Where Are We Going and Are We Nearly There Yet? by Paul Hodson - REVIEW
A story could take you anywhere… and in Where Are We Going and Are We Nearly There Yet?, Paul Hodson invites us on a journey without a map — a wide-ranging, deeply humane reflection on what it means to be human in a world that feels simultaneously ancient and new. The title sounds almost whimsical, the question of an impatient child in the back seat, but it is also a cry from civilisation itself: have we made progress, and if so, towards what?
Hodson’s book is a conversation between epochs. It’s as though the ghosts of Seneca, Socrates, and Kant have gathered in a contemporary classroom to discuss TikTok, climate change, artificial intelligence, and democracy. Their voices mingle with those of schoolchildren, migrant workers, and political leaders. The result is a rare synthesis — a bridge between philosophy and lived experience, moral theory and the crowded, messy reality of the twenty-first century.
From its opening pages, Hodson’s writing radiates curiosity and conscience. The Introduction alone travels from the alleys of New Delhi to the White House, from the Berlin Wall to a Kuwaiti classroom where a Muslim student dares to read The Satanic Verses. These vignettes are not mere memoir fragments; they are the raw evidence of a teacher-observer who has walked through the contradictions of modern humanity and refused to look away. The tone is neither cynical nor naïve. Rather, it is what might be called pragmatic idealism — a belief that we can and must do better, tempered by an awareness of how stubbornly we resist change.
This is not an abstract treatise, though its structure could easily belong to one. Divided into nine thematic parts — from “Human Nature, Virtues and Vices” to “Globalisation,” “Religion,” “Science and Technology,” and even “Unthinkable” — Hodson’s canvas is enormous. Each section feels like a self-contained essay, yet the pieces interlock, forming what he calls a “bigger picture.” What links them is the author’s steady conviction that humanity has reached a threshold moment, a turning point that demands a re-examination of our core virtues, our systems of government, and our collective purpose.
One of Hodson’s great strengths is his balance between the historical and the immediate. He does not merely summarise the Enlightenment — he interrogates it. The Enlightenment’s faith in Reason, he suggests, gave us both science and slavery, democracy and domination. What we now require, he argues, is a new enlightenment — one that combines critical reason with empathy, global perspective, and humility before both nature and one another. This, he implies, may be our last best chance to grow wiser before our technological powers outpace our moral maturity.
His style is lucid, often elegant, and refreshingly unpretentious. Though steeped in philosophy, the prose never drifts into jargon. Hodson moves easily from Aristotle to the Chicago public libraries that abolished late fees and discovered, to their surprise, that trust encouraged responsibility. It’s a perfect illustration of his faith in human decency: that cooperation, when offered, tends to be reciprocated. The book is filled with such examples — ordinary proofs that humanity’s better instincts are not dead, only undernourished.
Hodson’s approach could be described as moral cartography. He maps the fault lines between freedom and responsibility, individualism and community, democracy and demagoguery. Yet he resists despair. He sees both the fragility and resilience of the human spirit, and he honours each with equal seriousness. His discussion of virtues and vices feels particularly timely. In a world that rewards outrage and self-promotion, he reminds us that temperance, humility, and generosity are not relics of religious tradition but survival traits for civilisation itself.
The book’s scope is immense — occasionally dizzying — yet the reader senses that Hodson means this as an act of intellectual hospitality. He invites everyone to the table: philosophers, faith leaders, scientists, sceptics, and citizens. The tone is inclusive, even conversational, as though he expects disagreement but hopes for engagement. “This is a dialogue,” he seems to say, “not a verdict.”
His treatment of religion exemplifies that generosity. Rather than dismissing faith as outdated, Hodson examines its evolving role in modern life. He acknowledges both its dangers and its enduring power to foster community and moral purpose. He is equally candid about science and technology — their brilliance, their blind spots, and the ethical tremors they produce. Artificial intelligence, biotechnology, and the internet all appear here not as villains or heroes but as mirrors reflecting our own ambivalence about control and connection.
If there is a single thread that binds the book, it is Hodson’s plea for global citizenship — a moral identity that transcends borders without erasing them. He sees the modern world as a living paradox: hyper-connected yet fragmented, informed yet confused, freer yet lonelier. The old categories of nation, class, and creed no longer suffice to explain who we are. In their place, Hodson proposes a new ethos rooted in empathy, fairness, and self-knowledge. He does not prescribe a utopia; he simply asks that we think harder about the one we are unconsciously building.
The beauty of Hodson’s writing lies in his ability to weave vast ideas into accessible patterns. He quotes thinkers as diverse as Machiavelli, Confucius, and Viktor Frankl, yet the voice remains distinctly his own — that of a teacher who listens as much as he lectures. Each chapter feels like a conversation between moral philosophy and modern anthropology, conducted in clear daylight rather than the ivory tower. His references to neuroscience and social experiments, such as those revealing innate fairness in toddlers, show a keen interest in how ancient questions find new answers in contemporary science.
At times, the reader may feel overwhelmed by the range of subjects — from politics and economics to planetary ecology and space exploration. Yet even this abundance feels deliberate. The book mirrors the complexity of the world it describes; it refuses to simplify what cannot be simplified. Hodson does not offer neat solutions or ideological slogans. Instead, he encourages a habit of mind — a willingness to see both sides, to question assumptions, to act from conscience even when certainty eludes us.
His conclusion circles back to the title question: where are we going, and are we nearly there yet? Hodson’s answer, though implicit, is both sobering and hopeful. We are going everywhere at once — forward, backward, inward, and outward. The journey is uneven and unfinished. We are not “nearly there,” but perhaps the act of asking means we are finally aware of the road.
In the end, Where Are We Going and Are We Nearly There Yet? is less a map than a mirror. It reflects our contradictions with compassion and invites us to take responsibility for the direction we choose next. Paul Hodson has written a book of rare breadth and moral clarity — one that bridges history, philosophy, and everyday humanity with a steady, generous intelligence.
It is not a call to arms but to awareness. And in a noisy, impatient age, that may be the most radical message of all.
