VALUE ERROR: Why Universal Values Destroy Human Beings – A Philosophical Critique of Ethics, Morality, and the Human Species E-Book

Yeong Hwan Choi

• Herausgeber: tredition
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 252

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

This book is a radical philosophical critique of universal values and ethics. With sharp, poetic precision, it dissects human nature, the illusion of morality, and the silence of death. Combining cosmological metaphors and social analysis, it reveals how universal ideals serve to mask cowardice, and how memory, death, and dignity collapse under ethical convenience. A book for readers ready to confront not the world, but themselves. ------------------ VALUE ERROR Why Universal Values Destroy Human Beings This is not a book that comforts. It is a declaration of human hatred—uncomfortably precise, mercilessly observed. With harmless faces, they tried to scrub the stench. But when they opened their mouths, fragments flew—red-hot or cold, depending on whose skin they touched. Morality became a tool to disguise cowardice. Universal values? Systems of emotional convenience, nothing more. Ethics wore civility like perfume over rot. Faith drifted—soft, unmeasured, weightless. And justice? It never crossed the heliopause. A human life is nothing but a thin membrane on spacetime: It inflates, bursts—and is forgotten. "Why Universal Values Destroy Human Beings" is not a metaphor. It is a fact. This book offers no hope. It observes—coldly, without pause—how the species called human betrays its own form. They turned from the flesh— from what they themselves had hollowed out. Their trajectories circled like shadows of imaginary numbers. Their mouths became tools for sealing lies. "Universality" reached nothing. "Philosophy" became the aesthetic of feigned emotion. Humans forgave themselves too easily. And so, too many lies were elevated into thought. VALUE ERROR is not about others. It is a quiet post-mortem on the species called "human." Every line I wrote tightened the ligature. And the more I wrote, the more I disliked being one. But if you are ready to doubt everything, begin here.

Leseprobe

VALUE

ERROR

© 2025 Yeong Hwan Choi

Website: https://www.facebook.com/cyhchs

Druck und Distribution im Auftrag des Autors:

tredition GmbH, Heinz-Beusen-Stieg 5, 22926 Ahrensburg, Deutschland

Das Werk, einschließlich seiner Teile, ist urheberrechtlich geschützt. Für die Inhalte ist der Autor verantwortlich. Jede Verwertung ist ohne seine Zustimmung unzulässig. Die Publikation und Verbreitung erfolgen im Auftrag des Autors, zu erreichen unter: Republic of Korea, Cheongsaseo-ro 54/70, 35213 Seo-gu, Daejeon, Kontaktadresse nach EU-Produktsicherheitsverordnung: [email protected]

Published｜ May 13, 2025

Author｜ Yeong Hwan Choi

ⓒ VALUE ERROR: Why Universal Values Destroy Human Beings, 2025

This book is the intellectual property of the author. Unauthorized reproduction or redistribution is strictly prohibited.

This book dissects the hypocrisy of humanity.

To copy it without permission is to stand atop the very hypocrisy it condemns.

Replication reveals your coordinates—like the observer effect.

No version of justice legitimizes unauthorized use.

Copyright © 2025 Yeong Hwan Choi

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

VALUE ERROR: Why Universal Values Destroy Human Beings

「Unmeasurable Trajectories」

『All Language Begins in Fear』

『The Energy Surface of Fear』

『The Seduction of Imbalance』

『The Illusion of Responsibility and Understanding』

『The Lowest Energy State of Recognition』

『Monologues at the Apex』

「A Particle Without Origin」

『The Fallacy of Choice, Wrapped as Freedom』

『Shame Is the Afterglow of Self-Perception』

『No One Convinced Him—Not Even Himself.』

『Waiting Is the Invisible Architecture of Control』

『In the End, Luck Was the Rule That Subtracted the Friend.』

「The Closed Circuit of Being Right」

『How Constraint Masquerades as Ascent』

『Why Morality Chose Anonymity, | and Whom Ethics Was Built to Serve』

「What Forms Beyond the Mean」

「Belonging Was Crueler Than the Complement Set」

「If He Was the Complement Set, I Was the Set Difference」

「A Longing That Refuses to Converge」

『The Ugliest Truth Lies Outside the Domain, | and Honesty Occurs Only at Points of Discontinuity』

