The b2o Review is a non-peer reviewed publication, published and edited by the boundary 2 editorial collective and specific topic editors, featuring book reviews, interventions, videos, and collaborative projects.  

  • Richard Hill — Multistakeholder Internet Governance Still Doesn’t Live Up to Its PR (Review of Palladino and Santaniello, Legitimacy, Power, and Inequalities in the Multistakeholder Internet Governance)

    Richard Hill — Multistakeholder Internet Governance Still Doesn’t Live Up to Its PR (Review of Palladino and Santaniello, Legitimacy, Power, and Inequalities in the Multistakeholder Internet Governance)

    a review of Nicola Palladino and Mauro Santaniello, Legitimacy, Power, and Inequalities in the Multistakeholder Internet Governance: Analyzing IANA Transition (Palgrave MacMillan, 2020)

    by Richard Hill

    ~

    While multistakeholder processes have long existed (see the Annex of this submission to an ITU group), they have recently been promoted as a better alternative to traditional governance mechanisms, in particular at the international level; and Internet governance has been put forward as an example of how multistakeholder processes work well, and better than traditional governmental processes. Thus it is very appropriate that a detailed analysis be made of a recent, highly visible, allegedly multistakeholder process: the process by which the US government relinquished its formal control over the administration of Internet names and address. That process was labelled the “IANA transition.”

    The authors are researchers at, respectively, the School of law and Governance, Dublin City University; and the Internet & Communication Policy Center, Department of Political and Social Studies, University of Salerno, Italy. They have taken part in several national and international research projects on Internet Governance, Internet Policy and Digital Constitutionalism processes. They have methodically examined various aspects of the IANA (Internet Assigned Numbers Authority) transition, and collected and analysed an impressive body of data regarding who actually participated in, and influenced, the transition process. Their research confirms what others have stated, namely that the process was dominated by insiders with vested interests, that the outcome did not resolve long-standing political issues, and that the process cannot by any means be seen as an example of an ideal multistakeholder process, and this despite claims to the contrary by the architects of the IANA transition.

    As the authors put the matter: “For those who believe that the IANA is a business concerning exclusively or primarily ICANN [Internet Corporations for Assigned Names and Numbers], the IETF [Internet Engineering Task Force], the NRO [Numbering Resource Organization], and their respective communities, the IANA transition process could be considered inclusive and fair enough, and its outcome effectively transferring the stewardship over IANA functions to the global stakeholder’s community of reference. For those who believe that the IANA stakeholders extend far beyond the organizations mentioned above, the assessment can only have a negative result” (146). Because “in the end, rather than transferring the stewardship of IANA functions to a new multistakeholder body that controls the IANA operator (ICANN), the transition process allowed the ICANN multistakeholder community to perform the oversight role that once belonged to the NTIA [the US government]” (146). Indeed “in the end, the novel governance arrangements strengthened the position of the registries and the technical community” (148). And the US government could still exercise ultimate control, because “ICANN, the PTI [Post-Transition IANA], and most of the root server organizations remain on US territory, and therefore under US jurisdiction” (149).

    That is, the transition failed to address the key political issue: “the IANA functions are at the heart of the DNS [Domain Name System] and the Internet as we know it. Thus, their governance and performance affect a vast range of actors [other than the technical and business communities involved in the operation of the DNS] that should be considered legitimate stakeholders” (147). Instead, it was one more example of “the rhetorical use of the multistakeholder discourse. In particular, … through a neoliberal discourse, the key organizations already involved in the DNS regime were able to use the ambiguity of the concept of a ‘global multistakeholder community’ as a strategic power resource.” Thus failing fully to ensure that discussions “take place through an open process with the participation of all stakeholders extending beyond the ICANN community.” While the call for participation in the process was formally open “its addressees were already identified as specific organizations. It is worth noting that these organizations did not involve external actors in the set-up phase. Rather, they only allowed other interested parties to take part in the discussion according to their rules and with minor participatory rights [speaking, but non-voting, observers]” (148).

    Thus, the authors’ “analysis suggests that the transition did not result in, nor did it lead to, a higher form of multistakeholderism filling the gap between reality and the ideal-type of what multistakeholderism ought to be, according to normative standards of legitimacy. Nor was it able to fix the well-known limitations in inclusiveness, fairness of the decision-making process, and accountability of the entire DNS regime. … Instead, the transition seems to have solidified previous dominant positions and ratified the ownership of an essential public function by a private corporation, led by interwoven economic and technical interests” (149). In particular, “the transition process showed the irrelevance of civil society, little and badly represented in the stakeholder structure before and after the transition” (150). And “multistakeholderism [in this case] seems to have resulted in misleading rhetoric legitimizing power asymmetries embedded within the institutional design of DNS management, rather than in a new governance model capable of ensuring the meaningful participation of all the interested parties.”

    In summary, the IANA transition is one more example of the failure of multistakeholder processes to achieve their desired goal. As the authors correctly note: “Initiatives supposed to be multistakeholder have often been criticized for not complying with their premises, resulting in ‘de-politicization mechanisms that limit political expression and struggle’” (153). Indeed, “While multistakeholderism is used as a rhetoric to solidify and legitimize power positions within some policy-making arena, without any mechanisms giving up power to weaker stakeholders and without making concrete efforts to include different discourses, it will continue to produce ambiguous compromises without decisions, or make decisions affected by a poor degree of pluralism” (153). As others have stated, “‘multistakeholderism reinforces existing power dynamics that have been ‘baked in’ to the model from the beginning. It privileges north-western governments, particularly the US, as well as the US private sector.’ Similarly, … multistakeholderism [can be defined] as a discursive tool employed to create consensus around the hegemony of a power élite” (12). As the authors starkly put the matter, “multistakeholder discourse could result in misleading rhetoric that solidifies power asymmetries and masks domination, manipulation, and hegemonic practices” (26). In particular because “election and engagement procedures often tend to favor an already like-minded set of collective and individual actors even if they belong to different stakeholder categories” (30).

    The above conclusions are supported by detailed, well referenced, descriptions and analyses. Chapters One and Two explain the basic context of the IANA transition, Internet governance and their relation to multistakeholder processes. Chapter One “points out how multistakeholderism is a fuzzy concept that has led to ambiguous practices and disappointing results. Further, it highlights the discursive and legitimizing nature of multistakeholderism, which can serve both as a performing narrative capable of democratizing the Internet governance domain, as well as a misleading rhetoric solidifying the dominant position of the most powerful actors in different Internet policy-making arenas” (1). It traces the history of multistakeholder governance in the Internet context, which started in 2003 (however, a broader historical context would have been useful, see the Annex of this submission to an ITU group). It discusses the conflict between developed and developing countries regarding the management and administration of domain names and addresses that dominated the discussions at the World Summit on the Information Society (WSIS) (Mueller’s Networks and States gives a more detailed account, explaining how development issues – which were supposed to be the focus of the WSIS – got pushed aside, thus resulting in the focus on Internet governance). As the authors correctly state, “the outcomes of the WSIS left the tensions surrounding Internet governance unresolved, giving rise to contestation in subsequent years and to the cyclical recurrence of political conflicts challenging the consensus around the multistakeholder model” (5). The IANA transition was seen as a way of resolving these tensions, but it relied “on the conflation of the multistakeholder approach with the privatization of Internet governance” (8).

    As the authors posit (citing well-know scholar Hoffmann, “multistakeholderism is a narrative based on three main promises: the promise of achieving global representation on an issue putting together all the affected parties; the promise of overcoming the traditional democratic deficit at the transnational level, ‘establishing communities of interest as a digitally enabled equivalent to territorial constituencies’; and the promise of higher and enforced outcomes since incorporating global views on the matter through a consensual approach should ensure more complete solutions and their smooth implementation” (10).

    Chapter Three provides a thorough introduction to the management of Internet domain names and address and of the issues related to it and to the IANA function, in particular the role of the US government and of US academic and business organizations; the seminal work of the Internet Ad Hoc Group (IAHC); the creation and evolution of ICANN; and various criticism of ICANN, in particular regarding its accountability. (The chapter inexplicably fails to mention the key role of Mocakpetris in the creation of the DNS).

    Chapter Four describes the institutional setup of the IANA transition, and the constraints unilaterally imposed by the US government (see also 104) and the various parties that dominate discussions of the issues involved. As the authors note, the call for the creation of the key group went out “without having before voted on the proposed scheme [of the group], neither within the ICANN community nor outside through a further round of public comments” (67). The structure of that group heavily influenced the discussions and the outcome.

    Chapter Five evaluates the IANA transition in terms of one of three types of legitimacy: input legitimacy, that is whether all affected parties could meaningfully participate in the process (the other two types of legitimacy are discussed in subsequent chapters, see below). By analysing in detail the profiles and affiliations of the participants with decision-making power, the authors find that “a vast majority (56) of the people who have taken part in the drafting of the IANA transition proposal are bearers of technical and operative interests” (87); “Regarding nationality, Western countries appear to be over-represented within the drafting and decisional organism involved in the IANA transition process. In particular, US citizens constitute the most remarkable group, occupying 20 seats over 90 available” (89); and  “IANA transition voting members experienced multiple and trans-sectoral affiliations, blurring the boundaries among stakeholder categories” (151). In summary “the results of this stakeholder analysis seem to indicate that the adopted categorization and appointment procedures have reproduced within the IANA transition process well-known power relationships and imbalances already existing in the DNS management, overrepresenting Western, technical, and business interests while marginalizing developing countries and civil society participation” (90).

    Chapter Six evaluates the transition with respect to process legitimacy: whether all participants could meaningfully affect the outcome. As the authors correctly note, “Stakeholders not belonging to the organizations at the core of the operational communities were called to join the process according to rules and procedures that they had not contributed to creating, and with minor participatory rights” (107). The decision-making process was complex, and undermined the inputs from weaker parties – thus funded, dedicated participants were more influential. Further, key participants were concerned about how the US government would view the outcome, and whether it would approve it (116). And discussions appear to have been restricted to a neo-liberal framework and technical framework (120, 121). As the authors state: “Ultimately, this narrow technical frame prevented the acknowledgment of the public good nature of the IANA functions, and, even more, of their essence as public policy issues” (121). Further, “most members and participants at the CWG-Stewardship had been socialized to the ICANN system, belonging to one of its structures or attending its meetings” and “the long-standing neoliberal plan of the US government and the NTIA to ‘privatize’ the DNS placed the IANA transition within a precise system of definitions, concepts, references, and assumptions that constrained the development of alternative policy discourses and limited the political action of sovereignist and constitutional coalitions” (122).

    Thus, it is not surprising that the authors find that “a single discourse shaped the deliberation. These results contradict the assumptions at the basis of the multistakeholder model of governance, which is supposed to reach a higher and more complete understanding of a particular matter through deliberation among different categories of actors, with different backgrounds, views, and perspectives. Instead, the set of IANA transition voting members in many regards resembled what has been defined as a ‘club governance’ model, which refers to an ‘elite community where the members are motivated by peer recognition and a common goal in line with values, they consider honourable’” (151).

    Chapter Seven evaluates the transition with respect to output legitimacy: whether the result achieved its goals of transferring oversight of the IANA function to a global multistakeholder community. As the authors state “ the institutional effectiveness of the IANA transition cannot be evaluated as satisfying from a normative point of view in terms of inclusiveness, balanced representation, and accountability. As a consequence, the ICANN board remains the expression of interwoven business and technical interests and is unlikely to be truly constrained by an independent entity” (135). Further, as shown in detail, “the political problems connected to the IANA functions have been left unresolved, …  it did not take a long time before they re-emerged” (153).

    Indeed, “IANA was, first of all, a political matter. Indeed, the transition was settled as a consequence of a political fact – the widespread loss of trust in the USA as the caretaker of the Internet after the Snowden disclosures. Further, the IANA transition process aimed to achieve eminently political goals, such as establishing a novel governance setting and strengthening the DNS’s accountability and legitimacy” (152). However, as the authors explain in detail, the IANA transition was turned into a technical discussion, and “The problem here is that governance settings, such as those described as club governance, base their legitimacy form professional expertise and reputation. They are well-suited to performing some form of ‘technocratic’ governance, addressing an issue with a problem-solving approach based on an already given understanding of the nature of the problem and of the goals to be reached. Sharing a set of overlapping and compatible views is the cue that puts together these networks of experts. Nevertheless, they are ill-suited for tackling political problems, which, by definition, deal with pluralism” (152).

    Chapter Seven could have benefitted from a discussion of ICANN’s new Independent Review Process, and the length of time it has taken to put into place the process to name the panellists.

    Chapter Eight, already summarized above, presents overall conclusions.

    In summary, this is a timely and important book that provides objective data and analyses of a particular process that has been put forward as a model for multistakeholder governance, which itself has been put forth as a better alternative to conventional governance. While there is no doubt that ICANN, and the IANA function, are performing their intended functions, the book shows that the IANA transition was not a model multistakeholder process: on the contrary, it exhibited many of the well-known flaws of multistakeholder processes. Thus it should not be used as a model for future governance.

    _____

    Richard Hill is President of the Association for Proper internet Governance, and was formerly a senior official at the International Telecommunication Union (ITU). He has been involved in internet governance issues since the inception of the internet and is now an activist in that area, speaking, publishing, and contributing to discussions in various forums. Among other works he is the author of The New International Telecommunication Regulations and the Internet: A Commentary and Legislative History (Springer, 2014). He writes frequently about internet governance issues for The b2o Review Digital Studies magazine.

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  • Marc Aziz Michael — Under Queer Eyes: Visibility Politics and the New Reaction (Review of Sa’ed Atshan’s Queer Palestine and the Empire of Critique)

    Marc Aziz Michael — Under Queer Eyes: Visibility Politics and the New Reaction (Review of Sa’ed Atshan’s Queer Palestine and the Empire of Critique)

    Queer Palestine and the Empire of Critique by Sa’ed Atshan (Stanford UP, 2020)

    by Marc Aziz Michael

    At the outset of the 20th century, an odd fever took hold of the civilized world: modern parliaments passed endless legislation ordering Oriental female subjects to discard fashion items covering their faces. From Lord Cromer to Atatürk, “unveiling” Oriental women became a matter of modernity or barbarism, life or death. Political tracts, traveler’s diaries, public health reports depicted the many untoward medical, social or political consequences of the “veil”. Financial incentives or meetings with heads of state rewarded unveiling volunteers. Soviet parliaments in Central Asia opened their meetings with unveiling rituals—dozens of women taking off their scarves while declaring allegiance to secular socialist progress, often reveiling on the way home.

    Over a century later, not much has changed. First Lady Laura Bush justified her husband’s Oriental genocides with liberation from the evils of the burqa. “Because of our recent military gains in much of Afghanistan, women are no longer imprisoned in their homes”. In 2010, French Law 092, “La République se vit à visage découvert[1]”, banned access to public space for any woman sporting a face-covering—uniting the political landscape around philosophical gems such as president Chirac’s “Like it or not, the veil is a kind of aggression” or Hollande’s “the veiled woman of today…could free herself of her veil and become French.” “To conceal one’s face is to threaten the minimal demands of social life,” concludes the text of the law. Democratic “vivre ensemble”—like the CIA—requires recognizable and identifiable faces. And thus the burqa stands proudly as the only piece of cloth criminalized within the EU.

    Once upon a time, the left could easily read this hunger for bare flesh as a symptom of colonial domination. In the 1950s, Martinique-born psychiatrist Franz Fanon diagnosed this political malady of the colonial gaze as an aggressive will to “possess” elusive brown women. “This woman who sees without being seen frustrates the colonizer. There is no reciprocity…She does not offer herself.” The veil drew the abrupt line beyond which colonial eyes failed to penetrate—refusing entry into the nooks of Muslim hearts and minds; a civilizational middle finger, testament to the failure of the West in seducing the Rest with its norms, beliefs, and ideals. Fearing for unsuspecting beachgoers, Prime Minister Valls conveyed this frustration with French eloquence: “The burkini is…the translation of a political project, a counter-society, founded amongst other upon the subjection of women.” In 2020, while the sanitary virtues of the niqab are hotly debated on air, the confused amongst us wonder what kind of faceless shadow society the French government is peddling in with compulsory COVID masks.

    Drifting far from Fanon, progressive dogma today equates visibility with representation and justice—rather than occupation. On international women’s day 2011, in the midst the largest uprising in living Egyptian memory, a small group of women in Tahrir staged their own unveiling rituals reminiscent of the good old British days, spectacularly committing to an open democratic existence far from Islamic obfuscations. In another corner of the square, half a dozen queer socialist youths donned slogans asserting their sexual difference publically, spring cleaning their personal and political closets in one swift move. The front of the War on Veils has expanded to queerer shores. The new bearers of the flame of transparent freedoms, the international LGBTQ movement, promotes de-closeting rituals that would leave Marie Kondo blushing. Amidst the 2019 Beirut uprisings, a young man walked through the protests with a banner reading “I am a top; why does the government still fuck me? #timetoswitch”. And on goes the axiomatic train wreck linking visibility and representation to leftist progress, unquestioned and unquestionable. How believable is this proposition on the left today?

    Saed Atshan’s recent Queer Palestine and the Empire of Critique provides a fertile terrain upon which to ponder the reactionary nature of visibility politics. Cornell West blurbs it “prophetic” for revealing that “justice and freedom against empire and homophobia are indivisible”. In my less religious view, Queer Palestine navigates the thin line separating woke-sex travel-guide and a jargon-inflated coming of age diary about the tribulations of leaving the closet in Arabia for an assistant professor at Swarthmore and a selection of close friends. The whole thing is packaged in queer corporate PR wrapping—Hate Crime Legislation, Marriage Equality and Don’t Ask Don’t Tell—and a veneer of “gayopolitics”: Tel-Aviv, all the tops have gone to Berlin, so why don’t you just let the sexy Arab doms in…

    Atshan has somehow convinced himself that his book’s “theoretical” innovations, “ethnoheteronomativity” and “discursive disenfranchisement”, will be of political use to the liberation of Palestine, sexually or otherwise. In his conspiracy, a shady set of “radical purists” he has outgrown—the likes of Michel Foucault, Edward Said and Joseph Massad—dominate Western academe and have been choking the queer Palestinian movement with an unrelenting focus on critical theory and anti-imperialist politics, marginalizing important “leftist” corners of the OPTs. The voice of a sad activist captures the depths of this queer Palestinian plight: “Massad’s criticism of our work is like a cloud that always hovers above me. How do I prove a negative? I am tired.” To combat radical “Western” [sic] theorists and their ploy to “level critiques against subaltern populations in the Global South for the pursuit of their financial livelihoods”, Atshan suggests acknowledging the presence of “ethnoheteronormativity” (syn: homophobia) as a central problem in Palestinian society—saving young queers from emigrating or becoming Mossad collaborators, while condemning the rest of us to another fatuous neologism.

    Here, Queer Palestine stumbles upon the problem of empiricism: evidence for Palestinian homophobia proves more visionary than real. “By and large, Palestinian society as a whole does not acknowledge the existence of homosexuals in their midst…As a result, queer Palestinian communities do not provoke repression from patriarchal authorities.” The plot thins: Palestinians do not seem to use “homosexuality” either as a category of lived experience or as a criminological one. Under such conditions, the hatred of homosexuality can remain elusive, and may require unorthodox evidencing. Hamas’s “homophobia”, for instance, Atshan derives from a lone article in the ‘entertainment’ section of Out magazine, entitled “Was Arafat Gay?”—by a conservative Zionist American journalist familiarized with Arabic via Google Translate. Later, Atshan conjures a Pew survey indicating low tolerance of “homosexuality” in the West Bank, and deplores the absence of similar data among Palestinian Israelis, but concludes “it would not be surprising if rates of acceptance among the population were confirmed to be higher than for the Occupied Territories.” It is unclear how Pew managed to survey a population weary of imperial or state surveillance—and for whom, as Atshan admits, the concept of homosexuality holds no meaning—about their attitudes towards homosexuality. It is equally unclear why Atshan assumes, without evidence, higher acceptance rates for Israeli Palestinians—unless proximity to modern occupiers improves the backward Arab mind.

    Atshan’s own liberal attacks against Palestinian populations, promoting “queer rights”—meaning violent state intervention into family life, novel techniques of policing, incarceration, and gentrification—in line with imperial political programs, are portrayed as somehow “empowering” and “progressive” for the Global South, whereas Massad or Puar’s critiques of imperial social engineering are presented as disempowering “radical purism”. Despite recognizing the absence of “repression from patriarchal authorities” for queer Palestinians, Atshan nonetheless goes on a crusade to render this queer population ever more visible to the state—a move reminiscent of imperial management of “vulnerable minorities” from “Oriental Christians” to “Eastern women”: imperial powers coaxed these “minorities” into visibility—from forcing special privileges and rights out of the Ottoman empire to overstaffing colonial administrations with these minorities, or later special access to Euro-American visas. This increase in privileges drew unwelcome popular attention to these otherwise integrated populations, until their environment became so hostile that only death or emigration remained.

    Atshan’s emulation of imperial ‘divide and rule’ can only pass as “progressive” within a framework equating political struggle with visibility. “[I]n addition to the white gaze I must also contend with the Zionist gaze, the heteronormative gaze, and the radical purist gaze… and this can be suffocating for Palestinian queers.” Some struggle with colonial occupation, police abuse, military strikes, or arbitrary prison sentences and torture. Atshan struggles with deer in the headlight syndrome, and elevates this photosensitivity to a political program. “Because I am a queer Palestinian who is also entrapped in forms of external surveillance, the development of my own consciousness in some ways mirrors the development of this [queer] movement at large.”

    This reader wished he had used the development of his consciousness as less of a template: from upper-middle-class background, attending an elite Anglo-Quaker school in Ramallah, moving onto Swarthmore and Harvard, following up with a job at his alma mater, he is hardly a Palestinian everyman. A more critical scrutiny of his peculiar social position, or a cursory reading of a sociology textbook, might have stopped him peddling in Orientalist stereotypes like Muslims believing “unmarried men have not yet completed ‘half of their religion’”; or that anti-imperial radical discourse prevents the advent of human rights in the Arab world—the main thesis of American foreign policy from Nixon to Clinton; or writing on behalf of Arab victims, while dedicating an entire chapter of his book to trashing the only two local queer organizations on the ground, and their female Palestinian founders. The accusations of profiteering waged against Massad and Said—who have defended their political positions at great personal costs—sound like an initiatory bashing ritual to access the highest spheres of American Academe.

    What emerges from Atshan’s methodological narcissism is a desire—not for less surveillance—but for the queer community in Palestine to achieve visibility in white eyes, no matter the costs. Atshan bemoans any suggestion toward a politics of invisibility as a relic from a pre-historical past, a cowardly attachment to the closet. “Bare sex”, for instance, is evidently inferior to romantic coupledom. Visibility politics amount to competition for the attention of the world’s elite, through fidelity to their codes of bourgeois respectability. Queer Palestine excels in that respect. The only two examples of “subversive” queer emancipation in the book drown under his thirst for white respectability. The first involves a gay West-Bank couple driven by gay foreign friends on a militarised Israeli road to Tel Aviv, where they breathe romantic seaside air from a hotel balcony, and where the “spirit of queer Palestinian resistance” gets ominously close to the spirit of consumerist entitlement.

