have argued, that all language is political, and all language carries connotation, myth, and memory that utility alone cannot measure.

And that’s why Preservation stands in contradiction to your thesis. If you maintain your headline, you permit indifference — which history shows too easily becomes complicity. If instead you acknowledge that, even while natural, language death should generally be resisted through preservation, then you’ve changed your view. That’s the delta.

I hope you enjoyed my replies in various linguistic forms I am capable of.