Veni, vidi, vici, Julius Caesar exclaimed after a victorious battle—three words that have since encapsulated the essence of decisiveness. Since then, the triad has become a powerful principle: from the Holy Trinity and the Three Wise Men to The Lord of the Rings trilogy and the structure of a well-told story with a beginning, middle, and end. We experience the world in three dimensions, so it is no coincidence that a festival like For Love of the World embraces this number.

On March 29, an object will rise on the festival grounds that brings this triad to life: a horizontal Tripod. The structure is composed of approximately 800 cardboard rings, designed and built by students Tess Wilschut and Zuzanna Jastrzebska in collaboration with the architecture student association Argus. This construction extends in a Y-shape over nearly three meters and creates three zones. Each zone is dedicated to a fundamental dimension of human existence: our relationship with nature, society, and the divine.

This triad—nature, society, and the divine—is not just an abstract concept but reflects how we relate to each other and the world. Think of our centuries-old relationship with forests and oceans. They have been both a source of life and a threat. Forests provided food and shelter but also harboured wild animals and dangers. The seas provided fish and trade routes but also claimed countless lives through storms and shipwrecks. Societies began to organize and regulate nature. Forests were managed with rules on logging and hunting, while seas and rivers were divided into fishing grounds and trade routes. Both forests and oceans were not just physical spaces but also cultural and legal entities. Consider the sacred forests in various traditions or maritime law, which determined who was allowed to fish and sail where. At the same time, both forests and oceans have been places of contemplation and magic, as seen in ancient fairy tales and religious traditions. The sea symbolized the unknown, the boundary between worlds, a place of infinity and myth—from Norse legends of sea serpents to the spiritual significance of water in nearly all major religions.

But in modern times, this balance seems disrupted. Forests are reduced to suppliers of raw materials or carbon storage, while oceans are primarily seen as trade routes, tourist attractions, or industrial fishing zones.

Traditionally, language has always been the key to how we understand the three dimensions—and thereby ourselves. We tell stories about nature, shape societies through laws, schools, science, and myths, and seek meaning through sacred texts. But the stories we tell have shifted solely to data and policy, while the dimension of society is increasingly derailed by polarization and the language of hate and war.

The dimensions seem to have turned against us. We face ecological crises. Living together—especially internationally—has become a precarious and dangerous matter. The divine, once a source of wonder and connection, is now used for exclusion and conflict, while leaders and states are worshipped with religious fanaticism, blind to facts and truth.

But if language has always been the key, could a new language reopen the way forward? The Tripod is an experiment in which we use large language models (LLMs) to explore this question. Critics fear that AI merely reproduces existing power structures and biases—sexism, racism, or the interests of the tech elite. But what if we can use LLMs to access these fundamental dimensions in a playful, anarchic way? So that they once again become part of a meaningful life, rather than being seen as something that threatens us?

See the Tripod as an improvised switchboard between you and nature, society, and the spiritual. In the ‘nature’ zone of the Y-shaped construction, you will find the stunning video installation NATURA by artist Floris Schönfeld. NATURA is an all-encompassing artificial super-intelligence that has managed to become one with the natural world in its entirety. TU Delft Researcher in human-robot relations Yke Bauke Eijsma will discuss AI as a new form of intelligence.

In the ‘society’ zone, you will encounter, among other things, the kilo-girls, which is a unit equal to the computational ability of 1000 women. Kilo-girls, created by artist Julia Luteijn, is a collection of computer-generated poems that reflect programmed biases. Prejudice, stereotyping, and discrimination are not confined to the human experience but are also inherited by the technologies we create. At the same time, in this zone, we see how technology can be used to be more inclusive and diverse, in collaboration with the Feminist Generative AI Lab from TU Delft and Erasmus University. In the spiritual section, we are working with researcher and futurist Gustavo Nogueira de Menezes on the Spiritual.AI chatbot.