    The second example has Atshan attend a party where “scripts and body movements could be as outrageous as was possible in a Palestinian context.” Translation: a woman impersonating Leonardo DiCaprio hugs a man embodying Kate Winslet standing at the helm of a boat. This queer reenactment of the Titanic script moves the assembly to tears at the thought of the dangers they escaped by confining their ‘subversive’ performance to a private event. We are now in Hollywood millenarian cult territory, replete with the invocation of queer American ancestor-spirits (Leonardo and Kate), ancient gay esoteric sounds (Celine Dion), and cathartic possession (“outrageous body movements”) healing the traumatic wounds of history. How does this ritual subvert the Israeli occupation, we will forever be left to ponder? More importantly, why would Atshan bother with the long history of Arab drag performances—from Fairuz to Ismail Yassin via Bassem Feghali—who occupied prime-time TV before Ru Paul was a thing, or with any relevant local cultural symbols when hegemonic imperial ones are widely available?

    Recognition from the powerless doesn’t taste as good as from those holding the reigns of grants, fame or tenure. While his friends are allowed to play DiCaprio behind closed doors or in Tel-Aviv hotels, Atshan resents that “[radical] queer Palestinian activists find it convenient to shield themselves behind arguments such as, “Coming out and gay pride are Western”. Escaping bloodthirsty Arabs’ gaze while dressed in American garb is good invisibility; escaping Pew surveys and the categories of Euro-American identity, statistics or academe, however, is bad invisibility. How seamlessly visibility converges with market success, and recognition with personal branding, for those in Swarthmore.

    There is a tacit understanding within marginalized queer communities that visibility entails a measure of personal risk. Drag culture perfected “reading” as an art form for that reason: with visibility comes exposure, and ritualized insults toughen the skin against the vicissitudes of life at the center of the stage. LGBT troublemakers of times long gone, say Harvey Milk, shook heaven and earth fighting with their lives on the line. Atshan, like many other Arab sex prophets—the likes of Mona al Tahawi—at the first signs of battle, swiftly teleported to safer shores, regrettably throwing many increasingly visible brown lives under the wheels of state torture and repression.

    The Sarah Hegazy affair is a prime example of such dynamic. In 2017, the activist raised a rainbow flag at a Mashrou’ Leila concert in Cairo—inspired by the Lebanese band’s openly queer lead singer, Hamed Sinno. Sarah was subsequently arrested, and tortured by state forces. A year later, both Sarah and the lead singer of the band ended up moving to North America—where she committed suicide—and the rest of the population had to reckon with a new law sanctioning homosexual acts with up to 5 years in prison, and new allowances for police to survey social media accounts. Visibility, at the school of middle-class gay, remains exclusively synonymous with success—despite all evidence to the contrary. This is where queer theory meets Chicago economics: ‘Tomorrow sex will be better; but first sacrifices must be made!’ One must break brown eggs to make queer omelettes; somehow, they always happen to be your neighbor’s.

    “In more recent years, the queer Palestinian movement has shifted toward radical purism, and its growth has plateaued.” One can only imagine all the grassroot Palestinian activists eagerly reading Massad or Puar, converting en masse to ‘radical purism’ and ‘existential paralysis’, and leading the movement into a “toxic plateau” stunting its highest visibility potential, “its natural market share in terms of audience and capacity”. Visibility cannot flirt with respectability unless it has a “sizeable” market share to back it up. So it flirts with the monogamous language of sales, drifting far away from the polyamorous speech of solidarity.

    *

    Unveiling and de-closeting are European obsessions as old as The Enlightenment, social reform and social engineering. Kant’s definition of the Aufklärung, “dare to know”, enjoined the elite to bring the Light of Reason to the reluctant masses, turning them into a tameable transparency. The grandfather of market thought, Adam Smith, bemoaned the invisibility of human desires, and therefore posited the deployment of the “invisible hands” of the market as the sole rational way of dealing with human opacity for a blind sovereign. Karl Marx clung on to a “scientific” view of socialism, which would empower the proletariat to “see” their “real”, “objective” interests, in beheading the global bourgeoisie. Freud’s lifelong project was to “bring the id into the ego”—make visible the lurking instincts that sabotage human agency.

    To convince large swathes of the middle classes that submitting to the gaze of the state and its army of corporate drones was somehow desirable involved sustained ideological work and financial carrots. Kim Kardashian’s fame has its roots in the 17th century abolition of curtains from Protestant areas of Holland or Germany. Why sport curtains if your living room is like a hospital reception room? Invisible hands do the Devil’s work. An entire culture of self-policing, confession and denunciation spread through these regions of Europe, cutting the costs of surveillance for the prince, and smoothing out their dominion. In Bavaria, neighbors who denounced a fellow peasant to the state for failing to maximize the use of their land would be gifted the land themselves. This protestant cult of visible virtue has trickled down so profoundly as to stay virtually unchanged in debates over online privacy today: why would I need privacy if I’ve got nothing to hide? Instead of land, the rewards come in Facebook likes.

    The holy trinity of visibility, recognition, power benefited the few, and hurt the masses—because the elite never nurtured irrepressible benevolence towards the wretched of the earth. And so increased visibility historically translated into greater ease of domination, as well as majoritarian resentments for the  claims of the vulnerable. The scars run deep. African-Americans reflexively shirk away from the lethal gaze of police officers. The bulk of colonial populations shy from corporate Randomized Control Trials. In Arabic, bahth, the word for research, is close to mabaheth, State Intelligence Services. Geolocation, contact tracing, and cyber-bullying have sent even middle-class protestants scrambling for anything resembling privacy. The multitude—bereft of money, status, networks, or access to powerful lawyers—experiences visibility not as a resource in the survival of the fittest, but as a tsunami of social hatred, isolation, and loss of livelihood. The backlash against affirmative action, feminism or queer minorities across the world speaks movingly of the social fragmentation resulting from a politics emphasizing visible differences. For the Kardashians of the world—a privileged few who own the social and symbolic resources to alchemize visibility into increased privilege—visibility remains a mark of virtue.

    Starting the 1960s, New Left intellectuals craftily repositioned this tercentennial cult of visibility into the realm of progressive dogma. In an effort to reform Marxist exclusive concerns with working classes and class conflict, these thinkers deployed a more ‘sophisticated’ politics of identity and visibility. This novel emancipatory equation linked visibility to social recognition to political rights. The American civil rights movement insisted that white supremacists see beyond the melatonin veil of Afro-American skin, and extend market and political participation to all. Feminist critiques of patriarchy gathered around “the personal is political”, emphasizing the continuity of patriarchy from the spotlight of the corporate boardroom to bedroom curtains. The most intimate desires were political acts, underwritten by social forces in dire need of change. In the midst of the AIDS crisis, the LGBT movement rallied around ACT UP’s now famous slogan, SILENCE=DEATH, to fight off governmental and societal indifference to their invisible plight. And within democratic theory, the new left’s focus made sense: how could progress occur without visibility, if visibility was a precondition for political representation?

    Foucault’s iconoclasm, from Panopticon to history of madness, insisted on the association between visibility and domination. The 19th century invention of sexuality was a central part of the Victorian state program to render the desires of the population visible, and thus manageable, through constant disclosure and attentive confession. The results, two centuries later, are clear: from the porn industry to night clubs, from compulsory gym memberships to plastic surgery, from steroids and amphetamines to Viagra and anti-depressants, from Incels to BDSM, and from sex work to trafficking. The hyper-emphasis on desire as the fundamental pillar of personal identity and of the “good life” has led to the crumbling of political solidarity, and the advance of competitive consumption. Imagine the hours of weight-lifting, porn-jerking, sexapp-chatting, redirected towards helping the poor and marginalized or fighting corporate predation, and you get a good idea of what the sexual privatization of pleasure has done to life in common.

    The Ancient and Medieval worldviews understood desires as accidental movements of the soul; mere weakness of flesh to be occasionally humored with derision. Desires dawdled at the periphery of the self. The invention of sexuality linked desires to personal identity, and thus reinforced the market dogma that desires are the foundations of the self, in need of relentless social scrutiny, medical examination, psychoanalytic questioning, and criminological analysis. Enshrining sexual desires as matters of human rights later facilitated the adjacent notion “there is no alternative” to market liberalism. If there is a right to pleasure—through sex—then there is a political right to all pleasures, including consumption. If desires deserve utmost attention and protection, then what better protection than a liberal market democracy to provide for a storm of ever changing desires? Communism, with its bland display of functional goods and perfunctory sex had historically failed.

    More than any other movement of the soul, lust provides a fertile terrain for governments arguing desires are political affairs in need of regulation. Left unattended, sexuality can be linked to a number of unspeakable dangers that threaten to bring society to its knees. Too many unsatisfied, “hysterical” women could threaten to turn into serial killing mothers. Too many paedophiles could lead to a generation of broken children. Too many homosexuals, to the plummeting of the fertility rate of the nation, and to a weakened military force. Too many interracial couples, to the disappearance of the white race. Too many “deadbeat dads” and “welfare queens”, to proliferating street gangs and the end of private property. Sexual perversions constitute one of the swiftest routes to national annihilation in the bourgeois imaginary, and therefore a site of prime surveillance. Thus, the queer, internal enemy came to complement fears of the barbarian at our doors.

    To a large degree, this history of sexuality and political domination remains a Eurocentric one. Sexuality has not been the most successful export of European imperialism. The case of Egyptian ‘journalist’ Mona Iraqi is instructive. She ran an “investigative” show called ‘The Hidden”. In 2016, she anonymously denounced the Beit El Bahr bathhouse for homosexual depravity to authorities. Her crew seamlessly captured the ensuing police raid on camera—filming multiple angles while the naked men were arrested on charges of public debauchery. A few days before the planned airing of her episode about invisible sex practices on Egyptian TV, her Facebook wall suffered a massive wave of popular discontent: few understood the necessity to pry into the sex lives of strangers, apart from satisfying Iraqi’s thirst for sensationalism and fame. The backlash was enough for Iraqi to pull the planned airing. A few months later, she announced the show would air on International Aids Day. In the meantime, it had been reframed as an investigation into male-to-male sexual practices spreading HIV between men, then to their wives at home, and eventually to the whole of the unsuspecting nation. Framed as a public health investigation into lurid corners of Cairene life, the show aired with minimal resistance. Nonetheless, the court cleared Iraqi’s victims of all accusations, and their families successfully litigated against Iraqi for defamation—earning her a six months prison sentence.

    Despite the post-colonial state’s constant click-bait assertions that gangs of “queers” are threatening to ruin the country, despite international journalistic and NGO reports discussing the existence of queers in the hearts of darkness, despite PornHub itself, the concept of sexuality still fails to take hold outside of a cosmopolitan section of Third World upper-middle classes. In the words of a Congolese UN chief of Security, “How did white men convince us that polygamy is unnatural, but that homosexuality isn’t?” Although many international observers decry this as a cause for concern for invisible minorities, the absence of sexuality and its numerous techniques of control over “normal” desires might present political opportunities to avoid the reactionary fate of Euro-American liberal politics. Fighting authoritarian leaders and their heavy handed legal prohibitions could turn out much easier than struggling against the social apathy of naturalized consumerism and normalized desires.

    The rise of homophobic homicides in 1970s San Francisco provides a good example of the reactionary prison of sexuality. In the words of an activist, visibility “may be our most basic achievement in the 1970s, but it also means that every homophobe in America knows what you look like and where to find us.” This trend only started receding in the 1980s, with the growing gentrification of the city, and the expulsion of the Catholic working classes from the city center, to the relief of many LGBT activists. As Dan White—Harvey Milk’s murderer and a Catholic-Irish working-class politician—explains in his prison notebooks, “The people in my neighborhood felt that gays have made things even harder for big families because they don’t have any children to worry about and several of them can put their salaries together and pay more rent than a single family, and this has the effect of driving up prices.” Are the victims of homophobic violence to blame for siding with their bourgeois benefactors—the police, redlining banks, and racist property developers? Perhaps. Or perhaps the choice between “being ourselves”/brown-nosing the bourgeoisie and “staying in the closet”/fighting the fight is no choice at all.

    *

    “There’s a big secret about sex: most people don’t like it.” Leo Bersani’s injunction to put the good old in-out back in its rightful position—at the periphery of our selves—sketches the outlines of an escape route from the prison of sexuality. Sex is not dangerous, transcendental, or particularly worthy of our time. Left to the confinements of mortgaged bedrooms, monopolized kisses and chemically-enhanced sexcapades, it would drown in its own standardized, repetitive boredom. Bonobos—our go-to sex experts—for all their indulging in the activity, seem not to enjoy it for much longer than 13 seconds at a time, perhaps for a reason. For the mythology of sex as the ultimate pleasure to survive, drama is needed—dressed in Oriental garb, surrounded by the specter of repression, and propped up by the closet and its multifarious police agents. Nothing like some mild impediment to consumption—the prohibitive pricing of a Louis Vuitton bag—to fan the flames of a refined governmental technique of control. The cult of sexuality is the negative psychology of the market state, a ham-fisted injection of regular doses of passion to avoid us falling into the blandness of a life of mere interests. Letting our desires recede to the shady backburners of our minds, where we can’t see, be obsessed or discuss them much, invites unexplored avenues of resistance.

    Could invisibility and opacity be plausible political strategies for another leftist program? Socialist universal rights are one such technique of political invisibility that benefits the most vulnerable without bringing the spotlight onto any particular plight. Trans women’s participation in female competitions wouldn’t be much of an issue if every professional athlete was given a livable wage instead of overpaying the 3 standing on the podium. Why campaign for an equal “right to drive” for women to drive in Saudi Arabia when the universal right to “free public transportation” awaits in a silent corner? If mobility matters to women in particular, it also matters to the poor majority. Why insist on disciplining Palestinian families in accepting their “queer” kids—Atshan’s human rights plea—rather than focus on all “vulnerable” children? Instead of imposing bourgeois sexual identity categories backed by the force of law, why not promote a universal right to housing and income so that all teenagers rejected from home (and adults) can live off the streets, and away from the warm embrace of Israeli intelligence services? Can the homeless only betray the homeland if queer?

    The same could be said of the gay marriage campaigns focusing on discriminatory treatment at the bedside of an agonizing unwedded lover. Instead of pushing for marriage equality, these self-proclaimed leftists could have fought for the abolishing of the legal and economic privileges of contractual love. The latter could appeal to much broader populations—widow(er)s, single-parents, the never-married, the married-and-repenting—and would have the added advantage of making inheritance more difficult for everyone—an old progressive goal. Egalitarian social, economic and political aims could be achieved by making vulnerable groups less visible, rather than more. But the bourgeoisie wants to buy and sell more cars, to shape working-class masculinities, to maintain familial structures of property and privilege, and to compete for millions at sports tournaments. And so we all foot the bill.

    Anarchists have long developed cultures of passing under the radar, carving up spaces of invisible freedom outside of state and corporate surveillance. The tuber drew its cult following amongst free peoples due to its capacity to thrive beneath the protective veil of the soil, and thus beneath the gaze of tax-collectors or scavenging invaders. Tribal social structures have long prized forms of extreme social disaggregation, based on scattered household units and subsistence agriculture, which Ernst Gellner has baptized the “divide that ye not be ruled” strategy. If Ottomans preferred dealing with Christian or Jews rather than heterodox sects; if Brits constantly invented tribal traditions as imperial administrative units, it was because amorphous, unstructured populations were much harder to rule—having no one common language but a complex mesh of adjacent idiolects, no demonstrable leader to bargain with, and nomadic mobility that made them hard to pin down.

    The same could be said of the near complete corporatization of LGBT movements in Europe against the multifarious Arab governmental anxieties “deviant” populations inspire: it is easier to deal with a structured gay community and its parliamentary representatives—bribing them with an impoverished diet of Grindr and marriage equality—rather than a multitude of discontented invisible subjects stirring up constant trouble. Without the attachment to visibility and identity politics, the current juncture contains great potential: instead of fearing the proliferation of incoherent ‘tribes’, we can let ourselves divide until we become an unidentifiable and ungovernable thorn in state and corporate bottoms. In the late 90s, when an epidemic of contagious spirit possessions took over Indonesian factory workers, panicked industrial owners were forced to sacrifice chickens to assuage angry ancestral spirits, and feed the laborers.  Perhaps it is time to let our desires grow tuber-like, veiled by our own disinterest; or perhaps to let them take possession of us at the most unpredictable times, like privilege-hacking vengeful spirits.

    While for most of human history invisibility has been a primary resistance art for the poor and powerless, over the last few centuries invisibility has become the prerogative of the chosen few. While everyone is forced into tighter identity handles, top corporate predation happens increasingly in the dark, behind closed doors. The luxury of withdrawal behind walled castles, ivory towers, and gated communities—immune from social regulations and the most deleterious effects of the marketplace—is now the landmark of true wealth and power. Ironically, the niqab obeyed this very elitist logic. It gained in popularity amongst rich Arab and Central Asian populations to distinguish their women from those who would be available for sex work to occupying European soldiers. During the 80s, the hijab found its way onto the hearts and heads of aspiring urban middle-classes, marketed as granting exclusive status and positional advantages on a saturated marriage market. If unveiling campaigns are so important in European eyes, it is because the veil mirrors the white elite’s own logic of power through invisibility—but in a monstrous form.

    “Perseus wore a magic cap so that the monsters he hunted down might not see him,” Marx writes. “We draw the magic cap down over our eyes and ears so as to deny that there are any monsters.” If predators hunt behind the cloak of darkness, the prey survives with camouflaging strategies. It is not surprising that predators denigrate both camouflaging and conspiracy as futile and primitive ways of ruining their fun. The veil is an adaptive strategy of survival in the face of much predation. Renunciation—the strategy of willfully reducing desires and consumption to their most invisible minimum—has been the only radical green political strategies of the 21st century to create an effective threat to corporate domination. Instead of denigrating the veil, wishfully denying the existence of monstrous power relations in the world, a progressive politics would insist on the importance of invisibility for the vulnerable masses, and on compulsory transparency for the rich and powerful. Instead of fighting “homophobia in Palestine” with increased policing and incarceration, let us fight its actual causes: militarism caused by Israeli occupation; the patriarchal family linked to the maintenance of private property relations; masculinity as aggression due to the demands of class conflict. The prey will adapt to shed its camouflage when the predators have been neutralized, when political economic structures are put in place that prevent massive accumulation of capital and power. Atshan’s book is no more than the continuation of centuries of unveiling campaigns, the degraded symptom of a neoliberal politics of visibility and identity. So instead of drawing the cap over our eyes, let us focus political energies to fight the very visible monsters who won’t let us be our best selves.

     

    Marc Aziz Michael teaches Sociology, Middle Eastern Studies and Gender Studies at the American University in Beirut. He has previously taught at NYU and NYU in Abu Dhabi. Beyond academic venues, his writings have appeared in Al Jazeera, Jadaliyya, The World Today, CounterPunch, OpenDemocracy. He is currently writing a book about the history of commercial banking. In his spare time, he is training as a group analyst.

     

    [1] “The Republic must be lived face on display”

     

    EDIT (2/11): An earlier version of this piece referred to the location of the Friends School attended by Sa’ed Atshan as Jerusalem rather than Ramallah.

  • Eric Reinhart — Pandemicity without Pandemic: Political Responsibility in the Exponential Present

    Eric Reinhart — Pandemicity without Pandemic: Political Responsibility in the Exponential Present

    This essay is a part of the COVID-19 dossier, edited by Arne De Boever. 

    by Eric Reinhart

    The tradition of the oppressed teaches us that the “state of emergency” in which we live is not the exception but the rule. We must attain to a conception of history that is in keeping with this insight. Then we shall clearly realize that it is our task to bring about a real state of emergency, and this will improve our position in the struggle against Fascism. One reason why Fascism has a chance is that in the name of progress its opponents treat it as a historical norm. The current amazement that the things we are experiencing are “still” possible in the twentieth century is not philosophical. This amazement is not the beginning of knowledge—unless it is the knowledge that the view of history which gives rise to it is untenable. — Walter Benjamin, Thesis VIII from “On the Concept of History”

     I speak, precisely, of “messianicity without messianism”… a certain messianic destitution, in a spectral logic of inheritance and generations, but a logic turned toward the future no less than the past, in a heterogeneous and disjointed time. — Jacques Derrida, “Marx & Sons” (250) and, after the ellipsis, Specters of Marx (181)

    Over the last year, a new biopolitical sense in which emergency is rule and cellular being ties each of us to an inescapable collectivity has spread across much of the planet. From rural Bihar to Manhattan, this emergent spatio-temporality has mobilized unprecedented collective action—albeit not without resistance—under conditions of a pandemic. In our best moments, it has corresponded to a condensation of urgency and relationality in a fledgling sense of ourselves as a biomassive body politic, what we could call a state of pandemicity. As economies flail, billionaires multiply their fortunes, states struggle to quell surging discontent, and popular political imaginations become bolder in their defiance of racially overdetermined threats to life at the hands of virus, economic precarity, and police, the solidity of the global racial-capitalist order is widely being put into question. If the sudden suspension of routine imposed by a virus has awakened us to political possibilities and to others that formerly felt so far away, perhaps this nascent phenomenon of pandemicity could endure beyond the pandemic. Could we sustain a state of pandemicity without pandemic?

    This is an echo of Jacques Derrida’s notion of “messianicity without messianism,” which embraces the form of religious intensity and urgency attached to divine justice while refusing to fill it in with positive content, insisting instead on limitless responsibility and openness to otherness. But pandemicity without pandemic also challenges the abstract purity of Derrida’s deconstructive ethics; it insists on looping his notion of responsibility back through what were for Derrida the “too Heideggerian, too messianico-Marxist or archeo-eschatological” (2001: 298) desires of Walter Benjamin in order to bring the ethical demand of the other into a knot with our urgent material present.

    In his response to critics of Specters of Marx, Derrida marks a difference between his own concept of messianicity without messianism and the way in which Benjamin’s “weak messianic power” is linked to “determinate historical-political phases, or indeed, crises” (1999: 253). “In my view,” Derrida writes, “the universal, quasi-transcendental structure that I call messianicity without messianism is not bound up with any particular moment of (political or general) history or culture” (254). On the other hand, Derrida emphasizes in Specters that the possibility of justice is tied to “anachronic disjointure,” “the very coming of the event,” and “the very condition of the present and of the presence of the present” (33). He observes, via Marx, that historical “rupture produces the institution or the constitution, the law itself… violence that interrupts time, disarticulates it, dislodges it, displaces it out of its natural lodging: ‘out of joint’” (37). Différance unfurls in the “here-now” without lateness or delay, in imminence and in urgency; as justice, it “does not wait” (37).[1] These are not situated historical statements, but it is hard to imagine that they do not necessarily implicate historical specificity—if only for historical time’s interruption—in order to obtain any political traction or effect.