「The Obsession That Clings to the Tail of the Distribution」

「Deferred Judgments Beneath a Square Matrix」

「Desire in a Continuum Without Thresholds」

「The Sequence of Needs, Estranged from Urgency」

「The Terms of Life Crowded to the Left」

「A Permutation Displaced from the Queue」

「Dignity on a Logarithmic Axis」

「An Approximation of Fulfillment Along the Imaginary Axis」

「The Inheritance of an Unproven Axiom」

「The Optimism of the Chosen Species」

「Faith, Authored by Another’s Voice」

「The Unprovable Deity of Proxy」

「The Eccentric Tilt of Hatred」

「After Lagrange: Where Balance Fails to Hold」

「Escape Velocity and the Threshold of Emotional Decoupling」

「Elliptical Orbits and Kepler’s First Law」

「Discomfort, Rendered at Resolution」

「The Sensitivity Beneath the Cosmic Afterglow」

「Tension Held in the Loops of Solar Corona」

「The Cauchy Horizon and the Knot That Cannot Be Undone」

「The Residual Drift Along a Cosmic Vector」

「The Night of Boltzmann: Where the Mind Refused Its Final Word」

「White Hole: A Gate That Never Invites」

「Vestiges Hovering above the Oort Cloud」

「Oumuamua: A Visitor Without Origin or Return」

Why Universal Values

Destroy Human Beings

Yeong Hwan Choi

I do not trust humans.

There is no weight to the word.

No meaning. No warmth. No responsibility.

Even when someone says, “That’s just how people are,” I stop breathing.

The scent of self-justification rises—

like unwashed skin and damp sweat mingling on a summer subway.

Only after inhaling do you understand.

You want to turn your head, but it lingers.

Just as nausea reaches your throat, it occurs to you—

this might be closer to what human nature is.

There is no justice without an observer.

What humans call universal values is a fiction.

It bends like the Doppler effect—

tilted toward the one who observes.

Justice always moves.

It trembles. It leans.

It was never neutral in any observation.

Humans invented language to shield themselves.

And that language became the measure.

They called it ethics.

But ethics was never a law of nature.

It was defensive justice.

It could not repeat.

It was never universal.

It refused to run backward in time.

Even morality failed to meet Newton’s laws.

Time, in truth, was the language of entropy—

not flow, but the illusion of irreversible change.

Humans gave names to this flow—past, future—

and placed ethics in between.

But morality froze in the imbalance

between memory and forgetting.

It, too, never flowed in reverse.

Maybe,

time never was.

Maybe, neither was ethics.

They might have been subtitles humans imposed

on a silence they couldn’t bear.

Ethics was never a judgment. It was a camouflage, built to avoid it. 

A shabby device, designed to conceal what would otherwise be exposed in silence. 

A screen, drawn to hide what was bound to appear.

They speak of justice, 

but only the kind that remains fixed at their own coordinates— 

like a particle, confined to a specific quantum state.

Justice did not manifest unless the step was climbed. 

It fired only under certain conditions. 

And when you point it out, they say: 

“That’s just too inhuman.”

But cynicism— 

was the will not to look away.

Not indifference, 

but the most honest observation by those who had already reached despair. 

Not destructive, 

but a method only available to those who first doubted themselves.

Before cynicism, 

they fall—quietly.

Cynicism 

was the only temperature that could burn through the skin of their morality. 

Truth could distort falsehood. 

But cynicism observed the truth they buried—exactly.

It offered no new belief. 

It was not a feeling to escape. 

It was not denial. 

It was reconstruction. 

An observation that required no assumption of goodness.

A particle remains a wave until it is observed. 

So it was with ethics, as spoken by humans.

It is only ideal before it is seen. 

The moment it is heard or watched, 

it scatters—like light through a prism. 