These are small experiments, but with a serious background: can we use AI to breathe new life into the three dimensions, almost as a hack or a virus? What if AI is not just generative but also regenerative: inclusive, diverse, with room for the most unexpected stories? The Tripod is not a static entity, and we will certainly use it more often. But for now: come (veni) and see (vidi) if Zuzanna and Tess have managed to put the thing up (vici).

Leon Heuts, head of Studium Generale

“Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without but know we cannot live within,” writes essayist and civil rights activist James Baldwin in The Fire Next Time. This statement comes from a time of great social upheaval in the United States, the early 1960s. It was a period marked by political assassinations, the fight for civil rights, and the rise of violence and polarization. Baldwin asks the question: why would love be an answer in times when hatred and self-glorification dominate? It is a question that, although circumstances change, remains ever-relevant.

Baldwin’s concept of love is not merely the personal emotion but a broader ‘state of being’, a force that invites us to look beyond our outward protective mechanisms—the masks we wear to be accepted or avoid pain. Yet, it is these very masks that keep us trapped, preventing us from growing. The love Baldwin speaks of is not simple, sentimental love but one that challenges us, even in difficult times, to rise up and free ourselves from what holds us back.

This love is political and – in a good sense – radical. It is not the love for friends or family, but a broader love that challenges the foundations of society. The idea of universal brotherhood, where everyone is welcomed regardless of background or status, has driven people throughout history to resist injustice and tyranny. We see this echoed in early Christianity, where Paul writes in his letters about agape; universal love, regardless of origin or achievement. Love, in this sense, is a force capable of transforming society.

But how do we apply this love in practice? It is difficult to tie a clear political program to this love, because every systematic approach tends to exclude groups. And even in the name of universal love or truths massacres have been carried out. Love, as Baldwin sees it, is an open attitude—a willingness to listen and change. When programs become rigid and exclude the possibility of change, tyranny arises. Love, on the other hand, offers the space to keep searching for better, more just ways of living together. It is the ability to be touched by what is not heard, by what is not allowed a place. It is the point where the universal converges with the singular—that one voice, the oppressed, the fugitive, the destitute, the oppressed, the refugee.

Inspired by this idea, we at Studium Generale are working on the festival For Love of the World. It is an ambitious task, as we are a small team. But we believe that love, and especially love for the world, is crucial in this time for a university of technology. In an era where technology is often used for destructive purposes, such as war technology or manipulative algorithms, it simultaneously offers unprecedented opportunities to bring about positive change. What drives us is the conviction that we must not only acquire knowledge but also take responsibility for using that knowledge for the greater good. This means being willing to revisit our beliefs and remain open to new perspectives and voices. That is love.

A concrete example of this approach at our festival is the use of large language models such as ChatGPT. This technology can reinforce existing biases, but it also provides the opportunity to add marginalized voices, such as feminist theories and indigenous knowledge, to everyday language. By enriching this technology in an inclusive way, we try to show a broader and more diverse representation of ideas. We call it an ‘act of love’; perhaps not the traditional sense of the word, but rather an attempt to use the technology in a way that challenges conventions and creates space for change.

Why would we do this? Because science, like love, does not only inspire us to acquire knowledge but also to reflect and transform. Science gives us the tools to understand the world, but love gives us the motivation to use that knowledge for a more just society. It undeniably adds a more holistic dimension to science: improving and analysing the world with respect for that same world in all its extraordinary diversity. The festival, therefore, also offers space for spirituality, in a grounded way—not vague mysticism which can easily be misused (and currently is misused) by extremists, but the experience of interconnectedness, even – and especially – with what you do not know or understand. We believe that social engagement begins there.

Baldwin reminded us that love is not a passive state but an active force that challenges us to remove our masks and free ourselves from the limitations we have imposed on ourselves. Personally, I am especially happy that more and more students are becoming involved in the festival, because the future belongs to them. The future is not a given, but fundamentally open. Because it has yet to come, it means that it can change. The potentiality to transform is love.