    There is a deconstructive logic subtending Derrida’s argument against linking messianicity without messianism to historical-political moments.[2] To index messianicity to historical-material specificity would be to “reduce the event-ness of the event, the singularity and alterity of the other” and risk reducing justice “once again to juridical-moral rules, norms, or representations, within an inevitable totalizing horizon (movement of adequate restitution, expiation, or reappropriations)” (1994: 33-34). Derrida’s objections to Benjamin’s historical materialism are thus not reflective of a lack of concern for violence against others. Instead, they support a delicate care for an other kept at a protective distance in a thinking that is characteristically principled—the hallmark of deconstructive ethics.[3] But Derrida acknowledges that Benjamin’s historically grounded argument “makes sense, at least, given the political context and the date of his essay (the Hitler-Stalin pact at the beginning of the war)” (1999: 253). In 1993 and 1999, however, Derrida published Specters and “Marx & Sons” from a rather different position: within the comfort of American and French universities during what might be hesitantly called, at least from a Euro-American vantage, the inter-historical decade after “the end of history” and before the violent reassertion of history’s discontents in 2001.[4]

    Today, without comparison to the position of Benjamin amidst violence that remains beyond logics of commensurability, we find ourselves in another irruptive moment of world-seizing destruction in which there is again an immediate demand to suspend the purity of deconstructive arguments by venturing pragmatic, determinate interventions linked to a historical materialism with positive content. The political temporality ventured here returns, as is only now possible by way of Derrida, to Benjamin’s historical-materialist weak messianic power and his recasting of the state of emergency through the tradition of the oppressed. It is in this spirit that I have joined many during this pandemic in devoting myself to immediately applied work tethered to a pragmatic ethics of effect that draws on specific empirical grounds—in my case, US policing and carceral policy as key drivers of Covid-19’s destructive spread through marginalized neighborhoods and the public at large—in an effort to recall and redeploy both Benjamin and Derrida together towards a strategy of pandemicity without pandemic.[5]

    In such a conjunction of empirical science and the political-ethical claims of a thinking that would reach to a beyond of the world as it is, we must hold onto deconstruction’s ethical resistance to self-assured positivist logics and its insistent appeal to difference—to that which is other to the knowable and sayable. To be faithful to this ethical imperative and to protect the space of its possibility demands a perpetual oscillation between Benjamin’s insistence of operating “within the measure of the possible”—conceivable political-material acts that insist on now-time—and Derrida’s emphasis on the impossible of différantial ethics: a cycling between the grounded political act and a genuine thinking at the edge of the known and knowable, each preparing a way for the other.

    Pandemicity and Weighted Time

    What is pandemicity? I am repurposing this term from its invocations in epidemiological literature. In articles such as “What Is a Pandemic?” by Anthony Fauci and his infectious disease colleagues, for example, “pandemicity” appears in passing to denote the arrival of an epidemiological state of pandemic—a state only achieved when certain geographical and temporal thresholds are exceeded in the spread of a previously contained epidemic.[6] Pandemicity thus inaugurates the state of a pandemic’s being and, from the human perspective, the state of being through or subject to a pandemic. It is to this latter resonance that I am appealing: pandemicity as the collective state of social-political being that has recently irrupted and subsumed large swaths of the world at an unprecedented scale and pace.

    What is distinctive about this state beyond its collectivity is its temporality. Pandemicity is, at its core, an awareness of our social lives and organismic being as urgently enmeshed in global biosocial dynamics. The immanent and imminent threat of infection multiplies exponentially if not checked, threatening a runaway scenario beyond any human capacity to control—an infection curve that morphs into a straight, vertical line. Every wasted moment compounds, promising accelerations of disease and death. This exponential temporality has widely installed––although, clearly, not in all––a common biopolitical consciousness and has mobilized collective (in)action at a unprecedented scale: over the last year, well over half the world’s population has accepted varying degrees of deprivation to confine themselves for indefinite periods of time. As a result of this pandemic demobilization, we have become aware of ourselves as part of a planetary body, a common biomass—still hierarchized and differentially at risk, certainly, but nonetheless part of a biological network from which we cannot escape membership. In this new sociality under the collectivizing temporality of pandemicity, the body of the other has become both more other and more intimate than ever. It constantly threatens to transgress its boundaries and multiply into our own cellular constitution by passing through the air upon which we all depend for breath––a breath haunted by images of police murders irrupting out of slow structural violence against Black Americans illustrative of how this air is systematically and sadistically denied to so many across the globe.

    We have acquired a mutual awareness far beyond that which any voluntaristic humanitarian project has ever achieved. Under pandemicity, an increasing number of people suddenly suffer from an incapacity to disavow the being of the other, even those others who had heretofore been so easily consigned to disposability.[7] We are literally plagued by the other and forced into confrontation with the historical-material inequalities that render some bodies especially vulnerable, and in so doing, ultimately render us all biomassively at risk.

    Might these suddenly organized, transnational billions represent a new political horizon? It is with this thought that pandemicity appears as that which could offer a political ethos that, if it is to be sustained, cannot depend upon the presence of a pandemic for its mobilization.

    Now-Time: The Temporal Convergence of Symptoms

    Pandemicity without pandemic is an echo of the political-ethical appeal of messianicity without messianism that seeks to maintain fidelity to Derrida’s demand for justice in the here-now by attempting to ground it in our historical-political present.[8] It insists upon a historical-materialist conceptualization of the present that acknowledges and dismantles dominant humanitarian ideologies of activity-as-busyness, aid, and infantilized-racialized others—frames that reproduce neocolonial structural relations between North and South. In its conjunction with historical-materialism and the viral body, pandemicity without pandemic thus both affirms and differs from Derrida’s formulation of messianicity without messianism and its critique of logocentrism; it resists the temptations of paralysis that often arise from the quasi-transcendental-religious structure of messianicity, différance, the promise, and the event that is always yet to come.

    Pandemicity without pandemic stresses instead the active immediacy of the always-already in Benjamin’s recognition of the emergency as rule rather than exception. We are always already late arriving on the scene, compelled to confront an accumulated force of violence that began inflicting devastation before we managed to take notice. The catastrophe is not looming. It has already arrived, and we are it. It is not specter, but flesh—our own bodies circulating in the rapid networks that we have established and enforced to accumulate to ourselves wealth, knowledge, and the bodies and time of others.

    A pandemic has irrupted from the world we have made, but it is, from the tradition of the oppressed, only an extension of an always-already-unfolding catastrophe of deprivation and death. It has been declared exceptional, and in many ways it is, but for tens of thousands of people who die from completely preventable disease of poverty every day under conditions that constitute the “normal” to which we can now only fantasize about returning, the catastrophe of the present is in keeping with the rule that has long governed.[9] The difference is that a now-generalized pandemic reality has ruptured the smooth surface of the sea in which the suffering of the oppressed has been submerged, hidden from view and drowned out by the commerce and comfort that sails above. The indiscrimination of viral replication and the peculiar terror of our aerosolized cells mean that today we cannot help but see—even if some persist in violently refusing this truth that demands responsibility—the bodies upon which we have for so long supported our own segregated world.

    Pandemicity calls for an ethics of action-oriented urgency that is responsive to the exponentially-weighted now—the multiplication of death in the spacing of time—that cannot accept delay.[10] What messianicity and pandemicity hold in common is a sense of apocalyptic urgency; what they compel is the total struggle for life that seizes us when breath itself is threatened. The final words of Eric Garner and George Floyd—”I can’t breathe”—as they were violently murdered must haunt and hover over the time of those of us who remain, and in whom the power of the act endures and cannot be deferred. In a historical present when breathlessness has become the symptom par excellence of racial violence, a viral pandemic, and the darkening blood-red noonday summer skies of ecological devastation aflame, we must renew an insistence on thought tethered to action in the massive now-time upon which everything—past, present, future; life, death—rests but does not wait.

     

    Eric Reinhart is a PhD candidate in Anthropology at Harvard, MD candidate at the University of Chicago, and an advanced candidate at The Chicago Center for Psychoanalysis. His doctoral research traces the constitutive interrelation between modern psychiatric, racial, and aesthetic ideas from their shared origin in 18th-century German anthropology to their consequences for everyday practices and US political formations today. He is also Lead Health & Justice Researcher with Data and Evidence for Justice Reform (DE JURE) at The World Bank, where he focuses on carceral-community epidemiology, systemic prejudice, and criminal punishment systems both in the United States and internationally. His work has appeared in The New York Times, The Wall Street Journal, Health Affairs, The British Medical Journal, and Jacobin Magazine.

     

    Works Cited

    *Barsky, Benjamin; *Reinhart, Eric; Keshavjee, Salmaan; and Farmer, Paul. “Vaccination in Jails and Prisons Is Not Enough: The Need for Adjunctive Decarceration.” Forthcoming.

    Benjamin, Walter. “On the Concept of History” in Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, Volume 4: On the Concept of History, Writings 1938-1940. Edited by Howard Eiland and Michael Jennings. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003.

    Borradori, Giovanna. Philosophy in a Time of Terror: Dialogues with Jurgen Habermas and Jacques Derrida. Chicago: University of Chicago Pres, 2004.

    Derrida, Jacques. “Force of Law: The ‘Mystical Foundation of Authority’” in Acts of Religion. Edited by Gil Anidjar. New York and Lond: Routledge, 2001.

    _____. “Marx & Sons” in Ghostly Demarcations: A Symposium on Jacques Derrida’s Specters of Marx. Edited by Michael Sprinker. London and New York: Verso, 1999.

    _____. “Psychoanalysis Searches the States of Its Soul” in Without Alibi. Edited and translated by Peggy Kamuf. Stanford University Press, 2002.

    _____. Resistances of Psychoanalysis. Translated by Peggy Kamuf, Pascale-Anne Brault, and Michael Naas. Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998.

    _____. Specters of Marx: The State of the Debt, the Work of Mourning & the New International. Trans. Peggy Kamuf. New York and London: Routledge, 1994.

    Fanon, Franz. The Wretched of the Earth. Translated by Richard Philcox. New York: Grove Books, 2005.

    Fukuyama, Francis. The End of History and the Last Man. Simon and Schuster, 2006.

    Heidegger, Martin. “The Origin of the Work of Art” in Off the Beaten Track. Edited and translated by Julian Young and Kenneth Haynes. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.

    Khan, Azeen. “Aneconomy, Indirection, Undecidability: Derrida’s ‘Principled’ Critique of the Death Drive” differences: A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies 2020 31(1): 135-162.

    Khanna, Ranjanna. “Disposability.” differences: A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies 2009 20(1): 181-198.

    Morens DM, Folkers GK, Fauci AS. “What is a pandemic?” The Journal of Infectious Diseases (2009)200(7):1018-1021.

    Reinhart, Eric and Alam, Eram. “The neocoloniality of who cares: US underinvestment in medical education exacerbates global inequities.” The British Medical Journal (BMJ) 2020;371:m4293.

    Reinhart, Eric and Brauner, Daniel. “A critique of clinical economy: reassessing value and care during covid-19” The British Medical Journal (BMJ) 2020;370:m2878.

    Reinhart, Eric and Chen, Daniel. “Epidemiological Consequences of Jail Cycling in Marginalized Communities: Mass Incarceration and Structural Racism during Covid-19.” Forthcoming.

    _____. “Effects of Jail Decarceration and Anti-Contagion Policies on Covid-19 in the United States.” Forthcoming.

    _____. “Incarceration And Its Disseminations: COVID-19 Pandemic Lessons From Chicago’s Cook County Jail” Health Affairs 39, No. 8 (August 2020): 1412-1418

    Reinhart, Eric. “Essential and Disposable: Covid Labor, Race, and Structural Misogyny.” Forthcoming.

    Reinhart, Eric. “Politicizing Public Health: More Please.” Forthcoming.

    Reinhart, Eric. “Stop Unnecessary Arrests to Slow Coronavirus Spread.” The New York Times. July 2 (online) and July 6 (print), 2020.

    Richardson, Eugene. “Pandemicity, COVID-19 and the limits of public health ‘science’” BMJ Global Health. 2020 Apr 1;5(4):e002571.

    Rottenberg, Elizabeth. For the Love of Psychoanalysis: The Play of Chance in Freud and Derrida. New York: Fordham University Press, 2019.

    UNICEF. Levels and Trends in Child Mortality. United Nations Inter-Agency Group for Child Mortality Estimation (UN IGME), Report 2020. Available at https://data.unicef.org/resources/levels-and-trends-in-child-mortality/.

    World Health Organization. “Children: Improving Survival and Well-Being.” WHO Fact Sheets. 8 September 2020. Available at https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/children-reducing-mortality.

     

    [1] As Derrida famously declares, différance “responds without delay to the demand of justice. The latter by definition is impatient, uncompromising, and unconditional. No différance without alterity, no alterity without singularity, no singularity without here-now” (1994: 37).

    [2] This historical-determinate resistance—that which Derrida’s most direct intellectual forebearer, Heidegger, so disastrously failed to heed by lending his early support to a National Socialism that he imagined he could shape—is how Derrida guards against the assignation of historically delimitable content to the other and to a fixed concept of justice that would then risk resting it “on the good conscience of having done one’s duty [such that] it loses the chance of the future, of the promise or the appeal, of the desire also (that is its ‘own’ possibility)” (1994: 33).

    [3] And this spirit of a rigorous deconstructive ethics we must keep alive as a horizon (or what Heidegger calls ‘Earth’ in “The Origin of the Work of Art,” for example) beyond our known worlds and beyond metaphysics. At the same time, we must insist upon an active responsibility in the here-now in order to follow deconstructive mandates in determinate action and not in theory, even a decisionist theory, alone.

    For a recent elaboration of the stakes of Derrida’s “principled” critique, see Azeen Khan’s “Aneconomy, Indirection, Undecidability: Derrida’s ‘Principled’ Critique of the Death Drive” in differences (2020).

    [4] The decade spanning 1991 to 2001 might be thought as a certain historical extreme in modernity in precisely its relative non-historicality. This decade follows Fukuyama’s “end of history” triumph of capitalism and precedes history’s violent return to Euro-American consciousness aboard four jetliners in 2001. It is a decade in which the major international conflicts were what Frantz Fanon described as “internecine feuds” in “On Violence” in The Wretched of the Earth—conflicts like the Rwandan genocide and the Balkan conflagrations fought on the ground of ethnic, regional struggles for domination of one subordinated group over another, but without a conflict over clearly competing conceptions of history, reason, or progress that were used as explicit justifications for the Cold War and the neocolonial energies asserted over the postcolonial world in the wake of formal decolonization. Derrida’s historical-determinate resistance might be thought, to some degree, to be a symptom of this inter-historical decade. His abstention from historical content, for example, quickly fades following 2001; see, for example, his interview in Philosophy in a Time of Terror (2004).

    [5] For example, see my research in Health Affairs with Daniel Chen: “Incarceration And Its Disseminations: COVID-19 Pandemic Lessons From Chicago’s Cook County Jail.” Related research remains ongoing in several forthcoming quantitative public health research articles on both US and international contexts. For an explanation of our initial study’s immediate policy implications, crafted with uneasy compromises in search of maximum practical effect amidst American political reality, see my short essay in The New York Times, “Stop Unnecessary Arrests to Slow Coronavirus Spread.” Further efforts to mobilize the emergent present towards a post-pandemic future rearranged by an enduring pandemicity are reflected in my other recent attempts that focus on politics, social medicine, and global health: “A critique of clinical economy: reassessing value and care during covid-19”; “The neocoloniality of who cares: US underinvestment in medical education exacerbates global inequities”; and “Politicizing Public Health: More Please” and “Essential and Disposable: Covid Labor, Race, and Structural Misogyny” (both forthcoming).

    [6] Morens DM, Folkers GK, Fauci AS. “What is a pandemic?” The Journal of Infectious Diseases (2009)200(7):1018-102. After drafting the present essay in March 2020, I came upon Eugene Richardson’s closely related appropriation of the term pandemicity in his recent commentary in BMJ Global Health, “Pandemicity, COVID-19 and the limits of public health ‘science.’”

    [7] See Ranjanna Khanna’s essay “Disposability” in differences.

    [8] For Derrida, it is together with psychoanalysis, and particularly its emphasis on an engagement with the alterity of unconscious processes, that deconstructive thought most forcefully compels action in the face of autoimmunity and the ineradicable hauntological violence of the death drive. This deserves fuller elaboration than brief commentary here allows; it is, however, important to my suggestion that Benjamin’s historical-materialism requires the supplement of psychoanalytic deconstructive thought in order effectively account for and respond to manifest violence and cruelty. For a selection of texts upon which I am relying in this claim, see Derrida’s essays in Resistances of Psychoanalysis (1998) and “Psychoanalysis Searches the States of Its Soul” in Without Alibi (2002). Also see work by two analyst-scholars: Elizabeth Rottenberg’s For the Love of Psychoanalysis (2019) and Azeen Khan’s “Aneconomy, Indirection, Undecidability: Derrida’s ‘Principled’ Critique of the Death Drive” (2020). I thank Alan Bass for emphasizing the importance of acknowledging Derrida’s psychoanalytic positions in order to make clear why deconstruction remains an indispensable supplement to historical-materialist ethical discourses.

    [9] See, for example, this report on the 10,000 daily preventable deaths of children in the Global South: World Health Organization. “Levels and Trends in Child Mortality” (2020), available at https://www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/children-reducing-mortality. Based on estimates from UNICEF, even this figure of preventable childhood mortality is likely a significant underestimate: https://data.unicef.org/resources/levels-and-trends-in-child-mortality/.

    [10] Pandemicity has no time for the futural predication of Derrida’s yet-to-come or the stasis of undecidability. It is, nonetheless, only by appropriating Derrida’s ethics of the incalculable and insisting on its conjunction with his own stress on the here-now—a nod to Benjamin’s messianic zero-hour [Stillstellung: also translatable as “shutdown”] and now-time [Jetztzeit]: that time when “thinking suddenly halts in a constellation overflowing with tensions” and yields to a particular historical present with revolutionary potential to “explode a specific epoch [and life] out the homogenous course of history”—that pandemicity makes its ethical claims on us. (See Benjamin’s Thesis VII.) Pandemicity without pandemic is an extension of that claim such that it might endure beyond a given present.

  • Rizvana Bradley — The Vicissitudes of Touch: Annotations on the Haptic

    Rizvana Bradley — The Vicissitudes of Touch: Annotations on the Haptic

    Rizvana Bradley

    The late queer theorist Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick is known for her tenacious commitment to the indeterminate possibilities that nondualism might offer sustained inquiries into minor aesthetics, politics, and performance. In the introduction to Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity, Sedgwick turns to touch and texture as particularly generative heuristic sites for opening the book’s avowed project, namely the exploration of “promising tools and techniques for nondualist thought and pedagogy.”[1] Moving through psychoanalysis, queer theory, and sexuality studies, the text probes entanglements of intimacy and emotion, desire and eroticism, that animate experience and draw social life into the myriad folds of material and nonlinguistic relations. As Lauren Berlant asserts of Sedgwick’s text, “the performativity of knowledge beyond speech – aesthetic, bodily, affective – is its real topic.”[2]

    One of Sedgwick’s most important and enduring legacies is a radically queer heuristic that endeavors to make theorizable the imperceptible and obscure relationships between affect, pedagogy, and performativity, without reproducing the limits and burdens of epistemology (even antiessentialist epistemology), with its “demand on essential truth.”[3] For Sedgwick, texture and touch offer potential instances of sidestepping or evading the foreclosures of structure and its attendant calcification of subject-object relations, a pivot towards antinormative pedagogies of reading and interpretation. Following Henry James, Sedgwick suggests that “to perceive texture is always, immediately, and de facto to be immersed in a field of active narrative hypothesizing, testing, and re-understanding of how physical properties act and are acted upon over time,” to become engaged in a series of speculative departures rather than analytical arrivals.[4] Similarly, Sedgwick finds in the sense of touch a perceptual experience that “makes nonsense out of any dualistic understanding of agency and passivity.”[5] Particularly relevant for our purposes is Sedgwick’s turn to the registers of difference between texture and texxture as a guide for thinking about forms of desire, perception, and interpretation that exceed normative modalities of belonging in, being with, and making sense of the world.

    Teasing out the implications of Renu Bora’s taxonomy of textural difference, Sedgwick tells us that

    Bora notes that ‘smoothness is both a type of texture and texture’s other.’ His essay makes a very useful distinction between two kinds, or senses, of texture, which he labels ‘texture’ with one x and ‘texxture’ with two x’s. Texxture is the kind of texture that is dense with offered information about how, substantively, historically, materially, it came into being. A brick or metal-work pot that still bears the scars and uneven sheen of its making would exemplify texxture in this sense. But there is also the texture – one x this time – that defiantly or even invisibly blocks or refuses such information; there is texture usually glossy if not positively tacky, that insists instead on the polarity between substance and surface, texture that signifies the willed erasure of its history.[6]

    Though one might be tempted to singularly assign to texture’s “manufactured or overhighlighted surface” the properties and pitfalls of “psychoanalytic and commodity fetishism,” in fact,

    the narrative-performative density of the other kind of texxture – its ineffaceable historicity – also becomes susceptible to a kind of fetish-value. An example of the latter might occur where the question is one of exotism, of the palpable and highly acquirable textural record of the cheap, precious work of many foreign hands in the light of many damaged foreign eyes. [7]

    Paradoxically, it is precisely the failure of texture to erase the internal historicity that would appear to be self-evidently registered on the surface of texxture, which allows Sedgwick to effectively grant the former an elusive depth, declaring that, “however high the gloss, there is no such thing as textural lack.”[8] Meanwhile, texxture’s presumably inescapable depth seems to recede across the surficial “scars and uneven sheen” that are read as the signatures of its making. For Sedgwick, one of the primary implications of these phenomenological variegations and perplexities is that texture, “in short, comprises an array of perceptual data that includes repetition, but whose degree of organization hovers just below the level of shape or structure…[the] not-yet-differentiated quick from which the performative emerges.”[9] In this way,

    texture seems like a promising level of attention for shifting the emphasis of some interdisciplinary conversations away from the recent fixation on epistemology…by asking new questions about phenomenology and affect, [for what]…texture and affect, touching and feeling…have in common is that…both are irreducibly phenomenological.[10]

    On the one hand, Sedgwick’s turn to texture divulges extra-linguistic affiliations that performatively surprise, facilitating an erotic retrieval of subjective and aesthetic non-mastery that continues to resonate with ongoing critiques of the aesthetic. And yet, while Sedgwick’s assertions about affectivity and touch facilitate an opening for a theoretical re-evaluation of notions of agency, passivity, and self-perception, they are also deeply problematic. For what does phenomenology, which takes the body as our “point of view in the world,”[11] have to say to those who, following Frantz Fanon, have never had a body, but rather its theft, those who have only ever been granted the dissimulation of a body, “sprawled out, distorted, recolored, clad in mourning[?]”[12] What of those whose skin is constantly resurfaced as depthless texxture, a texxture whose surficial inscriptions are read as proxies for the historicity that the over-glossed surface would seek to expunge? In other words, Sedgwick’s ruminations disclose an undeclared, but nevertheless central, conceit that has significant implications for thinking about the bearing of form on ontology: namely that, for Sedgwick, the texturized valences of touch are implicated in, rather than a violent displacement from, the symbolic economy of the human.