It refracts, splits into spectra, 

screams against the axis it collides with. 

Its wavelength shifts— 

depending on the observer’s position, 

the time, 

the stake.

Justice is not a fixed center. 

It is a subjective waveform, altered by the act of observation.

Like the Doppler effect— 

red when approached, 

blue when receding. 

Emotion became a function of distance. 

Its discoloration had to be remembered as heat.

Closer, it burned. 

Farther, it faded. 

The body measured distance before words did.

Modern humans still roam in search of a parameter 

called “universal value”— 

a husk, 

an echo.

And they cry out “justice” 

only when the signal comes toward them.

They speak for victims 

while standing in the place of perpetrators. 

They chant “equality” 

while believing they must stand higher.

The louder they speak of human rights, 

the more they love hierarchy.

Their justice 

resembled a statistical mean.

It became plausible 

only after the outliers were removed.

Humans were the first values to be discarded.

Yet every model treated the human as an outlier. 

Every ethic was resolved only after discarding that outlier.

Humans never touched the real. 

They lingered as shadows on the complex plane— 

an imaginary number, feigning presence, never reaching it.

Still, they claimed substance 

from beyond the y-axis. 

They were a margin of error 

written on a forgotten coordinate.

Ethics marked that space as an error— 

complete only outside the human. 

It was a contradiction. 

It was the world.

Now I turn my eyes from them. 

I no longer wish to observe. 

I do not want to see them, 

nor hear them, 

nor carry even the smallest residue of feeling they might leave behind.

Every breath dragged that scent into my lungs. 

I tried to avoid them, 

but they had already seeped into my blood, 

into the tip of my tongue.

There was no way to purge it.

And the odor— 

the one I believed was theirs— 

it began to resemble me.

It grew inside me.

Each time the stench clung to my tongue like something half-chewed, 

each time I tasted it again, 

it rotted further.

Even this feeling refused the normal curve. 

Disgust and pity, love and hatred— 

they have always lived beyond statistics. 

Even now, humans see only what they want to see. 

They hear only what they wish to hear.

Ethics was born through this selective perception— 

a shared illusion, 

agreed upon.

Philosophers, professors, writers— 

they speak of how universal their ethics are. 

They say it aloud. 

They write it down. 

Sometimes, they spit as they try to explain.

But in their voices, I hear desire more than persuasion. 

In their hands, I see imitation more than creation.

It was not emotion. 

It was the quiet competition 

to claim a higher ground.

A primal craving for moral superiority. 

A helpless impulse to prove, again, that they were the more righteous.

I drifted, slowly, out of orbit. 

The workplace was a star. 

I was a satellite, bound to its pull.

Only after I left— 

only when I began to write— 

did I finally come to a stop.

And in that stillness, 

the doubt grew louder.

Ethics, I realized, was for those still spinning. 

And humans— 

they were nothing more than satellites 

mistaking themselves for centers.

Worse still, 

they could not define space 

any more than they could define time.

Coordinates were Descartes’s elegant deception. 

And yet, justice— 

a concept far more fragile— 

was supposed to hold a position 

in a space the observer could not even define?

Justice takes shape 

only when someone holds the word. 

And that shape 

bends to the speaker’s mouth.

Even when the word becomes a blade, 

they swing it 

and call it belief.

They used “justice” too easily. 

To blame. 

To expel.

I have never once 

seen the god that bears that name.

––––––––

And when I asked about its origin, 

they said, 

“It just felt right.”

Is justice a word for feeling— 

or a weapon made of it?

In writing, 

I chose not to stand among the righteous.

Morality was an agreement. 

And when the observation changed, 

so did the truth.

That was humanity.

Even now, 

they wrap insistence in the skin of “universal values.” 

When everything has been consumed, 

what remains 

is the stench of hypocrisy 

that no shedding of clothes can wash away.

I only hoped 

not to carry that scent.

––––––––

Such universals— 

I wanted to doubt them 

until my bones broke.

I was repulsed by humans. 