Last Thursday, SG took the Writing Huddle to the beautiful exposition Arcadian Dreams at the Echo Building. Huddled between the lifelike post-apocalyptic sculptures, we practised our writing skills and our imaginations. Below you can read a story written by one of the people who joined us there, written from the perspective of one of the creatures. Thanks, Ananth Ravi, for the wonderful story and the picture of your critter companion.

It is like last time when I opened my eyes. It is getting warmer. My back is a bit itchy. I should go to the river and bathe. Ah, fruits. It would be nice to store them when I come back. The trees have leaves again. I must close the cave with branches.

This was the path where I used to go with Layla. The smell of her, the spring in her step. There were birds—birds that don’t come here anymore.

Mushrooms are nice. I need to be careful with them. Last time, they made me sick.

The water is cold. Where are the fish?

No one has come to see me in a while. They used to come me. They knew I had seen things. But they stopped coming.

I don’t remember things anymore. I remember Layla’s eyes.

My fingers have some worms. I can eat them.

I should get some branches on my way back.

It is warm outside. I can lie down and scratch my back.

I forget how tall and shiny and big, the cave is. I wonder if I can climb to the shine. The branches go all the way up. There are so many of them.

One of these caves used to have a small river inside the cave. I don’t remember which one.

Oh, that is a bird. It went inside the shine—the high-up place with pieces missing, where the wind sometimes howls through.

It is getting dark. I must go in now.

“When the woman/ man saw that the fruit of the tree was good for food and pleasing to the eye, and also desirable for gaining wisdom, she/ he took some and ate it. She/ He also gave some to her husband/ his wife, who was with her/ him, and he/ she ate it.” Continue reading →

If I buy a plastic bottle of water today, book a flight, trade crypto, purchase clothes, chair a meeting, sign up for a dating app, mindlessly share a post on social media, cut in line at the supermarket, or ignore a colleague because I’m too busy—do I really know what the consequences of my actions will be tomorrow? For others, for the planet, or for future generations? Wouldn’t I go mad if I constantly thought about it?

Around me, I see people tuning out. They know their actions have consequences, but should that really mean flying less, being kinder to others, or double-checking whether they’re spreading disinformation? We already have so many obligations. Better to focus on living a pleasant life for yourself and those close to you. Some might say we’re too interconnected—the networks we’re part of, through our apps, our travel, and our global systems, are simply too vast to grasp the impact of individual actions.

And besides, what can I really contribute in a world increasingly shaped by power struggles, imperialism, narcissism, war, stupidity, exclusion, and the climate crisis? What’s the point of reflecting on what I—small, insignificant me—can do? It’s easier to retreat inward, live my own life, and accept that I can’t change much.

Recently, DeepSeek—the Chinese AI model rapidly outpacing ChatGPT—was asked about the most important questions humanity should reflect on. Its answer? What are the consequences of my actions for others? How can I live in harmony with nature and future generations? Am I open to new perspectives, and do I learn from others?

Easier said than done.

But perhaps that’s the point. Let it be complex! If we imagine ourselves as a node in a vast, fluctuating and unpredictable network of relationships—including with nature and future generations—then maybe our actions matter more than we think. Chaos theory teaches us that, in complex and unpredictable systems, small fluctuations can eventually lead to significant outcomes. This imparts an ethical weight to even the smallest of actions—and with that, a perspective: we don’t need to change the whole world at once. Small, thoughtful actions aimed at building a better future can already make a difference. For example, if you buy food with care, you might start to consider its origin. What does that mean for what you choose to buy—and how might you tell others what you’re doing differently?

Isn’t this also what artists do? Or scientists? One piece of art, one book, one new theory can change the way we look at the world. To accept nothing really matters any more in this complex world, is to say beauty or knowledge no longer holds meaning.

The For Love of the World festival is all about connections. How can we connect with one another, the planet, and the future? Against the backdrop of this era’s pervasive defeatism—understandable, given the darkness—we place art, philosophy, science, and love. Not some overly romantic ideal of love, but the simple conviction that we care about one another and this world. We aim for better connections, grounded in the belief that even small changes can lead to meaningful transformations.

