The Problem of the Ideal

 

For years—not the first, second, third, or even fifth—I’ve observed one of the central issues in the Russian information space that many still struggle to overcome. Yes, it’s the problem of understanding “what the ideal is and how to engage with it.” It’s evident that our social groups, steeped in fanatical zeal to defend their singular identity, ultimately morph into cultural, historical, political, or even scientific gangs, competing with one another like rival corporations.

Let me highlight a key point upfront: the problem of the “ideal” lies not so much in the word itself but in how it becomes a barrier. When a label replaces analysis, you’re no longer debating—you’re creating a closed group where the meaning of a word outweighs the scrutiny of an argument. Politics and religion are familiar with such mechanisms: labeling an opposing stance as “evil,” “harmful,” or “idealistic” diminishes the need for dialogue and fosters sectarian structures. This is not a metaphor—sociology and political science describe similar mechanisms of mobilization and isolation that make groups less capable of self-criticism.

This leads to a peculiar paradox: those who denounce everything as “idealism” end up becoming idealists, not in name, but in their mode of thinking. Idealism here is no longer a philosophical stance prioritizing ideas but a way of constructing reality through pre-set labels. Instead of weighing data and arguments, entire questions are dismissed with a single word; instead of attempting to refute or confirm, we simply “tag.” This creates cognitive economy at the expense of truth: a cozy, predictable world of labels and rituals replaces the complex, uncomfortable world of arguments.

This fundamentally contradicts dialectical thinking as such, but here we encounter another paradox: fanatical materialism, where the “material” becomes a dogma, blocking access to entire fields of inquiry and questions. The history of science offers vivid examples: Lysenkoism demonstrated how ideological monopoly over scientific truth can devastate a discipline, deprive a country of generations of scientists, and lead to practical disasters in agriculture. Political directives sometimes prioritized ideological conformity over the scientific method. Scientific freedom demands not “correct answers” but procedures for verification, doubt, and readiness to revise theories. This aligns far more with the original process of logic, which assumes constant spiral change based on new data, rather than dogmatism and isolation. After all, the entire history of humanity, from the smallest to the grandest scale, and the history of Earth itself, is an endless process of change, synthesis, and the formation of contradictions.

In its best form, dialectical materialism is a tool—a habit of thinking about contradictions, transitions, and qualitative transformations, not a set of ready-made formulas. The trouble begins when dialectical materialism turns into dogma: a method meant to uncover dynamics becomes a template to force facts into. Instead of seeing contradiction as a source of knowledge, dogmatic dialectical materialism perceives contradiction as a threat to the “correct” interpretation. Then, dialectics, with its methodological flexibility, loses its power and becomes an ideological shield.

Political circles and revolutionary cells often serve as clear examples of this degeneration—and here, it’s important to focus on the mechanics of the process, not moralizing. A small group is essentially a laboratory of thought: within a compact discussion cell, it’s easier to hone arguments, test hypotheses, and learn methods of critique. But this same density of connections has a downside: over time, communication rituals, symbols of belonging, and practices of internal discipline can become ends in themselves. Symbols that initially served coordination (emblems, slogans, texts) take on a sacred aura. Debates give way to loyalty tests. Complex theoretical problems are reduced to formulas and propagandistic manipulations.

The result is not just intellectual stagnation but a shift in the criteria of truth: an argument matters not when it’s correct but when it “fits” the group’s image. This leads to self-isolation from the broader intellectual environment, a loss of capacity for self-correction, and, ultimately, the marginalization of the practical causes these groups claim to serve.

Among the paths of degeneration, two models stand out, often intersecting: cargo cults and sectarianism. A cargo cult mimics the external attributes of success without understanding its causes: rituals are copied, slogans repeated, but ties to material conditions and real practice are lost. In such cases, the community gains the appearance of “plausibility”—a veneer of discipline and orthodoxy—while lacking productive knowledge. The opposite, yet not always incompatible, path is transformation into a sect: centralized leadership, a cult of personality or idea, rigid hierarchy, and institutionalized punishment for dissent. A sect not only repeats rituals but controls language, motivations, and even the inner experiences of its members. In both cases, theory ceases to be a tool for explanation and becomes a tool for controlling behavior and emotions—undermining both the political efficacy and ethical integrity of the movement.

Sociology and psychology of political movements offer explanations for these phenomena—while not universal, they are close enough. Mechanisms of identity mobilization, conformity, the effect of “groupthink,” heroization of leaders, and control over symbols operate on both the left and right flanks; the difference is often in content, not structure.

Social-psychological experiments show how quickly individuals adapt to group norms for the sake of recognition. Social recognition theory explains why rituals and public demonstrations attract participants’ energy, while analyses of charismatic leadership (e.g., Weber’s) demonstrate how authority supplants argument. Add to this informational factors: echo chambers, selective sourcing, algorithmic filtering—all amplify the tendency toward simplification and taboos on doubt. Together, these create a stable social ecosystem where doubt is seen as betrayal, criticism as a threat to unity, and methodological weakness quickly becomes political and organizational.

From this diagnosis, practical tasks emerge: the discipline of doubt is not just an academic virtue but an organizational skill. Dialectics as a method requires constant context-checking, source comparison, and readiness to revise conclusions. For groups, this means institutionalizing procedures for self-criticism, leadership rotation, transparent decision-making, and encouraging pluralism of opinions. Small communities can become laboratories of thought only if processes of refutation and revision are legitimate and protected within them. This demands not only the moral courage of individual members but also structures that minimize conformity pressure: clear discussion norms, external reviews, and the practice of “allowing criticism” as a ritual of growth. In a world where identity easily becomes a marker of belonging and scientific methodology an ideological taboo, the responsibility of thinkers and activists is to preserve the procedure of verification as a fundamental value: not to guard finished answers but to create conditions where answers are regularly and honestly questioned and revised.

Ultimately, it becomes clear: a limited group of self-proclaimed “geniuses,” fixated on their rituals and labels, are not geniuses of reason—they are social fools and practical castrates, depriving themselves of adequate scrutiny and marginalizing their own thinking. When an intellectual elite produces opinions detached from the people and then presents them to those same people as an unquestionable, quasi-religious mandate, it no longer functions as the nation’s brain but becomes its impurity—something that is not thought but its excrement: toxic, reeking of dogma, and incapable of empathy or socio-intellectual exchange.

Such an “intelligentsia” lacks basic social skills—the ability to listen, admit mistakes, or adjust course—and is thus far from the image of the “superhuman” some self-aggrandizing geniuses dream of; their “greatness” is mere empty exaltation, masking intellectual cowardice. The true dignity of thought lies not in isolated flashes of originality but in the ability to bring it to people, subject it to doubt, and, if necessary, revise it—otherwise, even the most brilliant idea degrades into an absurd cult, harming the thinker first and foremost, along with those they presume to instruct.

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