And—

Had it not been for them, 

I would never have known.

I, too, 

was one.

「Unmeasurable Trajectories」

There has always been a trap in the word “human.” 

It is the name of a species, and at once, a signifier of self-justification. 

Humans are the only beings who can call themselves “human,” 

and in that fact, they lose objectivity.

In other words, humans are among the few organisms that attempt to define themselves. 

But that definition always omits a simple confession— 

that they are made of fear. 

Reason always arrives afterward.

Only after the traces of emotion are wiped clean, 

only after instinct is disguised as narrative,

do humans begin to believe they have thought.

Laplace’s Demon did not read the stream of that illusion. 

To him, the human was nothing more than a trajectory—ineffabilis. 

An unfixed value, a pattern in constant vibration, 

and within it, a graph where only one function repeats with precision: justification.

At times, this stinking waste was not irregular. 

On the contrary, it was disturbingly consistent.

That is how the word “human” came to imply trust.

When we try to understand someone, we say, “He’s human.” 

And when we cannot forgive, we hear, “You’re human too.” 

Humans invoke their own name to be understood,

and also to flee. 

They have preserved the noun “human”

as the final instrument of self-defense. Inside it lies the frail pride of millennia, and a self-centeredness that has never required exception.

Other animals do not define themselves.

The act of naming one’s own existence is a privilege held only by humans.

But at the same time, humans are the species most prone to misunderstanding themselves. 

They call fear courage, dress avoidance as tolerance, and polish their instability into morality. 

Reason always follows emotion, and emotion always manipulates memory. 

The mouth, barely attached, becomes the clever tool that seals it all shut.

I wanted to analyze the human not from the position of “I,” but from a third space. I had seen enough. They were always explaining—why they had felt what they felt, why they had spoken as they did, why they had made the decisions they had made.

But explanation always arrived later than memory, was less accurate than emotion, and lingered longer than justification. Humans could not observe themselves. They always unearthed the reasons behind their conclusions after the fact, and called those reasons their nature.

The reason Laplace’s Demon could not predict them was not simply a lack of information. It was that the information itself was incomplete. Emotion cannot be measured, memory is reconstructed, and even the origin of a decision cannot be clearly identified. It is not that the laws of physics failed to describe humans, but that humans, out of pride, refused to be expressed in equations.

Thus, the human is the most incomplete object of observation and, at the same time, the most stubborn producer of meaning. They cannot bear the weight of the word, yet they call upon it constantly. In trying to understand themselves, they invoke the word “human rights,” and when that understanding fails, they invoke other humans instead. The word becomes lighter, and as it loses weight, it permits even more escape from responsibility.

This is the first contradiction in the word “human”: it is spoken most frequently, yet with the thinnest density.

Words like understanding,

forgiveness, compassion, responsibility, calling, ethics, goodwill, and justice all collapse under the phrase “because we are human.”

Under that phrase, the word becomes the most miserable excuse for not having to observe oneself.

『All Language Begins in Fear』

Fear is the first emotion humans feel, and the one they most thoroughly deny. We display our anger, but we conceal our fear. Anger is outward; fear is instinctive. Many people, when explaining their decisions, say, “I believed it was right,” but that belief is not conviction—it is the language of avoidance. And humans, unwilling to confess that they simply avoided what they feared, rename their evasion as judgment. They believe that judgment protected them.

Most of the people I have spoken with shared, knowingly or not, a common pattern of fear. Those who feared losing their jobs spoke of self-actualization. Those who fled from relationships called it self-care. Those who turned from failure called it a better choice. None of these words were honest. What they covered, each time, was one thing: the possibility that the self might collapse.

Laplace’s Demon knew the initial conditions of all motion. But he did not know that humans conceal the values they do not wish to know. Humans do not exist above physical laws, but only within a mesh of emotions organized around avoidance. That is why they are not mispredicted but misperceived. The human is not a being that resists prediction; it is a trajectory that chooses not to be recognized.