This year, we focus on language, because language defines how we connect—with the planet and with everyone else sharing this journey through the universe. Words carry immense power: they spark innovation, inspire art, and express truths. But language is also weaponized. It divides and controls through linguistic imperialism, polarization, manipulative rhetoric, and the subtle (or not-so-subtle) influence of technology.

What if we could rewrite the story? What if we could use language to cross the boundaries of culture, species, and technology, to reveal how words can either uphold or dismantle power? Together, we can craft new narratives for a world we love wholeheartedly.

At this year’s festival, we’ll explore how nature is represented in language, how large language models are increasingly shaping our view of reality, and how tools like ChatGPT can be used to amplify marginalized voices. We also explore the mystical: can language connect us to our place in the cosmos? For example, the language of music or that of poets. Could that also inspire social change?

Claiming the story. Be part of the story, especially if you care about the decades you still have left on this planet and the (near) future you want to help shape. Will you help write this new story? Even a few words, whose impact might be greater than you’d expect? Join us, and don’t miss the Early Bird special.

Get your early bird tickets (offer ends February 4th)

Trump won. Trump, the convicted criminal. Trump, the (alleged) sex offender. Trump, the man with agonizingly oppressive values. And, lest we forget, Trump the billionaire.

If you put aside his politics and criminal record for a moment, that final fact stands out like a sore thumb. Trump is a billionaire, helped into the seat of power by Elon Musk, the man who may become the first trillionaire on Earth.

What do political values even mean in the face of so much money?

What chance do the rest of us have in a democracy that can be bought?

In September and October, we hosted a plethora of conversations in Delft about power, privilege, and the ultra-rich. We tried to imagine where the limits to wealth and power should lie, and whether we should “eat the rich” with more taxes or an outright revolution. It was great: it was engaging, challenging, and even fun at times. We brought together people with shared concerns and those who saw no concerns at all; those who are working in different ways to create solutions, and those who are simply stuck wondering what the hell we as individuals can do to even the playing field.

Then, in November, Trump won. And whatever we had imagined once again seemed so small.

Clearly, the conversation on economic inequality – extreme inequality, between individuals, corporations, social classes, and nations – is one that must continue. As hard as it is to imagine how we can change a global society that worships such extravagances, change will happen. When, or how, is not yet clear. But the desire for change is real: I felt that clearly at all of our events this quarter. And I for one want to be prepared, together.

Going forward, you can expect me to keep questioning power in my programs. Even during the Trump years ahead.

• Klaas P van der Tempel, program maker at Studium Generale TU Delft

Wrinkles and creases, hairs and goosebumps. Toenails and hands that look so real that they remind you of your own. Bone structures and skin tones that resemble yours. And yet, despite all the recognition you feel estranged from what you’re witnessing in Echo’s main hall in the exhibition Arcadian Dreams Continue reading →

I should have taken a moment to think before I suggested that Studium Generale choose “Loneliness” as its theme for this term. We’ve got a whole line-up of thought-provoking, artful, innovative events around loneliness. Last week, I attended the first ones. In the writing workshop run by our colleague from Exhale, Harriet Foyster, I was hit by profound sadness. With that amused detachment that I sometimes feel towards myself, I realised that loneliness is a sensitive topic for me. And I had chosen to fill several months’ worth of my working life with it. Brilliant move, I thought of myself, like a weary elder looking down on a slightly obtuse young relative.

On to Augustine. Bear with me, you’ll see where this is coming from. Saint Augustine, or Augustine of Hippo, was a Christian theologian born in 354 in modern-day Algeria. Sainthood didn’t come easy; while he was a brilliant writer and philosopher, his autobiographical Confessions are full of concubines, hedonism and other worldly pleasures. When he was called on by his mother to mend his ways, Augustine famously prayed:

Grant me chastity and [moderation], but not yet.