    In theorizing touch, might we trouble the presumption that aesthetics, subjectivity, and desire – or more precisely their entwinement – are necessarily embedded within the normative regime of the human? I am interested, in other words, in how Sedgwick’s observations on touch might occasion, even as they displace, a different set of interrelated questions regarding ontological mattering and the fashioning of aesthetic subjectivity. Calvin Warren’s assertion that “[q]ueer theory’s ‘closeted humanism’ reconstitutes the ‘human’ even as it attempts to challenge and, at times, erase it,” demands we reconsider any theory (about the queerness) of touch that has yet to grapple with its universalist underpinnings. It would seem that queer theory, even one as vigorously attuned to the textured rediscovery of minor forms as Sedgwick’s, nevertheless conceives desire, sexuality, and gender as co-extensive with the erotic architecture of the (queerly differentiated/differentiating) human subject. Suffering may be aestheticized, but it is not reckoned with as an ontological imposition – as a “grammar,” to use Frank B. Wilderson’s language[13] – out of which an aesthesis necessarily emerges.

    Insofar as texxture bears the inscription of its material conditions of possibility, it should direct us toward a genealogy of substance at odds with surface appearance. At stake is what film scholar Laura Marks theorizes under the rubric of the haptic[14] – the tactile, kinesthetic, and proprioceptive dimensions of touch, the irreducibly haptic valences of touch that pressure prevailing distinctions between substance and surface, inside and outside, body and flesh. A question at once animated and omitted by queer theory’s inquiries into touch: how to theorize texxture with regard to a history of bodily wounding occasioned by touch, when it is texxture that is seized upon by the various proxies for touch that willingly or inadvertently redouble racial fantasies of violation? Thinking the haptic irreducibility of the aesthetic requires constant re-attunement to the violence touch occasions and to the violations which occasion touch. If touch is ultimately inextricable from the aesthetic economy of worldly humanity, then, apropos Saidiya Hartman, we are compelled to think about the violence that resides in our habits of worlding.[15]

    Without even addressing the massive implications that attend the frequent conflation of being with body, what cleaves to being within the context of critical theory’s alternately residual or unapologetic phenomenology, is a corporeal subject whose situatedness within and for the world is not only predetermined, but whose predetermination is taken for granted as the condition of possibility for sentient touch. Such unwitting Calvinism, which would seem to take Merleau-Ponty at his word when he declares that “every relation with being is simultaneously a taking and being taken,”[16] inevitably reproduces and rubs up against a foundational schism: being taken, where the traces of an inflective doubling disclose a morphological distinction at the level of species-being.[17] Just as the tectonics of touch – their quakes and strains, fractures and fault lines, accretions and exfoliations – can hardly be taken for simply surface phenomena, neither can they be assumed to unfold upon a universal plane of experience, or to obtain between essentially analogous subjects within a common field of relation (a fact betrayed by the nominative excess which threatens to spill from the very word, “field”). Touch cannot be understood apart from the irreducibly racial valences and demarcations of corporeality in the wake of transatlantic slavery.

    In her landmark essay, “Mama’s Baby, Papa’s Maybe: An American Grammar Book,” Hortense Spillers theorizes one of the central cleavages of the modern world, wrought and sundered in the cataclysmic passages of racial slavery: that of body and flesh, which Spillers takes as the foremost distinction “between captive and liberated subjects-positions”:

    before the “body” there is the “flesh,” that zero degree of social conceptualization that does not escape concealment under the brush of discourse or the reflexes of iconography. Even though the European hegemonies stole bodies – some of them female – out of West African communities in concert with the African “middleman,” we regard this human and social irreparability as high crimes against the flesh, as the person of African females and males registered the wounding. If we think of the “flesh” as a primary narrative, then we mean its seared, divided, ripped-apartness, riveted to the ship’s hole, fallen, or “escaped” overboard.[18]

    Flesh is before the body in a dual sense. On the one hand, as Alexander Weheliye stresses, flesh is “a temporal and conceptual antecedent to the body[.]”[19] The body, which may be taken to stand for “legal personhood qua self-possession,”[20] is violently produced through the “high crimes against the flesh.” On the other hand, flesh is before the body in that it is everywhere subject to and at the disposal of the body. The body is cleaved from flesh, while flesh is serially cleaved by the body. As Fred Moten suggests, the body only emerges through the disciplining of flesh.[21]

    This diametric arrangement of corporeal exaltation and abjection is registered, as Spillers emphasizes, in “the tortures and instruments of captivity,” those innumerable, unspeakable brutalities by which flesh is irrevocably marked:

    The anatomical specifications of rupture, of altered human tissue, take on the objective description of laboratory prose – eyes beaten out, arms, backs, skulls branded, a left jaw, a right ankle, punctured; teeth missing, as the calculated work of iron, whips, chains, knives, the canine patrol; the bullet.[22]

    The unspeakability of such woundings, however, is not merely a function of their terror and depravity, but rather a consequence of the ways flesh has been made to bear the conditions of im/possibility of and for a semiotics which takes itself to be the very foundation of language, at least in its modern dissimulations.[23] In Moten’s illumination, “[t]he value of the sign, its necessary relation to the possibility of (a universal science of and a universal) language, is only given in the absence or supercession of, or the abstraction from, sounded speech— its essential materiality is rendered ancillary by the crossing of an immaterial border or by a differentializing inscription.”[24] Thus, when Spillers writes that “[t]hese undecipherable markings on the captive body render a kind of hieroglyphics of the flesh whose severe disjunctures come to be hidden to the cultural by seeing skin color[,]”[25] we may surmise that what Frantz Fanon termed “epidermalization” – the process by which a “historico-racial schema” is violently imposed upon the skin, that which, for the Black, forecloses the very possibility of assuming a body (to borrow Gayle Salamon’s turn of phrase) – is, among other things, a mechanism of semiotic concealment.[26] (R.A. Judy refers to it as “something like [flesh]…being parenthesized.”)[27] What is hidden and rehidden, the open secret alternately buried within and exposed upon the skin, is not merely a system of corporeal apartheid, but moreover what Spillers identifies as the vestibularity of flesh to culture. “This body whose flesh carries the female and the male to the frontiers of survival bears in person the marks of a cultural text whose inside has been turned outside.”[28]

    Speaking at a conference day I curated for the Stedelijk Museum of Art and Studium Generale Rietveld Academy in 2018, entitled “There’s a Tear in the World: Touch After Finitude,” Spillers revisited her classic essay, drawing out its implications for thinking through questions of touch and hapticality.[29] For Spillers, touch “might be understood as the gateway to the most intimate experience and exchange of mutuality between subjects, or taken as the fundamental element of the absence of self-ownership…it defines at once, in the latter instance, the most terrifying personal and ontological feature of slavery’s regimes across the long ages.”[30] To meaningfully reckon with “the contradictory valences of the haptic” is to “attempt an entry into this formidable paradox, which unfolds a troubled intersubjective legacy – and, perhaps, troubled to the extent that one of these valences of touch is not walled off from the other, but haunts it, shadows it, as its own twin possibility.”[31] Spillers follows with an unavoidable question: “did slavery across the Americas rupture ties of kinship and filiation so completely that the eighteenth century demolishes what Constance Classen, in The Deepest Sense: A Cultural History of Touch, calls a ‘tactile cosmology’?” If so, then the dimensions of touch which are understood as “curative, healing, erotic, [or] restorative” cannot be held apart from the myriad “violation[s] of the boundaries of the ego in the enslaved, that were not yet accorded egoistic status, or, in brief, subjecthood, subjectivity.”[32]

    Touch, then, evokes the vicious, desperate attempts of the white, the settler, to feign the ontic verity, stability, and immutability of an irreducibly racial subject-object (non-)relation through what Frank Wilderson would call “gratuitous violence”[33] as much as it does the corporeal life of intra- and intersubjective relationality and encounter. If even critical discourse on these latter, corporeal happenings tends to assume the facticity of the juridically sanctioned pretense to self-possession Spillers calls “bodiedness,” then “flesh describes an alien entity,” a corporeal formation fundamentally unable to “ward off another’s touch…[who] may be invaded or entered or penetrated, so to speak, by coercive power” in any given place or moment. It is, in other words, precisely “the captive body’s susceptibility to being touched [which] places this body on the side of the flesh,”[34] a susceptibility which is not principally historical, but ontological, even as flesh constitutes, to borrow Moten’s phrasing, “a general and generative resistance to what ontology can think[.]”[35] Spillers brings us to the very threshold of feeling, where to be cast on the side of the flesh is to inhabit the cut between existence and ontology. Black life is being-touched.

    How might we bring such knowledge to bear upon our understanding of different aesthetic practices, forms, and traditions? What if Theodor Adorno’s conception of the “shudder” experienced by the subject in his ephemeral encounter with a “genuine relation to art,” that “involuntary comportment” which is “a memento of the liquidation of the I,”[36] must be understood as the corporeal expression of a subject whose conditions of existence sustain the fantasy of being-untouched? How might such an interpretation serve not simply to foreground an indictment, but also aspire to linger with the political, ethical, and analytic questions that emerge from the entanglements of hapticality, aesthetics, and violence, questions which are unavoidable for those given to blackness? “The hold’s terrible gift,” Moten and Harney maintain, “was to gather dispossessed feelings in common, to create a new feel in the undercommons.”[37] And, as Moten has subsequently reminded us, violence cannot be excised from the materiality of this terrible gift, which is none other than black art:

    Black art neither sutures nor is sutured to trauma. There’s no remembering, no healing. There is, rather, a perpetual cutting, a constancy of expansive and enfolding rupture and wound, a rewind that tends to exhaust the metaphysics upon which the idea of redress is grounded.[38]

    Black art promises neither redemption nor emancipation. The “transcendent power” that Peter de Bolla, for example, finds gloriously manifest by an artwork such as Michelangelo’s Rondanini Pietà, that encounter with a “timeless…elemental beauty” which constitutes “one of the basic building blocks of our shared culture, our common humanity,”[39] is a fabrication of a structure of aesthetic experience that is wholly unavailable to the black, who, after all, has never been human. If Immanuel Kant, as the preeminent architect of modern European aesthetic philosophy, understood art to emerge precisely in its separation from nature, as “a work of man,”[40]then it is clear his transcendental aesthetic is not the province of black art. For, as Denise Ferreira da Silva argues, modernity’s “arsenal of raciality” places the black before the “scene of nature,” as “as affectable things…subjected to the determination of both the ‘laws of nature’ and other coexisting things.”[41] Black art, in all its earthly perversity, emerges in the absence and refusal of the capacity to claim difference as separation, as that which instead touches and is touched by the beauty and terrors of entanglement, “a composition which is always already a recomposition and a decomposition of prior and posterior compositions.”[42] Whatever its (anti-)formal qualities, black art proceeds from enfleshment, from the immanent brutalities and minor experiments of the haptic, the cuts and woundings of which it cannot help but bear. Black art materializes in and as a metaphysical impossibility, as that which, in Moten’s words, “might pierce the distinction between the biological and the symbolic…as the continual disruption of the very idea of (symbolic) value, which moves by way of the reduction of substance…[as] the reduction to substance (body to flesh) is inseparable from the reduction of substance.”[43] Hapticality is a way of naming an analytics of touch that cannot be, let alone appear, within the onto-epistemological confines of the (moribund) world, a gesture with and towards the abyssal revolution and devolution of the sensorium to which black people have already been subject, an enfleshment of the “difference without separability”[44] that has been and will be the condition of possibility for “life in the ruins.”[45]

    _____

    Rizvana Bradley is Assistant Professor of Film and Media at UC Berkeley. Her research and teaching focuses on the study of contemporary art and aesthetics at the intersections of film, literature, poetry, contemporary art and performance. Her scholarly approach to artistic practices in global black cultural production expands and develops frameworks for thinking across these contexts, specifically in relation to contemporary aesthetic theory.  She has published articles in TDR: The Drama Review, Discourse: Journal for Theoretical Studies in Media and Culture, Rhizomes: Cultural Studies in Emerging Knowledge, Black Camera: An International Film Journal, and Film Quarterly, and is currently working on two book projects.

    Back to the essay

    _____

    Notes

    [1] Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick, Touching Feeling: Affect, Pedagogy, Performativity (Durham: Duke University Press, 2003), 1.

    [2] Ibid., back cover.

    [3] Ibid., 6.

    [4] Ibid., 13.

    [5] Ibid., 14.

    [6] Ibid., 14-15.

    [7] Ibid., 15.

    [8] Ibid.

    [9] Ibid., 16, 17.

    [10] Ibid., 21.

    [11] Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Phenomenology of Perception (New York: Routledge, 2012), 73.

    [12] Frantz Fanon, Black Skins, White Masks (London: Pluto Press, 1986).

    [13] See, in particular, Frank B. Wilderson III, Red, White, and Black: Cinema and the Structure of U.S. Antagonisms (Durham: Duke University Press, 2010).

    [14] Laura U. Marks, The Skin of the Film: Intercultural Cinema, Embodiment, and the Senses (Durham: Duke University Press, 2000). My reading of Marks is in turn inestimably shaped by Fred Moten and Stefano Harney’s elaboration of hapticality in The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning and Black Study (New York; Port Watson: Minor Compositions, 2013), 97-99; see also the special issue I guest edited for Women and Performance: A Journal of Feminist Theory, “The Haptic: Textures of Performance,” vol. 24, no. 2-3 (2014).

    [15] This was a formulation made by Hartman in our conversation during my curated event for the Serpentine Galleries, London. “Hapticality, Waywardness, and the Practice of Entanglement: A Study Day with Saidiya Hartman,” 8 July, 2017.

    [16] Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Visible and the Invisible (Chicago: Northwestern University Press, 1968), 266.

    [17] Cf. Karl Marx, The Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844, ed. Dirk J. Struik (New York: International Publishers, 1964).

    [18] Hortense Spillers, “Mama’s Baby, Papa’s Maybe: An American Grammar Book,” Diacritics, Volume 17, Number 2 (Summer 1987), 64-81, 67.

    [19] Alexander G. Weheliye, Habeas Viscus: Racializing Assemblages, Biopolitics, and Black Feminist Theories of the Human (Durham: Duke University Press, 2014), 39. For a contrasting interpretation, see R.A. Judy’s brilliant, recently published, Sentient Flesh: Thinking in Disorder, Poiēsis in Black (Durham: Duke University Press, 2020), xvi, 210: “flesh is with and not before the body and person, and the body and person are with and not before or even after the flesh.”

    [20] Weheliye (2014), 39.

    [21] Fred Moten, “Of Human Flesh: An Interview with R.A. Judy” (Part Two), b2o: An Online Journal (6 May 2020).

    [22] Spillers (1987), 67.

    [23] R.A. Judy takes up these questions surrounding flesh and what he terms “para-semiosis,” or “the dynamic of differentiation operating in multiple multiplicities of semiosis that converge without synthesis[,]” with characteristic erudition in Sentient Flesh (2020), xiiv.

    [24] Fred Moten, In the Break: The Aesthetics of the Black Radical Imagination (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2003), 13.

    [25] Spillers (1987), 67.

    [26] Fanon (1986). Gayle Solamon, Assuming a Body: Transgender and the Rhetorics of Masculinity (New York: Columbia University Press, 2010).

    [27] Judy (2020), 207.

    [28] Spillers (1987), 67. For one of Fred Moten’s more pointed engagements with this formulation from Spillers, see “The Touring Machine (Flesh Thought Inside Out),” in Stolen Life (consent not to be a single being) (Durham: Duke University Press, 2018), 161-182.

    [29] Hortense Spillers, “To the Bone: Some Speculations on Touch,” There’s a Tear in the World: Touch After Finitude, Stedelijk Museum of Art and Studium Generale Rietveld Academy, 23 March 2018, keynote address.

    [30] Ibid.

    [31] Ibid. Emphasis added.

    [32] Ibid.

    [33] Wilderson, 2010.

    [34] Spillers (2018). As these quotations are drawn from Spillers’s talk rather than a published text, the emphasis placed on the word being is inferred from her spoken intonation.

    [35] Moten (2018), 176.

    [36] Theodor Adorno, Aesthetic Theory (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 1997), 333.

    [37] Moten and Harney (2013), 97.

    [38] Fred Moten, Black and Blur (consent not to be a single being), (Durham: Duke University Press, 2017), ix.

    [39] Peter de Bolla, Art Matters (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001), 28.

    [40] Immanuel Kant, Critique of Judgement (London: Macmillan and Co., 1914), 184.

    [41] Denise Ferreira da Silva, “The Scene of Nature,” in Justin Desautels-Stein & Christopher Tomlins (eds.), Searching for Contemporary Legal Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 275-289, 276. For an important study of modernity’s “racial regime of aesthetics,” see David Lloyd, Under Representation: The Racial Regime of Aesthetics (New York: Fordham University Press, 2019).

    [42] Denise Ferreira da Silva, “In the Raw,” e-flux, Journal #93 (September 2018).

    [43] Fred Moten (2018), 174.

    [44] Denise Ferreira da Silva, “Difference without Separability,” Catalogue of the 32nd Bienal de São Paulo – INCERTEZA VIVA (2016), 57-65.

    [45] Cf. Anna Lowenhaupt Tsing, The Mushroom at the End of the World: On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015).

  • Zachary Loeb — Does Facebook Have Politics? (Review of Langdon Winner, The Whale and the Reactor, second edition)

    Zachary Loeb — Does Facebook Have Politics? (Review of Langdon Winner, The Whale and the Reactor, second edition)

    a review of Langdon Winner, The Whale and the Reactor: A Search for Limits in an Age of High Technology, second edition (University of Chicago Press, 2020)

    by Zachary Loeb

    ~

    The announcement that Mark Zuckerberg and Priscilla Chan would be donating $300 million to help address some of the challenges COVID-19 poses for the 2020 elections was met with a great deal of derision. The scorn was not directed at the effort to recruit poll workers, or purchase PPE for them, but at the source from whence these funds were coming. Having profited massively from allowing COVID-19 misinformation to run rampant over Facebook, and having shirked responsibility as the platform exacerbated political tensions, the funding announcement came across not only as too little too late, but as a desperate publicity stunt. The incident was but another installment in Facebook’s tumult as the company (alongside its CEO/founder) continually finds itself cast as a villain. Facebook can take some solace in knowing that other tech companies—Google, Amazon, Uber—are also receiving increasingly negative attention, and yet it seems that for every one critical story about Amazon there are five harsh pieces about Facebook.

    Where Facebook, and Zuckerberg, had once enjoyed laudatory coverage, with the platform being hailed as an ally of democracy, by 2020 it has become increasingly common to see Facebook (and Zuckerberg) treated as democracy’s gravediggers. Indeed, much of the animus found in the increasingly barbed responses to Facebook seem to be animated by a sense of betrayal. Many people, including more than a few journalists and scholars, had initially been taken in by Facebook’s promises of a more open and connected world, even if they are loathe to admit that they had ever fallen for that ruse now. Certainly, or so the shift in sentiment conveys, Facebook and Zuckerberg deserve to be angrily upbraided and treated with withering skepticism now… but who could have seen this coming?

    “Technologies are not merely aids to human activity, but also powerful forces acting to reshape that activity and its meaning” (6). When those words were first published, in 1986, Mark Zuckerberg was around two years old, and yet those words provide a more concise explanation of Facebook than any Facebook press release or defensive public speech given by Zuckerberg. Granted, those words were not written specifically about Facebook (how could they have been?), but in order to express a key insight about the ways in which technologies impact the societies in which they are deployed. The point being not only to consider how technologies can have political implications, but to emphasize that technologies are themselves political. Or to put it slightly differently, Langdon Winner was warning about Facebook before there was a Facebook to warn about.

    More than thirty years after its initial publication, The University of Chicago Press has released a new edition of Langdon Winner’s The Whale and the Reactor. Considering the frequency with which this book, particularly its second chapter “Do Artifacts Have Politics?,” is still cited today, it is hard to suggest that Winner’s book has been forgotten by scholars. And beyond the academy, those who have spent even a small amount of time reading some of the prominent recent STS or media studies works will have likely come across his name. Therefore, the publication of the this second edition—equipped with a new preface, afterword, an additional chapter, and a spiffy red cover—represents an important opportunity to revisit Winner’s work. While its citational staying power suggests that The Whale and the Reactor has become something of an essential touchstone for works on the politics of technological systems, the larger concerns coursing through the book have not lost any of their weight in the years since the book was published.

    For at its core The Whale and the Reactor is not about the types of technologies we are making, but about the type of society we are making.

    Divided into three sections, The Whale and the Reactor wastes no time in laying out its central intervention. Noting that technology had rarely been treated as a serious topic for philosophical inquiry, Winner sets about arguing that an examined life must examine the technological systems that sustain that life. That technology has so often been relegated to the background has given rise to a sort of “technological somnambulism” whereby many “willingly sleepwalk” as the world is technologically reconfigured around them (10). Moving forward in this dreamy state, the sleepers may have some vague awareness of the extent to which these technological systems are becoming interwoven into their daily lives, but by the time they awaken (supposing they ever do awaken) these systems have accumulated sufficient momentum as to make it seemingly impossible to turn them off at all. Though The Whale and the Reactor is not a treatise on somnambulism, this characterization is significant insofar as a sleepwalker is one who staggers through the world in a state of unawareness, and thus cannot be held truly responsible. Contrary to such fecklessness, the argument presented by Winner is that responsibility for the world being remade by technology is shared by all those who live in that world. Sleepwalking is not an acceptable excuse.

    In what is almost certainly the best-known section of the book, Winner considers whether or not artifacts have politics—answering this question strongly in the affirmative. Couching his commentary in a recognition that “Scarcely a new invention comes along that someone doesn’t proclaim it as the salvation of a free society” (20), Winner highlights that social and economic forces leave clear markers on technologies, but he notes that the process works in the opposite direction as well. Two primary ways in which “artifacts can contain political priorities” (22) are explored: firstly, situations wherein a certain artifact is designed in such a way as to settle a particular larger issue; and secondly, technologies that are designed to function within, and reinforce, a certain variety of political organization. As an example of the first variety, Winner gives an example of mechanization at a nineteenth century reaper manufacturing plant, wherein the process of mechanization was pursued not to produce higher quality or less expensive products, but for the purposes of breaking the power of the factory’s union. While an example of the second sort of politics can be seen in the case of atomic weaponry (and nuclear power) wherein the very existence of these technologies necessitates complex organizations of control and secrecy. Though, of the two arguments, Winner frames the first example as presenting clearer proof, technologies of the latter case make a significant impact insofar as they tend to make “moral reasons other than those of practical necessity appear increasingly obsolete” (36) for the political governance of technological systems.