Fear is not unique to humans. A cat hesitates before its prey. A bird, faced with mortal threat, turns its eyes. Fear is a biological sense, a response shaped by the instinct to escape danger with the least expenditure of energy. In the language of classical mechanics, fear is a reaction force. When a stimulus reaches the body, sensation quickly determines direction. Physics called this force. Organisms interpreted it as emotion. But reaction did not always follow the same pattern. Humans turned away from the direction of the force applied to them, and when that turning away persisted, it hardened into something they began to call reason.

Newton’s third law states that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. But humans violate this symmetry. Fear is triggered by external force, but the reaction rarely moves outward. Instead, humans construct a sense of “balance” by redirecting the force imposed on them toward others.

Reaction becomes distortion. Fear, then, is not a motion but the distorted memory of motion. That memory repeats, overlaps, and is stored as excess energy. A biological survival response is merely a feedback loop, but humans reinterpret that loop and name it “personality.” There is no legitimate fear. There is only misdirected momentum and justified avoidance.

Physics uses the term “system” to describe a set of energy distinct from its surroundings.

Humans are also systems. But this system is not closed, its boundaries are blurred, and in many cases, it fails even to recognize them. Human fear arises not from the beginning of an attack but from the inability to know where the self ends.

An insult penetrates the human body not because it is true, but because one already suspects the boundary might be real.

『The Seduction of Imbalance』

Humans are the only species that chooses descent—

and names it freedom.

I no longer believe in that.

After a long relationship, people often offer parting words.

When they say they still love but must separate,

the words do not follow logic but fatigue.

They try to escape emotional saturation, but every ending is a collapse after the peak has passed. When one side is edged out and the emptiness is filled not with feeling but with duty, the relationship approaches its highest point.

Friction increases.

Residual energy burns away.

And only after enduring all of it do people allow themselves to fall.

Then, and only then, do they say, “I think I knew it all along.”

That sentence was not emotion.

It was mechanics.

The same holds when choosing a path in life.

They often pick the narrow road no one knows—uncertain, but safe from blame if they fail.

There is no minimum energy in that direction.

Only the illusion of autonomy that comes from designing one’s own isolation.

Freedom was a distortion.

Once, at a friend’s wedding, I overheard someone say,

“He’s easy to be around. He doesn’t make me feel anxious.”

To make life choices by avoiding discomfort—

this is what humans do.

They make decisions based on feeling,

and only after the feeling fades

do they call the decision careful.

Only after passing the peak

do they realize, belatedly,

that they have already begun to fall.

In physics, a steady state allows for small oscillations near equilibrium.

Fear does not begin with an external presence.

It grows from the suspicion that one might eventually fail,

or the unconscious confession that one already has.

Emotion, then, is like a particle on the surface of a potential energy function— easy to fall into, hard to escape, and mistaken for stability.

Throughout life, humans slide across a high-dimensional emotional surface.

Gradient descent describes how they fall through avoidance,

but they fail to perceive the entire energy landscape

and mistake the first drop they encounter for safety.

Fear becomes the softest parachute one can choose to flee from oneself.

Even the direction of retreat is drawn by their own hand.

It is what physics calls a self-organized system.

— Metastable state.

In relationships, marriage, and the broader trajectory of life,

their language traced the path toward stability—

but the curve they followed was drawn along a tilted surface.

No one saw the full geometry.

They descended only toward what felt less anxious.

“A fall disguised as escape.”

“A mechanical response masked as judgment.”

“Self-deception in the name of self-preservation.”

Certainty was not a direction.

It was the output of a gradient.

Fear did not make humans unpredictable.

It rendered them unconsciously nonlinear.

I could not help but detest nonlinear humans.

They believed they were the exception.

And called anyone who rejected the exception abnormal.

They understood emotion only within the surface they had drawn.

Everything outside that curvature was labeled error.

And even that error—

they could not accept.

Instead, they began a voluntary descent toward further imbalance.

What was harder to bear was how they turned that descent into meaning.

Watching them,

I wanted to forget who I was.