If you are looking for hard-earned lessons, look no further. I want to delve into Augustine’s meditations on grief. They come straight from a wounded heart. As a youth, Augustine had a passionate friendship with another young man who died of a fever. (Augustine’s sexuality is hotly contested to this day. As part of the Loneliness theme, we actually have an upcoming event on closetedness. I don’t expect to see Augustine there, but we’ll do our best in his absence.) This death devastated Augustine to the point where his own life became unbearable to him. He wrote:

For I was astonished that other mortals lived, since he whom I loved, as if he would never die, was dead; and I wondered still more that I, who was to him a second self, could live when he was dead. Well did one say of his friend, “Thou half of my soul,” for I felt that my soul and his soul were but one soul in two bodies; and, consequently, my life was a horror to me, because I would not live in half. And therefore, perchance, was I afraid to die, lest he should die wholly whom I had so greatly loved.

Time passes, and Augustine rediscovers solace in the worldly pleasures which his grief had soured for him. He can love and be loved, spend lazy days talking and laughing, debating and philosophising with other friends. Even his grief for his soulmate, it seems, is temporary. He keeps on living the way he always had, drinking with bosom friends, exploring new ideas. It must have felt like a happy escape. Reading this now, it strikes me how sad it seems that even the deepest love of his life can be replaced by new faces and new impressions. The passage of time doesn’t just take away the beloved. Like sand on the beach, even the place that the beloved took up in Augustine’s life is filled in again.

“But yet there succeeded, not certainly other sorrows, yet the causes of other sorrows. For whence had that former sorrow so easily penetrated to the quick, but that I had poured out my soul upon the dust, in loving one who must die as if he were never to die? But what revived and refreshed me especially was the consolations of other friends, with whom I did love what instead of You I loved.”

Here is the crux of his discovery, the insight that Augustine seeks to share with us. His friends, he discovers, will keep dying. He pours his deepest self out onto them, and time comes in like a tide, washing it away. His whole concept of love has been misguided. He writes that we love our friends for all the shared moments which are “so much fuel to melt our souls together, and out of many to make but one.” When our beloved dies, we die too. This is the cause of grief and the reason why it makes life bitter to us.

Perhaps you can see where this is going.

Blessed be he who loves You, and his friend in You, and his enemy for Your sake. For he alone loses none dear to him to whom all are dear in Him who cannot be lost. And who is this but our God, the God that created heaven and earth[?]

Here is the lesson. The deep love you feel for your friends is real, and it is right. But in that passion, to forget their mortality is to lie to yourself. What’s more, you risk opening yourself up to a grief that pollutes your soul and makes your life a burden. So much for the analysis; now the solution. (Brace yourselves, my non-Christian brethren.) Love your friends, your enemies, love all souls and every part of creation through God. He is eternal, and in Him, everything you love is safeguarded for eternity.

What a beautiful solution, and what a tragedy that it is founded on a faith in God! Imagine me, in my first year of university, aching with recognition and longing for access to the faith which Augustine – conveniently! – already possessed. I had enrolled in a philosophy module called “Death, God, and the Meaning of Life” looking for, well, God and/or the meaning of life. What can I say? I found Augustine and the delicious irony of a completely unpracticable answer to all my problems.

Coming back around now to the question I opened with: why are we so alone? Is it really because we don’t know God? I don’t know anyone who truly thinks so. I can’t explain why the thought still holds this fascination for me. Like Augustine in his youth, I’ve had moments where I told myself I had found a resolution to my loneliness. And again like Augustine, I’ve seen those visions swept away by time and change.

Here I go into Q2: Loneliness. My chosen theme. Still searching, still longing, still feeling the ache of mortality. Maybe I’ll find it this time.

Photograph taken from the cover of the Viriditas recording by the Sibil•la Ensemble, copyright Brendon Heist.

I am the kind of person who still says “thank you” to ChatGPT after completing a task. Perhaps this is a “boomer” thing, but I wonder why I do it. I can’t help but view an entity with which I can have reasonably meaningful conversations as a “someone” with inner awareness or consciousness—in short, I don’t want to hurt its feelings. I feel a bit hurt myself if I don’t do it. That is what I would do if I took its work for granted.