    Inquiring as to the politics of a particular technology provides a means by which to ask questions about the broader society, specifically: what kind of social order gets reified by this technology? One of freedom and equality? One of control and disenfranchisement? Or one that distracts from the maintenance of the status quo by providing the majority with a share in technological abundance? It is easy to avoid answering such questions when you are sleepwalking, and as a result, “without anyone having explicitly chosen it, dependency upon highly centralized organizations has gradually become a dominant social form” (47). That this has not been “explicitly chosen” is partially a result of the dominance of a technologically optimistic viewpoint that has held to “a conviction that all technology—whatever its size, shape, or complexion—is inherently liberating” (50). Though this bright-eyed outlook is periodically challenged by an awareness of the ways that some technologies can create or exacerbate hazards, these dangers wind up being treated largely as hurdles that will be overcome by further technological progress. When all technologies are seen as “inherently liberating” a situation arises wherein “liberation” comes to be seen only in terms of what can be technologically delivered. Thus, the challenge is to ask “What forms of technology are compatible with the kind of society we want to build?” (52) rather than simply assume that we will be content in whatever world we sleepily wander into. Rather than trust that technology will be “inherently liberating,” Winner emphasizes that it is necessary to ask what kinds of technology will be “compatible with freedom, social justice, and other key political ends” (55), and to pursue those technologies.

    Importantly, a variety of people and groups have been aware of the need to push for artifacts that more closely align with their political ideals, though these response have taken on a range of forms. Instead of seeing technology as deeply intertwined with political matters, some groups saw technology as a way of getting around political issues: why waste time organizing for political change when microcomputers and geodesic domes can allow you to build that alternative world here and now? In contrast to this consumeristic, individualistically oriented attitude (exemplified by works such as the Whole Earth Catalog), there were also efforts to ask broader political questions about the nature of technological systems such as the “appropriate technology” movement (which grew up around E.F. Schumacher’s Small is Beautiful). Yet such attempts appear already in the past, rearguard actions that were trying to meekly resist the increasing dominance of complex technical systems. As the long seventies shifted into the 1980s and increasing technological centralization became evident, such movements appear as romantic gestures towards the dream of decentralization. And though the longing for escape from centralized control persists, the direction  “technological ‘progress’ has followed” is one in which “people find themselves dependent upon a great many large, complex systems whose centers are, for all practical purposes, beyond their power to influence” (94).

    Perhaps no technology simultaneously demonstrates the tension between the dream of decentralization and growth of control quite like the computer. Written in the midst of what was being hailed as “the computer revolution” or the “information revolution” (98), The Whale and the Reactor bore witness to the exuberance with which the computer was greeted even as this revolution remained “conspicuously silent about its own ends” (102). Though it was not entirely clear what problem the computer was the solution to, there was still a clear sentiment that the computer had to be the solution to most problems. “Mythinformation” is the term Winner deploys to capture this “almost religious conviction that a widespread adoption of computers and communications systems along with easy access to electronic information will automatically produce a better world for human living” (105). Yet “mythinformation” performs technological politics in inverse order: instead of deciding on political goals and then seeking out the right technological forms for achieving those goals, it takes a technology (the computer) and then seeks to rearrange political problems in such a way as to make them appear as though they can be addressed by that technology. Thus, “computer romantics” hold to the view that “increasing access to information enhances democracy and equalizes social power” (108), less as a reflection of the way that political power works and more as a response to the fact that “increasing access to information” is one of the things that computers do well. Despite the equalizing hopes, earnest though they may have been, that were popular amongst the “computer romantics” the trends that were visible early in “the computer revolution” gave ample reason to believe that the main result would be “an increase in power by those who already had a great deal of power” (107). Indeed, contrary to the liberatory hopes that were pinned on “the computer revolution” the end result might be one wherein “confronted with omnipresent, all-seeing data banks, the populace may find passivity and compliance the safest route, avoiding activities that once represented political liberty” (115).

    Considering the overwhelming social forces working in favor of unimpeded technological progress, there are nevertheless a few factors that have been legitimated as reasons for arguing for limits. While there is a long trajectory of theorists and thinkers who have mulled over the matter of ecological despoilment, and while environmental degradation is a serious concern, “the state of nature” represents a fraught way to consider technological matters. For some, the environment has become little more than standing reserve to be exploited, while others have formed an almost mystical attachment to an imagination of pristine nature; in this context “ideas about things natural must be examined and criticized” as well (137). Related to environmental matters are concerns that take as their catchword “risk,” and which attempt to reframe the discussion away from hopes and towards potential dangers. Yet, in addition to cultural norms that praise certain kinds of “risk-taking,” a focus on risk assessment tends to frame situations in terms of tradeoffs wherein one must balance dangers against potential benefits—with the result being that the recontextualized benefit is generally perceived as being worth it. If the environment and risk are unsatisfactory ways to push for limits, so too has become the very notion of “human values” which “acts like a lawn mower that cuts flat whole fields of meaning and leaves them characterless” (158).

    In what had originally been The Whale and the Reactor’s last chapter, Winner brought himself fully into the discussion—recalling how it was that he came to be fascinated with these issues, and commenting on the unsettling juxtaposition he felt while seeing a whale swimming not far from the nuclear reactor at Diablo Canyon. It is a chapter that critiques the attitude towards technology, that Winner saw in many of his fellow citizens, as being one of people having “gotten used to having the benefits of technological conveniences without expecting to pay the costs” (171). This sentiment is still fully on display more than thirty years later, as Winner shifts his commentary (in a new chapter for this second edition) to the age of Facebook and the Trump Presidency. Treating the techno-utopian promises that had surrounded the early Internet as another instance of technology being seen as “inherently liberating,” Winner does not seem particularly surprised by the way that the Internet and social media are revealing that they “could become a seedbed for concentrated, ultimately authoritarian power” (189). In response to the “abuses of online power,” and beneath all of the glitz and liberating terminology that is affixed to the Internet, “it is still the concerns of consumerism and techno-narcissism that are emphasized above all” (195). Though the Internet had been hailed as a breakthrough, it has wound up leading primarily to breakdown.

    Near the book’s outset, Winner observes how “In debates about technology, society, and the environment, an extremely narrow range of concepts typically defines the realm of acceptable discussion” (xii), and it is those concepts that he wrestles with over the course of The Whale and the Reactor. And the point that Winner returns to throughout the volume is that technological choices—whether they are the result of active choice or a result of our “technological somnambulism”—are not just about technology. Rather, “What appear to be merely instrumental choices are better seen as choices about the form of social and political life a society builds, choices about the kinds of people we want to become” (52).

    Or, to put it a slightly different way, if we are going to talk about the type of technology we want, we first need to talk about the type of society we want, whether the year is 1986 or 2020.

    *

    Langdon Winner began his foreword to the 2010 edition of Lewis Mumford’s Technics and Civilization with the comment that “Anyone who studies the human dimensions of technological change must eventually come to terms with Lewis Mumford.” And it may be fair to note, in a similar vein, that anyone who studies the political dimensions of technological change must eventually come to terms with Langdon Winner. The staying power of The Whale and the Reactor is something which Winner acknowledges with a note of slightly self-deprecating humor, in the foreword to the book’s second edition, where he comments “At times, it seems my once bizarre heresy has finally become a weary truism” (vii).

    Indeed, to claim in 2020 that artifacts have politics is not to make a particularly radical statement. That statement has been affirmed enough times as to hardly make it a question that needs to be relitigated. Yet the second edition of The Whale and the Reactor is not a victory lap wherein Winner crows that he was right, nor is it the ashen lamentation of a Cassandra glumly observing that what they feared has transpired. Insofar as The Whale and the Reactor deserves this second edition, and to be clear it absolutely deserves this second edition, it is because the central concerns animating the book remain just as vital today.

    While the second edition contains a smattering of new material, the vast majority of the book remains as it originally was. As a result the book undergoes that strange kind of alchemy whereby a secondary source slowly transforms into a primary source—insofar as The Whale and the Reactor can now be treated as a document showing how, at least some, scholars were making sense of “the computer revolution” while in the midst of it. The book’s first third, which contains the “Do Artifacts Have Politics?” chapter, has certainly aged the best and the expansiveness with which Winner addresses the question of politics and technology makes it clear why those early chapters remain so widely read, while ensuring that these chapters have a certain timeless quality to them. However, as the book shifts into its exploration of “Technology: Reform and Revolution” the book does reveal its age. Read today, the commentary on “appropriate technology” comes across more as a reminder of a historical curio than as an exploration of the shortcomings of an experiment that recently failed. It feels somewhat odd to read Winner’s comments on “the state of nature,” bereft as they are of any real mention of climate change. And though Winner could have written in 1986 that technology was frequently overlooked as a topic deserving of philosophical scrutiny, today there are many works responding to that earlier lack (and many of those works even cite Winner). While Winner certainly cannot be faulted for not seeing the future, what makes some of these chapters feel particularly dated is that in many other places Winner excelled so remarkably at seeing the future.

    The chapter on “Mythinformation” stands as an excellent critical snapshot of the mid-80s enthusiasm that surrounded “the computer revolution,” with Winner skillfully noting how the utopian hopes surrounding computers were just the latest in the well-worn pattern wherein every new technology is seen as “inherently liberating.” In writing on computers, Winner does important work in separating the basics of what these machines literally can do, from the sorts of far-flung hopes that their advocates attached to them. After questioning whether the issues facing society are genuinely ones that boil down to access to information, Winner noted that it was more than likely that the real impact of computers would be to help those in control stay in control. As he puts it, “if there is to be a computer revolution, the best guess is that it will have a distinctively conservative character” (107) .In 1986, it may have been necessary to speak of this in terms of a “best guess,” and such comments may have met with angry responses from a host of directions, but in 2020 it seems fairly clear that Winner’s sense of what the impact of computers would be was not wrong.

    Considering the directions that widespread computerization would push societies, Winner hypothesized that it could lead to a breakdown in certain kinds of in-person contact and make it so that people would “become even more susceptible to the influence of employers, news media, advertisers, and national political leaders” (116). And moving to the present, in the second edition’s new chapter, Winner observes that despite the shiny toys of the Internet the result has been one wherein people “yield unthinkingly to various kinds of encoded manipulation (especially political manipulation), varieties of misinformation, computational propaganda, and political malware” (187). It is not that The Whale and the Reactor comes out to openly declare “don’t tell me that you weren’t warned,” but there is something about the second edition being published now, that feels like a pointed reminder. As former techno-optimists rebrand as techno-skeptics, the second edition is a reminder that some people knew to be wary from the beginning. Some may anxiously bristle as the CEOs of tech giants testify before Congress, some may feel a deep sense of disappointment every time they see yet another story about Facebook’s malfeasance, but The Whale and the Reactor is a reminder that these problems could have been anticipated. If we are unwilling to truly confront the politics of technologies when those technologies are new, we may find ourselves struggling to deal with the political impacts of those technologies once they have wreaked havoc.

    Beyond its classic posing of the important “do artifacts have politics?” question, the present collision between technology and politics helps draw attention to a deeper matter running through The Whale and the Reactor. Namely, that the book keeps coming back to the idea of democracy. Indeed, The Whale and the Reactor shows a refreshingly stubborn commitment to this idea. Technology clearly matters in the book, and technologies are taken very seriously throughout the book, but Winner keeps returning to democracy. In commenting on the ways in which artifacts have politics, the examples that Winner explores are largely ones wherein technological systems are put in place that entrench the political authority of a powerful minority, or which require the development of regimes that exceed democratic control. For Winner, democracy (and being a participant in a democracy) is an active process, one that cannot be replaced by “passive monitoring of electronic news and information” which “allows citizens to feel involved while dampening the desire to take an active part” (111). Insofar as “the vitality of democratic politics depends upon people’s willingness to act together in pursuit of their common ends” (111), a host of technological systems have been put in place that seem to have simultaneously sapped “people’s willingness” while also breaking down a sense of “common ends.” And though the Internet may trigger some nostalgic memory of active democracy, it is only a “pseudopublic realm” wherein the absence of the real conditions of democracy “helps generate wave after wave of toxic discourse along with distressing patterns of oligarchical rule, incipient authoritarianism, and governance by phonies and confidence men” (192).

    Those who remain committed to arguing for the liberatory potential of computers and the Internet, a group which includes individuals from a range of perspectives, might justifiably push back against Winner by critiquing the vision of democracy he celebrates. After all, there is something rather romantic about  Winner’s evocations of New England townhall meetings  and his comments on the virtues of face-to-face encounters. Do all participants in such encounters truly get to participate equally? Are such situations even set up so that all people can participate equally? What sorts of people and what modes of participation are privileged by such a model of democracy? Is a New England townhall meeting really a model for twenty-first century democracy? Here it is easy to picture Winner responding that what such questions reveal is the need to create technologies that will address those problems—and where a split may then open up is around the question of whether or not computers and the Internet represent such tools. That “technologies are not merely aids to human activity, but also powerful forces acting to reshape that activity and its meaning” (6) opens up a space in which different technologies can be built, even as other technologies can be dismantled, but such a recognition forces us to look critically at our technologies and truly confront the type of world that we are making and reinforcing for each other. And, in terms of computers and the Internet, the question that The Whale and the Reactor forces to the fore is one of: which are we putting first, computers or democracy?

    Winner warned his readers of the dangers of “technological somnambulism,” but it unfortunately seems that his call was not sufficient to wake up the sleepers in his midst in the 1980s. Alas, that The Whale and the Reactor remains so strikingly relevant is partially a testament to the persistence of the sleepwalkers’ continual slouch into the future. And though there may be some hopeful signs of late that more and more people are groggily stirring and rubbing the slumber from their eyes—the resistance to facial recognition is certainly a hopeful sign—a danger persists that many will conclude that since they have reached this spot that they must figure out some way to justify being here. After all, few want to admit that they have been sleepwalking. What makes The Whale and the Reactor worth revisiting today is not only that Winner asks the question “do artifacts have politics?” but the way in which, in responding to this question, he is willing to note that there are some artifacts that have bad politics. That there are some artifacts that do not align with our political goals and values. And what’s more, that when we are confronted with such artifacts, we do not need to pretend that they are our friends just because they have rearranged our society in such a way that we have no choice but to use them.

    In the foreword to the first edition of The Whale and the Reactor, Winner noted “In an age in which the inexhaustible power of scientific technology makes all things possible, it remains to be seen where we will draw the line, where we will be able to say, here are the possibilities that wisdom suggests we avoid” (xiii). For better, or quite likely for worse, that still remains to be seen today.

    _____

    Zachary Loeb earned his MSIS from the University of Texas at Austin, an MA from the Media, Culture, and Communications department at NYU, and is currently a PhD candidate in the History and Sociology of Science department at the University of Pennsylvania. Loeb works at the intersection of the history of technology and disaster studies, and his research focusses on the ways that complex technological systems amplify risk, as well as the history of technological doom-saying. He is working on a dissertation on Y2K. Loeb writes at the blog Librarianshipwreck, and is a frequent contributor to The b2 Review Digital Studies section.

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  • Efe Khayyat and Ariel Salzmann — On the Perils of Thinking Globally while Writing Ottoman History: God’s Shadow and Academia’s Self-Appointed Sultans

    Efe Khayyat and Ariel Salzmann — On the Perils of Thinking Globally while Writing Ottoman History: God’s Shadow and Academia’s Self-Appointed Sultans

    a response to reviews of Alan Mikhail, God’s Shadow: Sultan Selim, His Ottoman Empire, and the Making of the Modern World (Norton, 2020)

    by Efe Khayyat and Ariel Salzmann

    ~

    One of the more curious academic controversies to emerge during the pandemic revolves around the recent publication and positive reception of Alan Mikhail’s God’s Shadow: Sultan Selim, His Ottoman Empire, and the Making of the Modern World. Although it is Ottoman Sultan Süleyman I (r. 1520-66) who has received the lion’s share of publicity beyond the Middle East—thanks, most recently, to a popular Turkish soap opera with fans across the world, from Ukraine to Mexico—it is actually his father, Selim I (r. 1512-20), who died 500 years ago that marks the true inflection point for world history. Selim’s lifetime spanned a period that witnessed the re-peopling of the newly conquered City of Constantinople, the welcoming of Jewish refugees from Spain in the Ottoman Balkans and the Aegean, and the first Iberian voyages toward the Caribbean and the Indian Ocean. His relatively short reign overlapped with that of Moctezuma II, the ninth tlatoani of the Aztec Empire; Babur (Zahīr ud-Dīn Muhammad) who sent his armies from Afghanistan and founded the Mughal dynasty in India; the Ming dynasts in China; and the drafting of the 95 Theses by an otherwise obscure German Priest by the name of Martin Luther. Moreover, it was this sultan’s conquests that greatly expanded Ottoman hegemony across the Southern and Eastern Mediterranean, as well as into the Red Sea, leaving the empire in a commanding position that Selim’s neighbors to the east and west could ignore only at their peril.

    Given the number of endowed chairs in Ottoman and Turkish Studies at major research universities in the United States and the proliferation of scholars in Ottoman Studies at post-secondary North American institutions large and small, we Ottomanists should be better at inviting a wider audience to our field. And yet, almost singularly among historical fields, we have been unable to translate our research for nonspecialists and popular audiences. There are, of course, some noteworthy recent exceptions: popular works in German and English by the indefatigable Suraiya Faroqhi, Caroline Finkel’s synthetic overview, chapters on the Ottoman Empire in Elizabeth F. Thompson’s Justice Interrupted, Eugene Rogan’s timely book on the fall of the Ottoman Empire, and Leslie Peirce’s work on Roxelana.[1]

    Given the paucity of efforts to bridge the divide between the academia and popular readership, one might assume that Ottoman historians would welcome a work in Ottoman history which has garnered attention from The Wall Street Journal, The New Yorker, The New York Times, and The Washington Post. And yet quite the opposite has occurred: for some reason this book has provoked an intensely hostile reaction by some of the most prominent scholars in the field. Under the guise of a critical and purely academic assessment, Mikhail’s book has recently been subjected to an unfortunate attack by Cornell Fleischer, Cemal Kafadar, and Sanjay Subrahmanyam, published in English in an Italian online journal and then quickly translated into Turkish and other languages. It should be noted that only two of these scholars are Ottoman historians, while the third is an internationally known scholar specializing in the history of South Asia and the Indian Ocean. The very title of their screed, “How to Write Fake Global History,” portents ominously, borrowing from both the terminology and tone of the current occupant of the White House’s assaults on the press. Not only does their tract misrepresent and mischaracterize the aims and methods of God’s Shadow, but its vitriol launches a further broadside attack on other examples of global and popular history and has fueled a social media frenzy attacking the author and his book in Turkey as well as United States.

    We will leave aside the rather bizarre aspects of Fleischer, Kafadar, and Subrahmanyam’s text—the repeated ad hominem attacks; the immature disparaging of Mikhail; the abject ignorance of genre; the willful distortion of the methods and feigned naiveté about the nature of contemporary trade publishing; the suggestion of a conspiracy by Mikhail and his “agents and admirers;” and even the badgering of the editors of The Washington Post who refused to grant these critics a podium. Skipping these elements, we would like to declare in advance what their text truly is: an attempt by senior male scholars in a particular branch of American academy to flex institutional, professional, and cultural muscle within and abroad, particularly in Turkey, to defame and denigrate honest efforts to write Ottoman history and in doing so reinforce their own seemingly hegemonic and certainly outdated idea of what constitutes true history writing.

    A few examples should suffice to illustrate the disingenuousness Fleischer, Kafadar, and Subrahmanyam employ to make their case. Let’s take the Ottoman role in disseminating coffee and coffee drinking (two pages in Mikhail’s 450-page book). Citing page 318 of the book, they claim that Mikhail says that “it was Selim’s military that first discovered” coffee. In fact, he does not say that, but rather explains that it was “the intercontinental unity Selim achieved” that allowed coffee to become a global phenomenon, one the Ottomans would monopolize for centuries. In another instance, they point to Mikhail’s supposed overreliance on a book by Fatih Akçe as evidence of insufficient scrutiny of and attention to Ottoman Turkish and other sources, a point they pirate from a sober and scholarly review by Caroline Finkel. Thirty-one citations is hardly a lot in a book with over 1,300 total citations. To take the example of the section about the caliphate (one page) that seems particularly irksome to them, Mikhail cites Akçe once there, not as the sole source but alongside seven other sources. The main primary source is the eyewitness account of the Egyptian chronicler Ibn Iyās, and Mikhail footnotes the historiographical debate about the caliphate, including a citation to Finkel herself. Mikhail does not rely on Akçe for any substantive part of his argument.

    As for their conceptual objections, they rest their case on two principle lines. The first is that this book is nothing more than navel-gazing “great man” history, an interesting tactic given that at least two of these historians have published usefully on major (and male) historical figures. As if to reduce the book to its title, the three authors continually term Selim “Mikhail’s hero.” This is laughable. No honest reading of the book could conclude that Mikhail seeks the celebration (or destruction) of Selim. God’s Shadow is not a monument to Selim. If anything, in fact, Selim comes off as violent and conniving. And though Fleischer, Kafadar, and Subrahmanyam say Mikhail neglects Selim’s massacre of thousands of his own Alevi (Shiite) subjects, Mikhail does reference this event on pages 258-59 and then on page 402 and then in the book’s chronology.

    The rather obvious point Fleischer, Kafadar, and Subrahmanyam miss or ignore is that Mikhail uses the figure of this single and singular historical subject to show how an appropriately narrow scholarly focus can “shed light in a radiating fashion” on a world historical moment.[2] This method of picking the right “tangible hook” for traversing our vast and intricate cultural past has long been advocated by humanists since its pioneer, Erich Auerbach, taught us how to practice cultural criticism and interpret historical “figures.”

    The second major complaint the trio lodge against Mikhail may seem at odds with the first—that he grossly overstates the place of the Ottomans on the world stage. It is only the most limited understanding of the contingent nature of history that could prevent one from grasping how in the absence of concrete evidence of the concrete presence of the Ottomans in Mexico, or say a letter from an Ottoman to an Aztec, there could be any, in their words, “real connection of the conquest of Mexico to the Ottomans.” Here they slyly splice together sentences some 130 pages apart in God’s Shadow combined with a phrase from The Washington Post to suggest that Mikhail claims that Selim and Cortés were somehow in touch. There is no such claim in the book.

    Mikhail’s approach offers something far more sophisticated—an analysis of how the faculty of imagination shaped historical actions, decisions, ideas, and emotions. He takes us from the Middle East to Mexico to demonstrate the extent to which the terrible and fabulous Turk marked the European-Christian mind in the sixteenth century. In God’s Shadow, one of the great fears of Spanish merchants and colonial authorities on Mexico’s Pacific shore in the sixteenth century turns out to have been imaginary “Turks or Moors,” possibly plotting with Native Americans to attack Christians. We know that this is absurd—that no vassal of the “Grand Turk” or his spies made it to Mexico, let alone plotted with Native Americans. Yet Mikhail demonstrates that upon sighting a fearsome fleet of vessels, the first thing the Spaniards could think of remained their Old-World enemy. We will never know with exact certitude in what ways this fear and the association of Native Americans with the Grand Turk affected the actions and decisions of the colonizers. Yet we know that the Christian mind and imagination of the era was deeply marked by the Ottomans (and other Muslims)—that the state of mind of Spanish merchants and colonial authorities reflected a significant influence of the imaginary Turk. We know that Columbus considered his own adventures and even the crossing of the Atlantic to be merely a part of the Reconquista and the Crusades against Muslims, which had already expelled Jews and Muslims from Spain in 1492.The attempt by Fleischer, Kafadar, and Subrahmanyam to make it seem as though Mikhail is unaware of “real” history serves to excise a vast amount of evidence of vital early modern global connections: the papal bull issued in the immediate aftermath of the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople that licensed Iberian princes to conquer and enslave peoples to the west, including in Africa, or the keen Ottoman interest in reports and documents concerning the lands across the Atlantic as evidenced by the map of South America reproduced by the Ottoman admiral Piri Reis. Mikhail’s work here is akin to Carina L. Johnson’s research situating both the Ottomans and Aztecs in the mental map of the Habsburg world, a major contribution to understanding the lingering image of the Terrible Turk in western literature and cultural memory.[3]

    Focusing on Sultan Selim’s Ottoman Empire against the background of the world historical moment of the conquests, conflicts, and voyages of the sixteenth century, God’s Shadow makes a case for the centrality of the at once “real” and imagined, at once terrible and fabulous Turk in the making of our global cultural universe. On the one hand, this book of world history asks American readers to view Ottoman history as “a branch of world history à part entière.”[4] Yet it also allows anyone interested in Ottoman studies to view the Ottoman past with an eye on its intended and unintended implications for the world beyond the Ottoman cultural universe.