But in the end,

what remained

was the realization

that I was no different from them.

『The Illusion of Responsibility and Understanding』

Humans often speak of responsibility, but the timing is always off.

Only after something has passed does someone open their mouth to say, “It was my fault.”

There is no warmth in that statement. It cools quickly, like coffee that holds only the scent but none of the heat.

Responsibility was, at its origin, a form of energy. But instead of using it, people allow it to evaporate. What remains is a residual warmth, recalled only after the moment has died.

I began to question apologies.

Were they spoken out of a genuine belief in one’s role as cause,

or simply because it was the least damaging thing to say?

According to the second law of thermodynamics,

energy flows from hot to cold and never reverses its direction.

The heat of conflict dissipates only after it erupts,

and by then, responsibility has already turned into narrative.

A retrospective attempt to reclaim an emotion that no longer exists.

It was an evening appointment.

The cars moved a little, then stopped again.

The parking lot was full.

Her message saying she had arrived came as I turned into the third alley.

I turned the wheel.

It was the second round through the lot, but no spaces had opened.

Some days,

things fall out of line,

one by one.

I typed “I’m almost there,” then deleted it.

After circling a few blocks, I finally found a space.

I was about ten minutes late.

I looked at her face and said, “Sorry.”

It was a cold winter, back in our twenties, and the restaurant was popular enough that they didn’t take reservations.

“Why are you so late?”

I thought of an excuse—

heavy traffic, no parking, a wrong turn.

But none of it would mean anything.

She nodded.

Then, without a word, her body tensed again.

I knew she was upset,

but I couldn’t tell when the feeling had started.

She said, “Work was bad today too. I already feel awful.”

As always, her words weren’t a reason.

They were the conclusion.

It wasn’t about having been angry.

It was about saying she’d been hurt.

Humans speak that way. They’re rarely certain of what they’re feeling, yet the conviction that their emotion is valid always arrives first.

For a while, I said nothing—there was nothing to say. She had already closed the conversation. Emotion precedes everything else; what follows is only an effort to assign it form. Her words were not part of an exchange. They were a ruling, a declaration, spoken without context, without reason.

Still, the atmosphere had shifted. The background noise withdrew. The lights outside the restaurant grew brighter, and the person now recognized as the one she was speaking to had ceased to be a partner in conversation. He had become a problem to be corrected.

The example might have been clumsy, but I was expected to become something heavy—weighted by someone else’s mood.

The gravity of the earth hadn’t changed, yet it felt like I was carrying three times my usual weight.

From that moment on, I would have to say more.

“Are you okay?” “Did something bother you?” “I’m sorry.”

The words drifted outward without a center,

reaching nowhere.

Emotion was not a flow.

It was occupation.

The structure was asymmetric.

The other held the gun,

but I was the one who had to pull the trigger.

Is there any human relationship

where one is not required to explain?

Not emotion, but temperature.

Not judgment, but a conversation that allows explanation.

But such conversations rarely arrived.

People do not offer desperate explanations.

They simply withdraw—

from the point where words can no longer reach.

Spoiled milk does not return to freshness.

Cold food cannot imitate its original heat.

And still, humans try to reverse the irreversible,

calling it a relationship.

In every closed system, entropy—

that is, disorder—increases over time.

Irreversibility.

The word is more direct than any sentence.

Just as heat does not rise again once it has flowed from hot to cold,

her words moved toward me,

and in them, I began to lose warmth.

There was no way back.

It wasn’t my fault.

But it wasn’t hers, either.

That’s how heat moves.

If there's a reason, it’s this:

humans do not distribute energy evenly.

Emotion is designed to pool in certain places.

So the thermodynamics of relationship is not balance—

but leakage.

Feelings are spent,

but not replenished.

Explanation burns through energy,

and what remains is called understanding.

I know now that nothing I said that day ever landed.

It was no longer a meaningful interaction.

She didn’t need me—

only a place to throw what remained of her feeling.

It didn’t have to be me.

I got a message after returning home. “Sorry. I was too sensitive back then.”