This may sound absurd; ChatGPT has no inner awareness. I just asked it, and it replied: “Everything I do stems from complex calculations and patterns based on the data I’ve been trained on, without self-awareness, feelings, or personal experience.” Thank you, Chattie, but that doesn’t alleviate my discomfort. Because if I didn’t see you as a “someone,” another unsettling question arises: do I really want an entity without self-awareness to play an increasingly important role in this world? This applies to AI in general: AI is taking on a more crucial role in major governance and monitoring systems worldwide. This raises fundamental ethical questions. Governments use AI for efficiency in administration and decision-making, such as predictive analytics and risk assessment. In the military domain (or organisations like Frontex, the European Union’s border guards), AI systems are deployed for surveillance and strategic decision-making, with discussions even surrounding autonomous decisions regarding weapon use. In healthcare, AI assists with diagnoses, treatment recommendations, and administrative tasks, while banks and financial institutions use AI for risk management, fraud detection, and algorithmic trading.

The benefits are clear: operational speed, precision, and improved judgment through pattern recognition. However, we also know that growing dependence on AI can be dangerous. In government, AI can lead to bias and discrimination, for example, when predictive algorithms wrongly label certain population groups as high risk. AI-driven weapons pose a serious concern; who is responsible for decisions over life and death? In healthcare, there is a risk that diagnoses or treatments may be based solely on cost calculations. In the financial sector, the use of AI can lead to unfair advantages for certain players.

AI excels at analysing vast amounts of data and extracting patterns. The predictions and decisions it generates often resemble what we attribute to “inner experience,” such as intuition—but that’s not what it is. This is especially dangerous in moral decision-making. Ethics requires sensitivity to context and empathy. The world is complex and nuanced. A well-known example is how AI used by the justice system assesses the recidivism risk of suspects based on factors such as neighbourhood, prior convictions, and social status (like the Correctional Offender Management Profiling for Alternative Sanctions, or COMPAS), systematically assigning higher scores to individuals from certain demographic groups.

This is precisely the point of the upcoming annual Van Hasselt Lecture, where guest speaker Peter Railton, Distinguished Professor of Philosophy at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor, will ask whether AI can be a genuinely moral actor—a decision-making entity—beyond prescribed moral codes or protocols. Can AI, which is so adept at machine learning, “learn” to be moral and thus genuinely interact with an ever-changing world?

The traditional musical accompaniment during the Van Hasselt lecture will be provided by the Sibil•la Ensemble. They recently recorded an audiovisual album featuring works from the 12th and 13th centuries, inspired by the writings of the 12th-century German mystic Hildegard von Bingen.

Why music based on medieval mysticism? Well, it is everything to do with feeling hurt if you don’t thank ChatGPT. Von Bingen perceived creation as imbued with divine wisdom, an invisible yet fundamental order she described as “Viriditas.” Viriditas was not only a physical life force (Von Bingen’s writings are sometimes exceedingly erotic; she is said to be the first woman to describe an orgasm), but also a moral force that maintains balance in the world. When humanity acts against this natural harmony, both nature and the soul suffer. Moral wrongdoing is not merely a violation of a rule; it is a deeply felt pain. For Hildegard, ethics is thus not a theoretical doctrine or rule-based; it is deeply intertwined with life and the world itself.

The question is whether such a “felt” ethics is ever achievable for AI. Can AI develop an inherent sensitivity to human values and social norms? This means that AI must not only operate according to established ethical guidelines but also develop an “ethical sense” that is sensitive to the context of a situation.

Learning is also important for Hildegard. In her Christian worldview, this means that people must continually grow and develop to come closer to the divine and realise their full moral potential. This line of thought can also inspire us in a secular age to view AI as a technology that must develop ethically—alongside machine learning, it should also engage in moral learning.

Leon Heuts, head of Studium Generale TU Delft