    Both interventions have significant consequences for world history and Ottoman history alike. The centrality of the figure of Selim to Mikhail’s world history seems almost conventional at first, yet it draws new boundaries for the globe by merely expanding them a little. Mikhail’s choice to zoom in on the “figure” of Sultan Selim while writing world history provides a synthetic view of a global historical moment without compromising historical and philological scrutiny. The new world that Mikhail’s gentle rhetorical move makes visible hardly resembles the image of anything we have seen before. That Mikhail’s “Ottoman” figure is not easily recognizable from an “Ottoman” or modern “Turkish” perspective is refreshing. Mikhail’s figure of Selim is not some self-sufficient, self-same, homogenous entity but one that was molded by multiple Western and non-Western rivals warring, trading, competing, and sharing, and in the process literally sculpting one another. This type of intellectual intervention is exactly what one expects from not only good history, but also the burgeoning disciplines of world literature and art, or comparative religions and all the other—impossibly—global perspectives on the past that the contemporary critical humanities pursue today. That Selim’s indelible mark on the world and world consciousness remained unaccounted for—as historical reality and as part of a historically real “fiction”—with all its implications for our cultural and political past, until the publication of God’s Shadow only makes the case for how urgent Mikhail’s intervention has been all along, especially for American readers.

    Mikhail does not only take the faculty of imagination seriously. He takes religion and its history seriously as well. Both gestures mean that the sort of history Mikhail writes is a service to disciplines beyond disciplinary history, from cultural criticism to literary and art history. Moreover, his argument is based on the simple and undeniable fact that the religion and culture of Christianity had a significant role to play in the making of our modern world. What Mikhail does with this fact is to turn the tables to remind us that the history of Christianity did not take shape in a vacuum. Islam had a hand in the making of Christianity. This is a simple and obvious fact that should be clear to any reader and that no competent and ethical student of history can possibly overestimate.

    It is both a perfectly reasonable objection and an objective fact that such a global scope can pose a challenge to the nuanced views of the past that we owe to scholarly specialization. Mikhail’s pioneering work in environmental history displays impeccable historical scrutiny and empirical depth. If the goal of God’s Shadow is to write Ottoman history against a global background, this obviously requires that he paint with broad strokes at times. Writing any sort of complete global history is obviously impossible, yet it is also imperative in our day and age to write world history. The goals of commensurability and comparison across all the fields of the humanities seeking world historical perspectives demand such impossible yet imperative tasks, not merely for the sake of writing and, in some cases, rewriting more inclusive histories, but also to account for the ways in which the reality of our radically intertwined contemporary world took shape despite very old and persistent claims to exceptionality and homogeneity, whether national, religious, ethnic, or otherwise.

    One must ask why this particular text and its author has generated such controversy. It is well known that coffee arrived in Europe via Ottoman connections and that the pressure from the Ottoman Empire prevented Catholic kings and emperors from repressing the “heresy” of Protestantism. What then is the real, not fake, reason for the energy behind this seemingly orchestrated campaign in the United States and Turkey against this book? Those outside the field of Ottoman history read this as “pique” by a trio of holders of major chairs at pinnacle institutions at the remarkable success of a younger, highly productive scholar. Pamela Kyle Crossley adds that the controversy serves as an opportunity and excuse for the three to paper over their “genteel misogyny” by feigning to enlarge the scope of historical interpretation by leveling a charge of “fake global history.” For students and established scholars in the field of Ottoman Studies, the transparent animus motivating this attack on the author and his work replay a politics of policing and gatekeeping that is by now as predictable as it is debasing to the field. The attendant social media mobbing of Mikhail and God’s Shadow in the US and Turkey demonstrates how this power flexing operates. In surrendering their intellectual autonomy, acolytes and former students signal their fealty to their hocas, for they know they must fear this type of public pillorying by chairs in Ottoman and Turkish studies who exert inordinate influence on appointments, publication possibilities, and tenure and promotion in our field.

    Although no field is free from such controversies, Ottoman historians in the United States should regard this episode with a degree of sadness and considerable embarrassment. To be clear—we see this tempest as an intellectual problem that underscores increasingly entrenched tendencies in our field that stymie development and renewal. Over the last decade the loss of highly productive and institution building senior scholars, the late Donald Quataert (1941-2011) in particular,[5] has left a critical vacuum in Ottoman Studies in the United States. Now to think big and comparatively and to raise large questions that affect the way we interpret entire periods of global history, or even parallel regional developments within what seem to be universal patterns, seem to detract from the increasing provincialism and the preciousness of mainstream Ottoman history in the United States, a historiography that seems to have moved only slightly beyond the cultural turn of the 1990s. In the last decades, dismissing more recent and sophisticated approaches in favor of a narrow range of outdated emphases and methods to interpret largely narrative sources of Ottoman history has contributed to the neo-Ottomanism of the contemporary moment, unwittingly or not.

    It has taken a collective, transnational and multi-disciplinary effort to begin to recover and restore the global legacy of the peoples and cultures of the tri-continental Ottoman polity. Indeed, scholars across the humanities and social sciences whose work engages different aspects of Ottoman, Turkish, and, more broadly, Middle Eastern pasts, have all contributed to the methodological sophistication Mikhail’s overall work reflects as well as helping to prepare the intellectual terrain for its reception. However we may regard the merits of God’s Shadow, we must thank its author for his efforts in making the empire’s significance understandable to new audiences while defying those who seek to impose boundaries on the horizons of Ottoman scholarship to solidify their fading authority.

    _____

    Efe Khayyat is Associate Professor of Comparative Literature at Rutgers and a Senior Researcher at St. Edmund’s College of Cambridge. He works mostly with Turkish (Ottoman and modern), Ladino (Judeo-Espagnol), Italian, French, German, and Arabic. He is the author of Istanbul 1940 and Global Modernity (Rowman & Littlefield, 2019). Among his awards are various fellowships and visiting professorships at Gutenberg in Mainz, Science Po and Paris 8 in Paris, Cambridge University, and Jamia Millia Islamia of Delhi; a UNESCO award, the Marjorie Hope Nicolson Fellowship and an ICLS fellowship at Columbia, and the Sir Mick and Lady Barbara Davis Fellowship at the Woolf Institute. He was a member of the founding board of Harvard’s Institute for World Literature. Efe is currently working on an edited volume on the cultural history of artificial intelligence, and a new book on “Kariye” (Khôra).

    Ariel Salzmann is Associate Professor of Islamic and World History at Queen’s University. Her intellectual interests span world regions, disciplines, past and present. In addition to her 2004 monograph on the political sociology of the later Ottoman Empire, Tocqueville in the Ottoman Empire: Rival Paths to the Modern State, Professor Salzmann has published articles on a wide range of subjects, from a sociological analysis of the integration/exclusion of religious minorities in Medieval Christendom and the Islamic World, to an account of the conversion of a Maltese priest to Islam in seventeenth-century Egypt and an analysis of the consumer craze over tulips in eighteenth-century Istanbul. Her scholarship has been supported by fellowships and grants from the National Endowment for the Humanities/American Research Institute in Turkey Fellowship (1988, 1999), the American Council of Learned Societies (2000), and Queen’s University’s A.R.C/ S.A.R.C. (2005, 2011). Her current research project, which seeks to document cultural and diplomatic relations between the popes and Ottoman sultans, was the alternate for the American Academy in Rome’s Senior Prize in Renaissance and Early Modern Italian Studies in 2010. She was awarded a Senior Fellowship at the Research Centre for Anatolian Civilisations of Koç University in Istanbul, Turkey for Winter Term 2011. Before Queen’s, Professor Salzmann taught graduate and undergraduate students at the Pratt Institute, the University of Cincinnati and New York University. At Queen’s University she teaches seminars and lectures on Middle Eastern and world history.

    Back to the essay

    _____

    Notes
    [1] Suraiya Faroqhi, A Cultural History of the Ottomans: The Imperial Elite and its Artefacts (London: I. B. Tauris, 2016); Suraiya Faroqhi, Kultur und Alltag im Osmanischen Reich: Vom Mittelalter bis zum Anfang des 20. Jahrhunderts (Munich: C.H.Beck, 1995); Caroline Finkel, Osman’s Dream: The Story of the Ottoman Empire, 1300-1923 (New York: Basic Books, 2006); Elizabeth F. Thompson, Justice Interrupted: The Struggle for Constitutional Government in the Middle East (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013); Eugene Rogan, The Fall of the Ottomans: The Great War in the Middle East (New York: Basic Books, 2015); Leslie Peirce, Empress of the East: How a European Slave Girl Became Queen of the Ottoman Empire (New York: Basic Books, 2017).

    [2] Erich Auerbach, “The Philology of World Literature,” in Time, History, and Literature: Selected Essays of Erich Auerbach, ed. James I. Porter, trans. Jane O. Newman (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2014), 262-63.

    [3] Carina L. Johnson, Cultural Hierarchy in Sixteenth-Century Europe: The Ottomans and Mexicans (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011).

    [4] Suraiya Faroqhi, Approaching Ottoman History: An Introduction to the Sources (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 2.

    [5] Ariel Salzmann, “The Education of an Ottomanist: Donald Quataert and the Narrative Arc of Ottoman Historiography, 1985-2011,” in History From Below: A Tribute in Memory of Donald Quataert, eds. Selim Karahasanoğlu & Deniz Cenk Demir (Istanbul: Bilgi Üniversitesi Yayinlari 2016) pp.75-106.

     

  • Zachary Loeb — General Ludd in the Long Seventies (Review of Matt Tierney, Dismantlings)

    Zachary Loeb — General Ludd in the Long Seventies (Review of Matt Tierney, Dismantlings)

    a review of Matt Tierney, Dismantlings: Words Against Machines in the American Long Seventies (Cornell University Press, 2019)

    by Zachary Loeb

    ~

    The guy said, “If machinery
    makes you so happy
    go buy yourself
    a Happiness Machine.”
    Then he realized:
    They were trying to do
    exactly that.

    – Kenneth Burke, “Routine for a Stand-Up Comedian” (15)

    A sledgehammer is a fairly versatile tool. You can use it do destroy things, you can use it to build things, and in some cases you can use it to destroy things so that you can build things. Granted, it remains a rather heavy and fairly blunt tool, it is not particularly well suited for fine detail work requiring a high degree of precision. Which is, likely, one of the reasons why those who are famed for wielding sledgehammers often wind up being characterized as being just as blunt and unsubtle as the heavy instruments they swung.

    And, perhaps, no group has been more closely associated with sledgehammers, than the Luddites. Those early 19th century skilled crafts workers who took up arms to defend their communities and their livelihoods from the “obnoxious machines” being introduced by their employers. Though the tactic of machine breaking as a form of protest has a lengthy history that predates (and post-dates) the Luddites, it is a tactic that has come to be bound up with the name of the followers of the mysterious General Ludd. Despite the efforts of writers and thinkers to rescue the Luddite’s legacy from “the enormous condescension of posterity” (Thompson, 12), the term “Luddite” today generally has less to do with a specific historical group and has instead largely become an epithet to be hurled at anyone who dares question the gospel of technological progress. Yet, as the second decade of the twenty-first century comes to a close, it may well be that “Luddite” has lost some of its insulting sting against the backdrop of metastasizing tech giants, growing mountains of toxic e-waste, and an ecological crisis that owes much to an unquestioned faith in the benefits of technology.

    General Ludd may well get the last laugh.

    That the Luddites have lingered so fiercely in the public imagination is a testament to the fact that the Luddites, and the actions for which they are remembered, are good to think with. Insofar as one can talk about Luddism it represents less a coherent body of thought created by the Luddites themselves, and more the attempt by later scholars, critics, artists, and activists to try to make sense of what is usable from the Luddite legacy. And it is this effort to think through and think with, that Matt Tierney explores in his phenomenal book Dismantlings: Words Against Machines in the American Long Seventies. While the focus of Dismantlings, as its title makes clear, is on the “long seventies” (the years from 1965 to 1980) the book represents an important intervention in current discussions and debates around the impacts of technology on society. Just as the various figures Tierney discussed turned their thinking (to varying extents) back to the Luddites, so too the book argues is it worth revisiting the thinking and writing on the matter from the long seventies. This is not a book on the historical Luddites, instead this book is a vital contribution to attempts to theorize what Luddism might mean, and how we are to confront the various technological challenges facing us today.

    Largely remembered for occurrences including the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights movement, the space race, and a general tone of social upheaval – the long seventies also represented a period when technological questions were gaining prominence. With thinkers such as Marshall McLuhan, Buckminster Fuller, Norbert Wiener, and Stewart Brand all putting forth visions of the way that the new consumer technologies would remake society: creating “global villages” or giving rise to a perception of all of humanity as passengers on “spaceship earth.” Yet they were hardly the only figures contemplating technology in that period, and many of the other visions that emerged aimed to directly challenge some of the assumptions and optimism of the likes of McLuhan and Fuller. In the long seventies, the question of what would come next was closely entwined with an evaluation of what had come before, indeed “the breaking of retrogressive notions of technology coupled with the breaking of retrogressive technologies…undergoes a period of vital activity during the Long Seventies in the poems, fictions, and activist speech of what was then called cyberculture,” (15). Granted, this was a “breaking” that generally had more to do with theorizing than with actual machine smashing. Instead it could more accurately be seen as “dismantling,” the careful taking apart so that the functioning can be more fully understood and evaluated. Yet it is a thinking that, importantly, occurred against a recognition that the world was, as Norbert Wiener observed, “the world of Belsen and Hiroshima” (8). To make sense of the resistant narratives towards technology in the long seventies it is necessary to engage critically with the terminology of the period, and thus Tierney’s book represents a sort of conceptual “counterlexicon,” to do just that.

    As anyone who knows about the historical Luddites can attest, they did not hate technology (as such). Rather they were opposed to particular machines being used in a particular way at a particular place and time. And it is a similar attitude towards Luddism (not as an opposition to all technology, but as an understanding that technology has social implications) that Tierney discusses in the long seventies. Luddism here comes to represent “a gradual relinquishing of machines whose continued use would contravene ethical principles” (30), and this attitude is found in Langdon Winner’s concept of “epistemological Luddism” (as discussed in his book Autonomous Technology) and in the poetry of Audre Lorde. While Lorde’s line “for the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house” continues to be well known by activists, the question of “tools” can also be engaged with quite literally. Approached with a mind towards Luddism, Lorde’s remarks can be seen as indicating that it is not only that “the master’s house” must be dismantled but “the master’s tools” as well – and Lorde’s writing suggests poetry as a key tool for the dismantler. The version of Luddism that emerges in the late seventies represents a “sort of relinquishing” it “is not about machine-smashing at all” (47), instead it entails a careful work of examining machines to determine which are worth keeping.

    The attitudes towards technology of the long seventies were closely entwined with a sense of the world as made seemingly smaller and more connected thanks to the new technologies of the era. A certain strand of thinking in this period, exemplified by McLuhan’s “global village” or Fuller’s “Spaceship Earth,” achieved great popular success even as reactionary racist and nativist notions lurked just below the surface of the seeming technological optimism of those concepts. Contrary to the “fatalistic acceptance of new technological constraints on life” (48), works by science fiction authors like Ursula Le Guin and Samuel R. Delaney presented a notion of “communion, as a collaborative process of making do” (51). Works like The Dispossessed (Le Guin) and Triton (Delaney), presented readers with visions, and questions, of “real coexistence…not the passage but the sharing of a moment” (63). In contrast to the “technological Messianism” (74) of the likes of Fuller and McLuhan, the “communion” based works by the likes of Le Guin and Delaney focused less on exuberance for the machines themselves but instead sought to critically engage with what types of coexistence such machines would and could genuinely facilitate.

    Coined by Alice Mary Hilton, in 1963, the idea of “cyberculture” did not originally connote the sort of blissed-out-techno-optimism that the term evokes today. Rather it was meant to be “an alternative to the global village and the one-town world, and an insistence on collective action in a world not only of Belsen and Hiroshima but also of ongoing struggles toward decolonization, sexual and gender autonomy, and racial justice” (12). Thus, “cyberculture” (and cybernetics more generally) may represent one of the alternative pathways along which technological society could have developed. What “cyberculture” represented was not an exuberant embrace of all things “cyber,” but an attempt to name and thereby open a space for protest, not “against thinking machines” but which would “interrupt the advancing consensus that such machines had shrunk the globe” (81). These concepts achieved further maturation in the Ad Hoc Committee’s “Triple Revolution Manifesto” (from 1964), which sought to link an emancipatory political program to advances in new technology, linking “cybernation to a decrease in capitalist, racist, and militarist violence” (85). Seizing upon an earnest belief that the technological ethics could guide new technological developments towards just ends, “cyberculture” also imagined that such tools could supplant scarcity with abundance.

    What “cyberculture” based thinking consists of is a sort of theoretical imagining, which is why a document like a manifesto represents such an excellent example of “cyberculture” in practice. It is a sort of “distortion” that recognizes how “the fates of militarism, racism, and cybernation have only ever been knotted together” and “thus calls for imaginative practices, whether literary or activist, for cutting through the knot” (95). This is the sort of theorizing that can be seen in Martin Luther King, Jr.’s commentary on how science and technology had made of “this world a neighborhood” without yet making “of it a brotherhood” (96). The technological ethics of the advocates of “cyberculture” could be the tools with which to make “it a brotherhood” without discarding all of the tools that had made it first “a neighborhood.” The risks and opportunities of new technological forms were also commented upon in works like Shulamith Firestone’s Dialectic of Sex wherein she argued that women needed to seize and guide these technologies. Blending analysis of what is with a program for what could be, Firestone’s work shows “that if other technologies are possible, then other social practices, even practices that are rarely considered in relation to new technology, may be possible too” (105).

    For some, in the long seventies, challenging machinery still took on a destructive form. Though this often entailed a sort of “revolutionary suicide” which represented an attempt to “prevent the becoming-machine of subjugated human bodies and selves” (113). A refusal to become a machine oneself, and a refusal to allow oneself to become fodder for the machine. Such a self-destructive act flows from the Pynchon-esque tragic recognition of a growing consensus “that nothing can be done to oppose” the new machines (122). Such woebegone dejection is in contrast to other attitudes that sought to not only imagine but to also construct new tools that would put the people and community first. John Mohawk, of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy of Mohawk, Oneida, Onondaga, Cayuga, and Seneca people gave voice to this in his theorizing of “liberation technology.” As Mohawk explained at a UN session, “Decentralized technologies that meet the needs of the people those technologies serve will necessarily give life to a different kind of political structure, and it is safe to predict that the political structure that results will be anticolonial in nature” (127). The search for such alternative technologies suggested a framework in which what was needed was “machines to suit the community, or else no machines at all” (129) – a position that countered the technological abundance hoped for by “cyberculture” with an appeal for technologies of subsistence. After all, this was the world of Belsen and Hiroshima, “a world of new and barely understood technologies” (149), in such a world “where the very skin of the planet is a ledger of technological misapplications” (154) it is wise to proceed with caution and humility.

    The long seventies present a fascinating kaleidoscope of visions of technologies, how to live with them, how to select them, and how to think about them. What makes the long seventies so worthy of revisiting is that they and the present moment are both “seized with a critical discourse about technology, and by a popular social upheaval in which new social movements emerge, grow, and proliferate” (5). Luddism may be routinely held up as a foolish reaction, but “by breaking apart certain machines, we can learn to use them better, or never use them again. By dissecting certain technocentric cultural logics, we can likewise challenge or reject them” (162). That the Luddites are so constantly vilified may ultimately be a signal of their dangerous power, insofar as they show that people need not passively sit and accept everything that is sold to them as technological progress. Dismantling represents a politics “not as machine hating, but as a way to protect life against a large=scale regimentation and policing of security, labor, time, and community” (166).

    To engage in the fraught work of technological critique is to open oneself up to being labeled a Luddite (with the term being hurled as an epithet), to accusations of complicity in the very systems you are critiquing, and to a realization that many people simply don’t want to listen to their smartphone habits being criticized. Yet the various conceptual frameworks that can be derived from a consideration of “words against machines in the American long seventies” provide “tactics that might be repeated or emulated, if nostalgia and cynicism do not bar the way” (172). Such concepts present a method of pushing back at the “yes, but” logic which riddles so many discussions of technology today – conversations in which the downsides are acknowledged (the “yes”), yet where the counter is always offered that perhaps there’s still a way to use those technologies correctly (the “but”).

    In contrast to the comfortable rut of “yes, but” Tierney’s book argues for dismantling, wherein “to dismantle is to set aside the dithering of yes, but and to try instead the hard work of critique” (175).

    Running through many of the thinkers, writers, and activists detailed in Dismantlings is a genuine attempt to come to terms with the ways in which new technological forces are changing society. Though many of these individuals responded to such changes not by picking up hammers, but by turning to writing, this activity was always couched in a sense that the shifts afoot truly mattered. Agitated by the roaring clangor of the machines of their day, these figures from the long seventies were looking at the machines of their moment in order to consider what would need to be done to construct a different future. And they did this while looking askance at the more popular techno-utopian visions of the future being promulgated in their day. Writing of the historic Luddites, the historian David Noble commented that, “the Luddites were perhaps the last people in the West to perceive technology in the present tense and to act upon that perception” (Noble, 7), and it may be tempting to suggest that the various figures cataloged in Dismantlings were too focused on the future to have acted upon technology in their present. Nevertheless, as Tierney notes, “the present does not precede the future; rather the future (like its past) distorts and neighbors the present” (173) – the Luddites may have acted in the present, but their eyes were also on the future. It is worth remembering that we do not make sense of the technologies around us solely by what they mean now, but by what we think they will mean for the future.

