Reactions to Books.

“The Revolt of the Masses” by Jose Ortega y Gasset (1930)

While reading The Revolt of the Masses by Ortega y Gasset, I was struck by the proposition in the preface: that a state should ideally be led by an intellectual elite. At first this idea appealed to me, because for a long time I hoped that the world would naturally be governed by sensible, idealistic people. Institutions such as the United Nations appear to be an attempt at such a world order, but in reality they often turn out to operate as bodies of compromise between national interests and power blocs, rather than as an idealistic compass. The problem here, of course, is whether a universal idealistic compass actually exists.

We also see this tension in our national politics. Political parties proclaim their ideals, but often do so with a populist strategy: they shape their message in such a way that it resonates as much as possible with a broad electorate, rather than remaining faithful to their deepest convictions. To some extent this approach is present in almost all parties.

The central question is: does “the mass” actually have the insight and long-term vision to govern a society sustainably? Or would it be better if leadership were provided by people with knowledge, experience, and integrity—in short, an elite? But that solution immediately raises new questions: who determines who belongs to such an elite? What criteria do we use? And how do we prevent this elite from eventually becoming complacent, distant, or even corrupt?

These questions are thousands of years old. In The Republic, Plato (Athens, ca. 427 BC – there, 347 BC) has his characters discuss different forms of government. His preference is for the philosopher-king: a leader trained in justice and wisdom, and therefore uniquely suited to govern. Karl Popper (1902–1994) strongly criticized Plato for this view. According to Popper, it is dangerous to search for the “best ruler.” Much more important, he argues, is the design of a system in which bad leaders can be replaced safely without bloodshed. That, in his view, is the true strength of democracy.

This idea is also shared by physicist Sean Carroll. In his podcast Mindscape, he emphasizes that elections in themselves are not proof of a functioning democracy. The decisive criterion is whether power can be transferred regularly and peacefully. Russia provides a striking counterexample: elections exist, but the transfer of power itself appears to be systematically made impossible.

“Most People are Good” by Rutger Bregman (2019)

The book’s title immediately raises fundamental questions. What do we really mean by “good”? Whose standard do we use: Rutger Bregman’s, a liberal-democratic society’s, or perhaps a religious or extremist ideology? And if it is true that “most people are good,” what does that practically mean for our behavior or worldview? Isn’t our society already implicitly based on the trust that others mostly behave decently?

Bregman supports his argument with historical examples where people acted morally under pressure. But it remains unclear whether these examples are representative of humanity as a whole. Is there empirical evidence on a global scale? Are there statistics by continent or cultural region? And if so, which “goodness norm” do we use to measure it?

A single dramatic exception can sometimes disrupt an entire system. Consider a plane with 500 passengers, one of whom turns out to be a suicide terrorist. Although 99.8% of people on that plane are “good,” a single deviation can have disastrous consequences. How, then, should we interpret the reassuring message that “most people” are well-intentioned? Does it fundamentally change our choices or attitudes?

Bregman rejects the idea that altruistic behavior arises from selfish motives and calls that cynical. But it may be more meaningful to reconsider the term “selfishness” itself. That term is heavily loaded. Instead, we could speak of egocentrism or subjective survival logic. A fitting metaphor is the oxygen mask on a plane: passengers are advised to put on their own mask before helping others. That seems selfish but is actually a necessary condition to effectively care for others. Broadly: one can only contribute to the survival of the group if one is first capable of functioning oneself.

From an evolutionary perspective, behavior that “is good” is not necessarily moral or deliberate. It is rather a programmed tendency in our genetic system—developed to increase the survival chance of both individual and group. What we consider “good” is therefore not absolute, but contextual, pragmatic, and variable. One person may be more empathetic than another, but that difference is evolutionarily significant. In some environments, cooperative types survive; in others, opportunists do. In that sense, it may even be desirable that not everyone is “good.”

The popularity of Bregman’s book seems partly driven by the desire for a positive view of humanity—a kind of collective self-affirmation. The message that we, as a species, “are morally okay” provides reassurance. That is understandable. Yet it conflicts when this optimism is presented as radical or groundbreaking. The idea that people generally deserve trust has long been the implicit basis of social interaction. If we truly believed most people are not good, we would not trust postal workers, cross bridges, or even engage in conversation. We daily take countless social risks because the social contract—that most people follow basic decency norms—is already internalized.

Bregman’s English title, Humankind: A Hopeful History, suggests more modesty than the Dutch version. Perhaps in English, the loaded normative phrasing “most people are good” was deliberately softened. Upon reflection, it is more a value judgment than a factual statement.

In conclusion: the book raises relevant questions and deserves recognition for its optimistic tone. Yet a reflective reader may legitimately question its claims, evidence, and normative framing of “goodness.”