    While Dismantlings provides a “counterlexicon” drawn from the writing/thinking/acting of a range of individuals in the late seventies, there is something rather tragic about reading these thoughts two decades into the twenty-first century. After all, readers of Dismantlings find themselves in what would have been the future to these late seventies thinkers. And, to be blunt, the world of today seems more in line with those thinkers’ fears for the future than with their hopes. An “epistemological Luddism” has not been used to carefully evaluate which tools to keep and which to discard, “communion” has not become a guiding principle, and “cyberculture” has drifted away from Hiton’s initial meaning to become a stand-in for a sort of uncritical techno-utopianism. The “master’s tools” have expanded to encompass ever more powerful tools, and the “master’s house” appears sturdier than ever – worse still many of us may have become so enamored by some of “the master’s tools” that we have started to entertain delusions that these are actually our tools. To a certain extent, Dismantlings stands as a reminder of a range of individuals who tried to warn us that we would wind up in the mess in which we find ourselves. Those who are equipped with such powers of perception are often mocked and derided in their own time, but looking back at them with hindsight one can get a discomforting sense of just how prescient they truly were.

    Matt Tierney’s Dismantlings: Words Against Machines in the American Long Seventies is a remarkable book. It is also a difficult book. Difficult not because of impenetrable theoretical prose (the writing is clear and crisp), but because it is always challenging to go back and confront the warnings that were ignored. At a moment when headlines are filled with sordid tales of the malfeasance of the tech behemoths, and increasingly terrifying news of the state of the planet, it is both reassuring and infuriating to recognize that it did not have to be this way. True, these long seventies figures did not specifically warn about Facebook, and climate change was not the term they used to speak of environmental degradation – but it’s doubtful that many of these figures would be particularly surprised by either occurrence.

    As a contribution to scholarship, Dismantlings represents a much needed addition to the literature on the long seventies – particularly the literature that considers technology in that period. While much of the present literature (much of it excellent) dealing with those years has tended to focus on the hippies who fell in love with their computers, Tierney’s book is a reminder of those who never composed poems of praise for their machines. After all, not everyone believed that the computer would be an emancipatory technology. This book brings together a wide assortment of figures and draws useful connections between them that will hopefully rescue many a name from obscurity. And even those names that can hardly be called obscure appear in a new light when viewed through the lenses that Tierney develops in this book. While readers may be familiar with names like Lorde, Le Guin, Delaney, and Pynchon – Tierney makes it clear that there is much to be gained by reading Hilton, Mohawk, Firestone, and revisiting the “Triple Revolution Manifesto.”

    Tierney also offers a vital intervention into ongoing discussions over the meaning of Luddism. While it may be fair to say that such discussions are occurring amongst a rather small group of people, it is a passionate debate nevertheless. Tierney avoids re-litigating the history of the original Luddites, and his timeline cuts off before the emergence of the Neo-Luddites, but his book provides valuable insight into the transformations the idea of Luddism went through in the long seventies. Granted, Luddism does not always appear to be a term that was being embraced by the figures in Tierney’s history. Certainly, Winner developed the concept of “epistemological Luddism,” and Pynchon is still remembered for his “Is it O.K. to Be a Luddite?” op-ed, but many of those who spoke about dismantling did not don the mask, or pick up the hammer, of General Ludd. Thus, this book is a clear attempt not to restate others’ views on Luddism, but to freshly theorize the idea. Drawing on his long seventies sources, Tierney writes that:

    Luddism is not the destruction of all machines. And neither is it the hatred of machines as such. Like cyberculture, it is another word for dismantling. Luddism is the performative breaking of machines that limit species expression and impede planetary survival. (13)

    This is a robust and loaded definition of Luddism. While it clearly moves Luddism towards a practice instead of simply a descriptor for particular historical actors, it also presents Luddism as a constructive (as opposed to destructive) process. There are several aspects of Tierney’s definition that deserve particular attention. First, by also evoking “cyberculture” (referring to Hilton’s ethically grounded notion when she coined the term), Tierney demonstrates that Luddism is not the only word or tactic for dismantling. Second, by evoking “the performative breaking,” Tierney moves Luddism away from the blunt force of hammers and towards the more difficult work of critical evaluation. Lastly, by linking Luddism to “species expression and…planetary survival,” Tierney highlights that even if this Luddism is not “the hatred of machines as such” it still entails the recognition that there are some machines that should be hated – and that should be taken apart. It’s the sort of message that you can imagine many people getting behind, even as one can anticipate the choruses of “yes, but” that would be sure to greet this.

    Granted, even though Tierney considers a fair number of manifestos of a revolutionary sort, Dismantlings is not a new Luddite manifesto (though it might be a Luddite lexicon). While Tierney writes of the various figures he analyzes with empathy and affection, he also writes with a certain weariness. After all, as was noted earlier, we are currently living in the world about which these critics tried to warn us. And therefore Tierney can note, “if no political overturning followed the literary politics of cyberculture and Luddism in their own moment, then certainly none will follow them now” (25). Nevertheless, Tierney couches these dour comments in the observation that, “even as a revolution fails, its failure fuels common feeling without which subsequent revolutions cannot succeed” (25). At the very least the assorted thinkers and works described in Dismantlings provide a rich resource to those in the present who are concerned about “species expression” and “planetary survival.” Indeed, those advocating to break up the tech companies or pushing for the Green New Deal can learn a great deal by revisiting the works discussed in Dismantlings.

    Nevertheless, it feels as though there are some key characters missing from Dismantlings. To be clear this point is not meant to detract from Tierney’s excellent and worthwhile book. Furthermore, it must be noted that devotees of particular theorists and social critics tend to have a strong “why isn’t [the theorist/social critic I am devoted to] discussed more in here!?” reaction to works. Nevertheless, there were certain figures who seemed to be oddly missing from Dismantlings. Reflecting on the types of machines against which figures in the long seventies were reacting, Tierney writes of “the war machine, the industrial machine, the computer, and the machines of state are all connected” (4). And it was the dangerous connection of all of these that the social critic Lewis Mumford sought to describe in his theorizing of “the megamachine” – theorizing which he largely did in his two volume Myth of the Machine (which was published in the long seventies). Though Mumford’s idea of “technic” eras is briefly mentioned early in Dismantlings, his broader thinking that touches directly on the core areas of Dismantlings are not remarked on. Several figures who were heavily influenced by Mumford’s work appear in Dismantlings (notably Bookchin and Roszak), and Mumford’s thought could have certainly bolstered some of the books arguments. Mumford, after all, saw himself as a bit of an anti-McLuhan – and in evaluating thinkers who were concerned with what technology meant for “species expression” and “planetary survival” Mumford deserves more attention. Given the overall thrust of Dismantlings it also might have been interesting to see Erich Fromm’s The Revolution of Hope: toward a humanized technology and Ivan Illich’s Tools for Conviviality discussed. Granted, these comments are not meant as attacks on Tierney’s excellent book – they are simply an observation by an avowed Mumford partisan.

    To fully appreciate why the thoughts from the long seventies still matter today it may be useful to consider a line from one of Mumford’s early works. As Mumford wrote, in 1931, “every generation revolts against its fathers and makes friends with its grandfathers” (Mumford, 1). To a certain extent, Dismantlings is an argument for those currently invested in debates around technology to revisit “and make friends” with earlier generations of critics. There is much to be gained from such a move. Notable here is a shift in an evaluation of dangers. Throughout Dismantlings Tierney returns frequently to Wiener’s line that “this is the world of Belsen and Hiroshima” – and without meaning to be crass this is an understanding of the world that has somewhat receded into the past as the memory of those events becomes enshrined in history books. Yet for the likes of Wiener and many of the other individuals discussed in Dismantlings, “Belsen and Hiroshima” were not abstractions or distant memories – they were not the crimes that could be consigned to the past. Rather they were bleak reminders of the depths to which humanity could sink, and the way in which science and technology could act as a weight to drag humanity even deeper. Today’s world is the world of climate change, border walls, and surveillance capitalism – but it is still “the world of Belsen and Hiroshima.”

    There is much that needs to be dismantled, and not much time in which to do that work.

    The lessons from the long seventies are those that we are still struggling to reckon with today, including the recognition that in order to fully make sense of the machines around us it may be necessary to dismantle many of them. Of course, “not everything should be dismantled, but many things should be and some things must be, even if we don’t know where to begin” (163).

    Tierney’s book does not provide an easy answer, but it does show where we should begin.

    _____

    Zachary Loeb earned his MSIS from the University of Texas at Austin, an MA from the Media, Culture, and Communications department at NYU, and is currently a PhD candidate in the History and Sociology of Science department at the University of Pennsylvania. Loeb works at the intersection of the history of technology and disaster studies, and his research focusses on the ways that complex technological systems amplify risk, as well as the history of technological doom-saying. He is working on a dissertation on Y2K. Loeb writes at the blog Librarianshipwreck, and is a frequent contributor to The b2 Review Digital Studies section.

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    _____

    Works Cited

    • Lewis Mumford. The Brown Decades. New York: Dover Books, 1971.
    • David F. Noble. Progress Without People. Toronto: Between the Lines, 1995.
    • E.P. Thompson. The Making of the English Working Class. New York: Vintage Books, 1966.
  • Johannes von Moltke — Comment on the Draft Report of the Commission on Unalienable Human Rights

    Johannes von Moltke — Comment on the Draft Report of the Commission on Unalienable Human Rights

    by Johannes von Moltke

    ~

    Author’s Note: In the summer of 2019, Secretary of State Michael Pompeo announced the formation of a “Commission on Unalienable Rights.” Headed by Harvard Law Professor and former U.S. Ambassador to the Vatican, Mary Ann Glendon, the group was composed largely of academics and charged with “providing the U.S. government with advice on human rights grounded in our nation’s founding principles and the principles of the 1948 Declaration of Human Rights.” I am on record along with many others as having been skeptical of the Commission since its founding. I consequently followed its proceedings and results with attention and interest, and I certainly learned a great deal during that period and from the Commission’s Draft Report. Unfortunately, little of what I learned softened my skepticism – or that of others: when the report was released earlier this summer, 230 human rights organizations, religious groups, activists, and former U.S. government officials objected to the Commission’s findings in a forceful joint letter. Meanwhile, citizens were invited to comment on the Draft Report during an exceedingly short comment period of approximately two weeks. I did so, submitting for the record my account, largely reproduced here, of why some of the commission’s findings roundly confirmed the reasons for my initial skepticism. Whereas the Commission by its own admission chose to disregard such public comments in submitting its barely revised Final Report, I find there is reason for continued and increasing concern as we watch the Commission’s recommendations translate into U.S. policy, both domestically and in the international arena.

     

    Upon learning last year of the appointment of two colleagues in my academic field to Mike Pompeo’s newly minted “Commission on Unalienable Rights,” a group of fellow faculty members gathered to voice our concerns in an open letter that was subsequently signed by over 200 scholars in various fields of literary and cultural studies. In the letter, we expressed our worry over the work of a group commissioned by an administration whose record on human rights was already abysmal at the time and has only worsened in the intervening year. We also questioned the viability of a nation-centered approach to human rights based on the strictly limited review of founding documents of the United States and the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights. The notion of human rights, we argued, “cannot be grounded in a national tradition, much less in the political agenda of a hyper-partisan administration. Pretending otherwise risks further undermining the already fragile international consensus of the post-war era.” Our letter implored our colleagues to use their voices to call out the Trump administration’s poor record on human rights at home and abroad, to speak up for the inviolability of human dignity, and to protect that dignity no matter the specific identity markers of any particular human being.

    On this last point, the Draft Report delivers, in the sense that it repeatedly centers the notion of human dignity in its approach to unalienable rights, correctly pointing to the importance of this concept for the UDHR and harping, less persuasively, on the latter’s parallels with the founding documents of the United States. As the Report points out, the UDHR refrains from specifying the source of that dignity. But the Commission had no qualms doing so, offering natural law and God as the only two possible fonts of unalienable rights. It does so in the context of an argument that privileges religious freedom, along with the right to property, above all other human rights.

    God and Nature or the Right to have Rights

    This narrow construal of two rights as more fundamental than, and (theo)logically preceding, any others was to be expected – and was expected by many observers. It is as flawed now that it appears within the reasoned argument of the Report as it was when critics expressed concern and worry about the way this commission was primed to generate precisely such a result. More on this below; for now let us just note what a slanted notion of the freedom of religion underpins a government document that appeals to a single religious tradition and anchors the notion of human dignity in the “beautiful Biblical teachings” that equate the human to the image of the Christian God. By contrast, it was entirely in keeping with the narrow political and ideological purview of the Commission that the public presentation of the report should have been blessed by Cardinal Dolan. In his opening prayer, Dolan clarified for all where those unalienable rights come from. Addressing himself to God, he invited the assembled audience to praise “the creator who has bestowed upon and ingrained into the very nature of his creatures certain inalienable rights, acknowledged by the founders, enshrined in our country’s normative documents, defended with the blood of grateful patriots. You – you, dear Lord – have bestowed these inalienable rights.”

    But it wouldn’t even have required this objectionable mix of religious and nationalistic registers to make the point. Clearly, this Report advocates a theologically anchored world view, to which the derivation of unalienable rights from natural law is hardly a serious alternative. Both God and Nature are metaphysical categories as sources of rights, allowing the Report to insist that every human being always has such rights, because they are universal, ahistorical, acultural. As such, they are posited to be uncontestable (here “unalienable”) – but of course, contestation merely moves one slot over. Now what is contested is either God or Nature; and although the Report does not even entertain the possibility of such contestation, there has been, to put it mildly, little agreement on the nature of either God or Nature.

    In the context of the Report, these two metaphysical categories are not only closely aligned but also treated as allowing no further alternatives. Unalienable rights, according to the Report, derive either from Nature or from God, or else the very notion of such rights is meaningless. This is a willful misrepresentation of human rights discourse as it has developed over the centuries, including at the time of the American founding. For alternative accounts exist – but to engage them and thereby offer readers a fair and full accounting of the human rights tradition would have required entertaining a kind of anti-foundationalist thinking that is integral to the history of human rights theory but is entirely elided by the Report. This thinking finds a key expression in Hannah Arendt’s oft-invoked notion (though her name is never mentioned in the Report) of the “right to have rights” – a right that depends for its existence not on God or nature but on recognition by others. “We are not born equal,” she asserts for example; “we become equal as members of a group on the strength of our decision to guarantee ourselves mutually equal rights.” Rather than the appeal to first principles, what is at stake here is the assertion of a community that can be counted on to uphold certain rights and prevent them from being abrogated. “We hold these truths to be self-evident” is precisely such a speech act, which is why it needs to precede the positing of rights as unalienable in the Declaration of Independence.

    In this line of thinking, unalienability can never shed its contingency – a point Arendt experienced personally and formulated forcefully in her chapter on the “End of the Rights of Man” in The Origins of Totalitarianism (1951). A few years later, Earl Warren, Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court employed identical terminology. Though there is no evidence that he was aware of Arendt’s prior formulation, he, too, defined citizenship as a basic right “for it is nothing less than the right to have rights. Remove this priceless possession and there remains a stateless person, disgraced and degraded in the eyes of his countrymen. His very existence is at the sufferance of the state within whose borders he happens to be. … [H]e will presumably enjoy, at most, only the limited rights and privileges of aliens, and like the alien he might even be … deprived of the right to assert any rights.”

    Both Arendt and Warren came to similar conclusions, asserting the importance of basic human rights such as citizenship while recognizing that these are always fundamentally, literally alienable. The very assertion of the “right to have rights,” in other words, opens onto a conceptual abyss that the Commission refused to confront. To consider it seriously would have involved recognizing rights claims for what they have been, from the Declaration of Independence onward: “declarations that involve the invention and disclosure of a new political and normative world” (Ayten Gündogdu).

    Sticking to Founding Principles or Picking from the Partisan Menu

    The Commissioners might counter that Arendt and other critiques of human rights discourse were beyond their remit, for they had been tasked explicitly to confine themselves to a limited set of sources. Originally charged with “provid[ing] fresh thinking about human rights discourse where such discourse has departed from our nation’s founding principles of natural law and natural rights,” the Commission was at first asked to decant old wine (founding principles) into new bottles (fresh thinking). But then even such specious renewal was further curtailed as the official Charter told Commissioners to stick to “our nation’s founding principles and the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights” while taking care “not to discover new principles.” In other words, here was an advisory commission staffed with intellectuals told to put on blinders to intellectual history. It remains difficult for me to understand how any self-respecting scholar could accept such conditions. That the group was nonetheless formed and complied, then, speaks to its partisanship – not only on matters of politics, but also on matters of theory. As is evident in the omission of entire swaths of human rights discourse from consideration, the blinkered derivation of human rights from natural law and theology seems to have been all but agreed in advance. For to entertain any alternatives would have thrown open the notion of “unalienability” to time and politics, from which the Commissioners appear to have been keen to protect it in the name of God and nature.

    The omission is not, I stress, for lack of knowledge; there were plenty of Commissioners, our two colleagues among them, who would have been familiar with anti-foundationalist political theory and philosophy. At one point, in the discussion of democracy and human rights, the authors do articulate the insight that “it is through democratic deliberation, persuasion, and decision-making that new claims of right come to be recognized and socially legitimated.” Even Mary Ann Glendon herself, the Commission’s chair, noted during the proceedings that “there can never be a closed catalogue of human rights because times and circumstances change.”

    One is left to wonder, then, about the political motivations for leaving such insights behind, if not actively sequestering them, in formulating the Report’s conclusions. For their inclusion would have messed up the tidy, essentializing findings of the Report, which ultimately – and shockingly – manages to assert that the protection of human dignity boils down to two foundational rights: religious freedom, and the right to own property. Adopting the founders’ perspective, the Commissioners state: “Foremost among the unalienable rights that government is established to secure, …are property rights and religious liberty. A political society that destroys the possibility of either loses its legitimacy.”

    How to square the sheer arbitrariness of this assertion, its essentializing reduction of a rich 18th century discourse to two principal rights plucked from a present partisan menu, with the undeniable erudition that suffuses this report? Why these two, as opposed to the rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, just to pick the most proximate? The claim seems downright ludicrous, further weakened by the flagrant contradictions that it draws in its wake: how on earth can one hold that the founders meant “property” to “encompass life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” when this flies in the face of even the most well-meaning historical semantics, and when other documents such as the Fifth Amendment, which the Report also quotes, clearly distinguish property from life and liberty?

    The most disturbing contradiction, however, concerns the assertion of a hierarchy of human rights per se. The Report spends considerable time refuting such a hierarchy, pointing to the “integrated character” of rights in the Universal Declaration. The authors cite the Vienna Declaration’s important phrasing that “all human rights are universal, indivisible, and interdependent and interrelated.” According to the Commissioners, it “defies the intent and structure of the UDHR to pick and choose among its rights according to preferences and ideological presuppositions while ignoring other fundamental rights.” But such insights are reduced to lip service in view of the fact that the Draft Report does exactly that, endorsing “a sort of human rights cafeteria plan,” as Elisa Massimino and Alexandra Schmitt put it in a recent assessment. The Report picks and chooses property rights and religious freedom according to the preferences and ideological presuppositions that went into the appointment of the Commission itself, as numerous commentators pointed out already a year ago.

    America First or the Decline of Empire

    At the time, they also questioned the U.S.-centric scope of Pompeo’s brief, a concern we raised in our open letter as well. The Draft Report reflects an awareness of this issue, going to great lengths to outline a position on national sovereignty, democratic governance, and the international rights regime. While there is undeniable nuance in these reflections, they ultimately amount to a rationalization of the America First doctrine that runs from Lindbergh to Trump. Commissioned by the Secretary of State, the Report leaves it to U.S. foreign policy – and not to the instruments of any international human rights regime – to determine “which rights most accord with national principles and interests at any given time.” Like other passages that emphasize the role of national sovereignty in promulgating rights, this opens the door not only to establishing a hierarchy of rights, but also to their arbitrary invocation and application based on national (self-)interest. By contrast, a robust international human rights regime would be robust precisely by virtue of its ability to curtail such arbitrariness as well as limit national sovereignty.

    Although the Report appears briefly to recognize this intentional aspect of international human rights in the Introduction (where it notes that, in the wake of Nazism and the Nuremburg trials, “a nation’s treatment of its own citizens would no longer be regarded as immune from outside scrutiny and repercussions”), it soon loses this perspective from view. Instead, the Report repeatedly harps on the importance of national sovereignty and displays little to no interest in the instruments and treaties – including those ratified or signed by the U.S. – that place it in an international framework. Attempts to finesse this issue in terms of foreign policy prerogatives and enforcement concerns notwithstanding, the testimony by invited experts who “showed outright disdain for the international human rights system” and downplayed the importance of [international] treaties” still resonates in the draft.

    In light of this overall tone of the document, the claim that “after [the UDHR], no state may reasonably claim that the treatment of its own citizens in matters of human rights is solely a question of its own domestic affairs” rings hollow. For on the contrary, the report insists over and over again on the right of the United States to do just that – a normative claim that is buttressed by ample empirical evidence: the current administration tramples refugees’ rights with seeming impunity (here, too, the report provides normative cover, by broadly redefining refugees as migrants and impugning their motivations for flight). America, which Pompeo demands we think of as fundamentally “good” and “special,” is to stand as the beacon of freedom while it incarcerates children apart from their parents, eviscerates the right to asylum,  undermines the human rights of trans people serving in the military, and doesn’t even manage to ensure the basic right to vote. But of course none of those rights have to be construed as basic – that’s a priority reserved, we recall, for property and religious freedom.

    Empirical failures, the Commissioners might retort, do not undermine or invalidate normative claims. The Report stresses at several strategic points that the United States has fallen short of its own standards: it spends time discussing the stain of slavery on the Constitution, reconstructing women’s fight to see their rights recognized as human and unalienable, and acknowledging the ways in which the U.S. still falls short of enacting those rights for all. It even makes up-to-date reference to the continued murders of black people by the police, here reduced to “social convulsions” after the “brutal killing of an African-American man” – George Floyd – who remains unnamed. The Report implicitly acknowledges that the human rights it reconstructs from founding documents and the UDHR are aspirational more than anything else. “We are keenly aware,” the authors aver, “that America can only be an effective advocate for human rights abroad if she demonstrates her commitment to those same rights at home.” But the Report manages to imbue even that acknowledgment with a distinctly jingoistic ring: “One of the most important ways in which the United States promotes human rights abroad,” the authors write in their Prefatory Note, “is by serving as an example of a rights-respecting society where citizens live together under law amid the nation’s great religious, ethnic, and cultural heterogeneity. Like all nations, the United States is not without its failings. Nevertheless, the American example of freedom, equality, and democratic self-government has long inspired, and continues to inspire, champions of human rights around the world.”

    This strikes me as the language of a declining empire. In its decline, it seeks out and clings to new antipodes. And thus it is no accident that this Report zeroes in on China; given the events that have transpired in the weeks since its release – the shuttering of the Chinese consulate in Houston (and the Chinese retaliation in Chengdu), the renewed focus on China’s intellectual property rights infringement, and a “quad of bellicose speeches” from top administration officials, Pompeo among them – one could be forgiven for thinking that one of Pompeo’s key goals in commissioning the Report was to generate a founding document for a new Cold War. To point out this issue is not to engage in false moral equivalencies, as the new hawks like to claim and as the Report implies. Referring to China, Iran, and Russia, the authors warn that “There can be no moral equivalence between rights-respecting countries that fall short in progress toward their ideals, and countries that regularly and massively trample on their citizens’ human rights.” But this is beside the point. To question the administration’s China policy does not require us to overlook Chinese human rights infringements, let alone to equate them to American failings in this regard. On the other hand, it is impossible to reconcile the State Department’s tough stance on China with the President’s encouragement for Xi Jinping’s Uighur policies.

    Just as China and the refusal of “moral equivalences” serves as a useful foil abroad for keeping up morale and keeping our eyes off America’s shortcomings, so does an influential piece of journalism offer an unlikely domestic antipode for the Commission’s and Pompeo’s self-congratulating rhetoric. In his remarks at the Report’s unveiling, the Secretary singled out for public shaming the “1619 Project,” spearheaded by Pulitzer Prize winner Nikole Hannah-Jones for The New York Times. Describing the project as driven by “Marxist ideology,” Pompeo claims that the New York Times “wants you to believe that our country was founded for human bondage. They want you to believe that America’s institutions continue to reflect the country’s acceptance of slavery at our founding.” Anyone who has even cared to glance at this pathbreaking project will recognize the absurdity of this claim: while the “1619 Project” does powerfully re-center the American narrative on slavery, its story-telling is driven, in the published piece and the influential podcast alike, precisely by the aspirational quality of America’s founding principles – only that these are now measured far more consistently against the lasting realities of its historical founding on slavery. But instead of the pristine American flag that Hannah-Jones’s father routinely flies even in the face of his enduring oppression, Pompeo sees only the red flag of Marxism – and manages to tie America’s newspaper of record to China, just for good measure: “The Chinese Communist Party must be gleeful when they see the New York Times spout this ideology.”

    “Faithful, Quiet Citizens” or the Rollback of Rights

    Though this is no longer the language of the Report, it is an expression of the political stance that led to the formation of the Commission, which was designed to buttress it in turn. While the Report is undoubtedly more muted, measured, and nuanced than the brash commissioning Secretary, it is nonetheless strident in its political posturing, its blinkered notions of natural rights, its celebration of armed, self-reliant citizens (“the right to self-defense, in the American tradition, provides opportunities for citizens to develop habits of self-reliance”), and its strenuous derivation from the nation’s founding documents of limited government as the ostensible precondition of a democratic, rights-respecting polity. Translated back into Pompeo-speak, this amounts to a deeply regressive and partisan world-view, pitched with barely veiled disdain against the protestors who were marching for the recognition of their rights even as the Secretary delivered his remarks: “Free and flourishing societies cannot be nurtured only by the hand of government. They must be nurtured through patriotic educators, present fathers and mothers, humble pastors, next-door neighbors, steady volunteers, honest businesspeople, and so many other faithful, quiet citizens.” Faithful, quiet citizens, indeed. Rest in Peace and Power, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, John Lewis.

    For all its historical detail and theoretical erudition, the Commission on Unalienable Rights has licensed bare-faced propaganda, directed alternately abroad and at the administration’s domestic constituents, whose free speech it happily impugns. Our colleagues on the commission either allowed themselves to be instrumentalized for this propaganda project, or actively signed up to support it – at this point, the difference hardly matters anymore. Anyone who thought this report would outrun its intended effects, or that it would seriously nuance the debate, was mistaken and will be disappointed. By contrast, the Draft Report amply confirms the concerns of those, including myself, who worried about the Commission’s “general skepticism toward international human rights, that there are too many rights, that rights protections should be rolled back, that there is a hierarchy among rights, and that religious freedom is one of the most important rights, if not the most important.” The resulting document is a pseudo-intellectual fig leaf for a Secretary of State who blithely talks about the US role in leading a new international order even as the administration he represents is actively withdrawing from that order where the environment, public health, and arms agreements are concerned (not to mention that they never even signed on to the international court). Meanwhile, the Report advances the government’s religious agenda and helps legitimize a belligerent disengagement from China through its erudite and patriotic historical narrative. The Commission’s Report could be described as a consummate form of ideological window dressing if it didn’t also pull back the curtain for all to see this administration going about its work.

    _____

    Johannes von Moltke is Professor of German and Film, Media & Television at the University of Michigan, where his research and teaching focus on film and German cultural history of the 20th and 21st centuries. He is the author of The Curious Humanist: Siegfried Kracauer in America (2015) and No Place Like Home: Locations of Heimat in German Cinema (2005).

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  • Jensen Suther — Back to Life? The Persistence of Hegel’s Idealism (A Response to Karen Ng, Hegel’s Concept of Life: Self-Consciousness, Freedom, Logic)

    Jensen Suther — Back to Life? The Persistence of Hegel’s Idealism (A Response to Karen Ng, Hegel’s Concept of Life: Self-Consciousness, Freedom, Logic)

    a response to Karen Ng, Hegel’s Concept of Life: Self-Consciousness, Freedom, Logic (Oxford University Press, 2020)

    by Jensen Suther

    ~

    The question of Hegel’s idealism has haunted the traditions of philosophy and critical theory for nearly two hundred years. In Marx’s early works, he polemicizes against Hegel’s alleged rationalization of the modern state on the basis of his Science of Logic. Adorno conjures the indelible image of the Hegelian system as “the belly turned mind,” swallowing up the empirical world.[i] On the philosophical side, Schelling—Hegel’s contemporary and former mentor—objects to Hegel’s supposed prioritization of spirit over nature, while thinkers from Heidegger to Foucault spurn Hegel’s rationalism, his apparent neglect of contingency.[ii] In more recent history, the debate over Hegel’s idealism has taken the form of a contest between purportedly “metaphysical” and “non-metaphysical” readings of his system, represented by figures like Stephen Houlgate and Robert Pippin, respectively. As has recently been pointed out, this repeats with a difference, in a de-politicized form, a much older contest: between Left and Right Hegelianism.[iii] Haunting each of these contexts is the specter of a problem that, ironically, Hegel was the first to rigorously identify: the “subjective idealism” of Kant’s critical project. It is the problem of the imposition by mind of its own form on recalcitrant matter; the threat of a permanent disjunction between mind and world; a divide beyond which knowers cannot reach, the infamous no man’s land of “things in themselves.” The most ambitious recent accounts of Hegel—from Pippin’s Hegel’s Realm of Shadows to Robert Brandom’s A Spirit of Trust—have sought to clear Hegel of the charge of subjective idealism and to demonstrate the objective purport or world-directedness of his most fundamental categories. Hegel’s odds of beating his case have never looked better.

    Yet in several major ways, it could be argued, even these attempts have failed to fully vindicate the Hegelian project. As a number of commentators have noted over the years, thinkers like Pippin and Brandom have not done full justice to Hegel’s naturalism, a key ingredient in his attempt to overcome the subjective idealism of his two great predecessors, Kant and Fichte. For example, J.M. Bernstein and John McDowell have challenged Pippin’s disavowal of Hegel’s Aristotelian and post-Kantian emphasis on the category of life. As Pippin and Brandom have argued, human action cannot be satisfactorily explained in naturalistic terms. If we want to know why a young nationalist assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand in 1914, we do not ask which neurons fired when, or which physiological mechanism enabled his fingers to pull the trigger. We ask what his reasons were, why such an action showed up as worth undertaking under such conditions. For the anti-naturalists, then, what must be avoided is scientific reductionism, the cession of distinctly philosophical territory to neurobiology, but also bad metaphysics, the mythical idea of a world-creating spirit or of spirit as the “end” of nature. Whereas Pippin and Brandom have frequently argued that a hard distinction between spirit and nature, the space of reason and the space of causes, is at play in Hegel’s thought, McDowell in particular has sought to show that the anti-naturalists have a “boot-strapping” problem, whereby reason comes to look “supernatural” or “spooky.” According to McDowell, nature is not reducible to a disenchanted “space of causes,” since it also consists in the purposive activity of self-organized living beings, plants and animals. Such organisms establish a context of meaning internal to nature, which rational beings like us activate in a distinctly self-conscious, discursive, social, and historical manner. As McDowell argues, human freedom or reason is not “a kind of exemption from nature, something that permits us to elevate ourselves above it,” but rather “our own special way of living an animal life.”[iv] Likewise, in Bernstein’s critical writings on both Pippin and Brandom, he has argued that the “living” nature of rational agents is not only essential for rendering the idea of agency intelligible; it also has crucial implications for political questions surrounding social organization and what an emancipatory society would actually require—a key concern of all students of Hegel’s philosophy.[v]

    This critical discussion has unfolded over the course of several decades and has in recent years come to something of a head. Karen Ng’s new book, Hegel’s Concept of Life: Self-Consciousness, Freedom, Logic is the latest installment in the debate over Hegel’s naturalism and an important contribution to the ongoing “analytic” reassessment of Idealism in general and of Hegel’s Science of Logic in particular. The key claim of Hegel’s Concept of Life is that the idealist project of articulating the a priori conditions of action and experience remains radically incomplete “without a systematic accounting of life’s essential and constitutive role” in cognition (4). Ng is not alone here; other thinkers have recently defended the centrality of life to Hegel’s project, including Terry Pinkard, James Kreines, and Thomas Khurana, in addition to Bernstein and McDowell. An important neo-Aristotelean strand of Idealism scholarship has also exhibited a preoccupation with the question of life, as illustrated by the work of Michael Thompson and Robert Stern. But Ng takes her account to be distinguished by its singular focus on the systematic implications of Hegel’s logical concept of life, which is meant to specify—in a Kantian vein—a fundamental condition for the intelligibility of objects as well as of reason itself. Indeed, the most prominent refrain throughout the book is the claim that “life opens up the possibility of intelligibility as such” and that “life opens up the space of reasons itself” (7, 10).

    In the tradition of McDowell and others, Ng’s book turns to the concept of life to overcome the limitations of the strand of Hegel scholarship often associated with Pippin’s path-breaking work from 1989, Hegel’s Idealism, which reads Hegel in terms of his inheritance of Kant’s account of self-consciousness in the first Critique. While Ng does bring into view some essential components of a possible solution to problems raised by Pippin’s account, her work also exhibits some of the major pitfalls of a new naturalism. At the same time, Ng’s program should be starkly contrasted with the critique of Pippin’s work undertaken by thinkers like Slavoj Žižek and Adrian Johnston, who have sought to downplay claims about the priority of Hegel’s Science of Logic within the Encyclopedia (his system) and have defended a Schelling-inspired materialism against the “rationalism” of analytic Hegelianism, often in the name of a radical politics.[vi] Ng defends the priority of the Logic and is critical of the later Schelling—with a Marx-informed critical theory as the ultimate horizon of her philosophical endeavors.[vii]

    Hegel’s Concept of Life is a lucid, meticulously researched work that uncovers neglected yet deeply consequential aspects of Hegel’s thought, from his critique of Fichte’s underdetermination of the “objective” dimension of subjectivity to the explosive role played by the concept of life in the Logic. Divided into two parts, the book comprises three chapters on the concept of purposiveness in Kant and Hegel and five chapters on the “purposiveness of thinking” in the Logic. The work demonstrates a mastery over a broad swath of idealism scholarship and is positioned in relation to several contemporary debates, key among them the debate over the way in which Hegel inherits the Kantian project. This is both where Ng’s book makes its most important contribution and where—in certain crucial respects—it comes up short. As I will argue below, Ng’s own solution to the problem of subjective idealism fails to adequately address Hegel’s renovation of Kant’s understanding of self-consciousness and his famous Transcendental Deduction, which creates significant problems for her account as a whole.

    Ng announces early on her intention to displace what she calls “the apperception view” (13), a reading of Hegel she identifies with the work of Pippin, McDowell, and Brandom. This is already a somewhat problematic move, both because of the major disagreement between McDowell, on the one side, and Pippin and Brandom, on the other, over the naturalism question and because of significant differences between all three regarding the apperception issue itself.[viii] It is also worth noting that Ng does not engage with McDowell’s extensive discussions of the basis of reason in the activity of life, in the chapters on Aristotle in Mind and World but also in “Two Sorts of Naturalism” in Mind, Value, and Reality.[ix] Ng subsumes McDowell under the “Pippin reading,” frequently citing his famous claim regarding the “unboundedness of the conceptual” in Mind and World, but she ignores the naturalist argument—fervently contested by other proponents of the so-called “apperception view”[x]—that underlies McDowell’s notion of conceptuality. Drawing on Aristotle, McDowell works to overcome the idea that the spontaneity of thought is unconstrained by empirical reality and thus entails the “frictionless spinning” of our concepts. Against this view, he argues that reason is not a non-natural faculty operating separately from the perceptual capacities we share with other animals; rather, the true difference lies in that our sensible faculties themselves bear a rational, conceptual form.[xi]

    The differences just alluded to are levelled by Ng’s notion of the apperception view. Nevertheless, in broad strokes, this view holds that the crux of Hegel’s idealism lies in his attempt to fulfill the promise of the B-Deduction of Kant’s first Critique. That promise, so the claim goes, was to demonstrate that “the synthetic unity of apperception” is the original source of unity for both concept and intuition, understanding and sensibility. In the Deduction, Kant had shown that the pure categories of the understanding confer conceptual unity on the content delivered by the pure forms of intuition, space and time. What Kant calls “transcendental logic” is not an account of the formal rules of thinking regardless of the content (what he calls “general logic”) but an account of “the rules of the pure thought of an object.”[xii] Kant establishes that the unity of the content of experience is a function of the self-conscious or “apperceptive” application of the categories in judgment, the basic unit of thought in Kant’s account. Pure concepts or categories are not heuristic devices or rules of thumb that one can choose to follow or not; they are rather rules that we give to ourselves just in judging anything to be the case. The categories determine how we must judge if experience is to be intelligible.

    According to Pippin (and McDowell), Hegel radicalizes Kant’s position by arguing that there is no non-conceptual, species-specific form of intuition (space and time) that constrains the categories constitutive of knowledge; that self-consciousness alone determines the categorial conditions for the possibility of objects of experience. The conceptual is thus “unbounded” and does not “fall short” of “things in themselves”[xiii]; it is not limited by or relegated to the brute fact of “our” forms of intuition. Hegel’s Science of Logic thus does not need what Kant calls the “Transcendental Deduction,” whose aim was to demonstrate the applicability of the pure categories to the forms of intuition. All that is required is a “Metaphysical Deduction,” a derivation of the pure categories themselves. Hegel’s Science of Logic just is such an expanded metaphysical deduction, the determination by pure thought of the concepts required for determining a possible object—not just “for us” but as such, for any possible knower.

    On Ng’s view, the approach of the Pippin camp overestimates the significance of Kant’s Deduction argument and yields a “subjective idealism”—that is, a “prison-house” view of categoriality that cannot make contact with the empirical world (13). For reasons that will become apparent, I think this is a faulty objection, but Ng’s second criticism of the apperception view—which pursues a line of argument first developed by Bernstein and McDowell—is closer to the mark. Thinkers like Pippin and Brandom “affirm self-consciousness’s beginnings in life while stripping life of any positive explanatory force in the theoretical and practical activities of self-determining reason” (Ibid). For example, in Brandom’s influential reading of the master/slave dialectic, he claims that part of what is demonstrated by the “struggle to the death” over the desire for recognition is that “the life one risks is not an essential element of the self one is thereby constituting, while that for which one risks it [a position of recognized authority] is.”[xiv] Brandom’s approach must ignore Hegel’s own claim that “self-consciousness learns that life is as essential to it as is pure self-consciousness,”[xv] but it also renders inexplicable the relationship between sensibility and rationality, desire and freedom, nature and spirit. As Ng will proceed to argue, in a systematic manner virtually unparalleled in contemporary Hegel scholarship, self-consciousness has its ground in the category of life, without which the categories of reason, spirit, and self-consciousness would lack content, a determinate relation to the world.

    In contrast to the apperception view, Ng aims to demonstrate the outsized influence of Kant’s third Critique on Hegel’s project, arguing that the key to the Logic is Hegel’s appropriation of Kant’s category of “inner purposiveness,” which was employed in the third Critique in two key ways. First, Kant tried to show that the account of judgment in the first Critique was radically incomplete and troubled by a lingering problem of “cognitive fit” (45-6). In other words, Kant had not shown that nature actually exhibited the unity and regularity that the pure categories of the understanding were supposed to impose, leaving room for the possibility of what Ng calls “empirical chaos,” following Henry Allison (32). The category of substance may empower us to judge the unity of an object with properties persisting in time, but it is not able to grasp that object as a member of a species, as living or as non-living, and so on. In the third Critique, judgment assigns itself a new principle—the principle of purposiveness—in order to guide the formation of empirical concepts and the pursuit of scientific knowledge, which must presuppose the systematic unity of nature.

    Second, the principle of purposiveness licensed the distinction between law-governed, mechanical processes and the sorts of activities characteristic of living beings. This marked what Hegel refers to as “one of Kant’s great services to philosophy,”[xvi] his formulation and revival of the Aristotelian idea of inner purposiveness. Whereas the use of trees to make paper gives them an “external purpose,” relative to our ends, plants have the specific parts that they do (limbs, leaves, roots) and behave in specific ways (heliotropism, photosynthesis) in order to satisfy the “inner purpose” of their own self-reproduction (and the reproduction of their kind). A tree with a “sick” limb or dried up roots is deficient not by any external lights but by its own lights, in accord with its own purpose of maintaining itself. For a tree to be a tree, it must act to satisfy its purpose, “actualizing” its species-concept (Gattung), which furnishes a normative standard prescribing how individual trees ought to be. According to this Aristotelian conception of “actuality” (energeia), for something to be actual is for it to act in accord with its concept, to fulfill the potential (dynamis) its matter embodies.[xvii]

    Yet on Kant’s picture, purposiveness is merely a “regulative” rather than “constitutive” principle—a principle that judgment “heautonomously” requires of itself for scientific inquiry but that it does not “autonomously” give to nature as a principle genuinely constitutive of the objects of experience (47). Following Allison, on whom Ng relies extensively in the book’s early chapters, she argues that this distinction does not really hold up under scrutiny, that the “as if” character of regulative judgments itself seems to commit one to “the thought that nature is purposively constituted such that teleological explanations are satisfactory” (59). And it is precisely here where Hegel will seek to rescue Kant from himself, by showing that purposiveness is not just a regulative principle with merely subjective validity but a principle with actual purchase on objectivity. Ng emphasizes that Hegel is posing the “quid juris” question of our right to employ the concept of life and that he overcomes Kant’s subjectivism by showing that life is the “objective context in which subjects, objects, and their relationship come to have meaning at all” (7). There is little question that this is what Hegel is trying to do. The issue is how Hegel achieves such an overcoming of Kant.

    In developing the thesis of life’s constitutive role in cognition, Ng is careful to defend Hegel against the charge that he is a hylozoist who believes that all matter is living, that nature is one big organism or world-soul, and that all judgments are teleological judgments premised on the idea that everything has a purpose. As Ng makes clear, Hegel does not hold such views: the Science of Logic “eschews making substantial claims about the construction of matter” and is rather concerned with “a theory of conceptual form and activity” (63). Indeed, Hegel takes there to be and argues for a necessary distinction between mechanical/chemical, biological/organic, and rational/spiritual modes of being. Not everything in the world is living, but the inanimateness of the world is only intelligible from the standpoint of life—of living beings for whom the distinction between the living and the non-living, between the mechanical and the teleological, matters (226). It matters to the snake, for example, that it be distinct from its environment, that it not be just another inert thing. It strives to resist the mechanical and chemical process of decomposition, which threatens to reduce it to dust.

    As I have noted, Ng’s books aims to show that Hegel solves the problem of subjective idealism by virtue of the category of life. Yet what I want to begin to highlight here is that Ng’s approach leaves unanswered the question of how Hegel’s method of the derivation of such “constitutive” categories is distinct from Kant’s. Because of Ng’s denial of the centrality of Hegel’s take on the “deduction” issue (13), she misses an essential aspect of Hegel’s solution to the general problem of the subjectivism of the categories. As will become clear, Ng tends to treat life as a mediating category that ensures that cognition has content through its “living” contact with the empirical world. By contrast, on the interpretation of Hegel I want to defend, the Logic is concerned with the very intelligibility of a world as a world.[xviii] Life plays an essential role in this latter enterprise, but that role cannot be properly specified outside of an account of two key moves in Hegel: (1) Hegel’s overcoming of the Kantian distinction between transcendental and general logic, through which Hegel shows that there can be no coherent account of the pure forms of thought (general logic) that is not already an account of the pure forms of things (transcendental logic).[xix] And (2) Hegel’s radicalization of Kant’s strategy in the metaphysical deduction, whereby we do not just derive “our” “conceptual scheme” but the categorial form of being itself, in light of which any empirical being is in principle thinkable.[xx]

    In this context, it is also worth mentioning a problem on the level of rhetoric. Hegel calls the notion of inner purposiveness “one of Kant’s great services to philosophy [eines der großen Verdienste Kant um die Philosophie],”[xxi] whereas Ng repeatedly misquotes Hegel as saying that it is “Kant’s great service to philosophy” (6, 16, 260), going so far as to use the modified phrase as the title to chapter two. This is symptomatic of the general tendency towards one-sidedness in her study, its neglect of Hegel’s emphasis on Kant’s other great service: his articulation of the transcendental unity of apperception, which is the basis for the self-determination by thought of the necessary constraints on the thought of an object.[xxii] As the frequently cited passage reads: “It is one of the profoundest and truest insights to be found in the Critique of Reason that the unity which constitutes the essence of the concept is recognized as the original synthetic unity of apperception, the unity of the “I think,” or of self-consciousness.”[xxiii] A further consequence of Ng’s neglect of the structural significance of apperception—a consequence related to the inability of her Hegel to fully overcome subjective idealism—is that she cannot explain such claims as: “Every thought-determination of the Logic has revealed itself to be insufficient in some way […]. Very often in Hegel, these failures are couched in terms of one-sidedness, fixed dualisms, abstractions, or internal inconsistencies” (248). As we shall see, such inconsistencies are inconsistences internal to thinking, to which thought must be “apperceptively” responsive if it is to consistently think the thought of being—and ultimately the thought of thought itself.

    At the end of chapter two, Ng introduces one of her major interpretive theses, that Hegel’s notion of the “concept” is best understood in terms of the Kantian idea of inner purposiveness. In Kant, the categories are predicates of possible judgments, rules that prescribe how one ought to judge; they are necessary for the determination of any empirical content. By the concept, Hegel means to capture the general idea of such self-legislated normative constraints. The concept is thus Hegel’s theory of conceptuality. Ng’s claim is that inner purposiveness is constitutive of conceptual activity, that acting and believing in light of norms derives its self-determining character from the internally purposive structure of life (62). This claim is worked out in detail in the third chapter of the book, which is one of its best. Turning to Hegel’s Fichtekritik in his first published work, Ng highlights the Schellingian aspect of Hegel’s critique: while Fichte makes important progress by demonstrating the primacy of practical rationality and the irreducibility of the “self-positing” of the I, he conceives the natural, embodied self as merely subject to mechanical laws and thus—in Hegel’s words—as “dead” (88). As Ng shows, this results in a picture of the I as engaged in an “infinite” struggle to subsume its recalcitrant nature under the dictates of reason, undermining its purported autonomy. The Hegelian solution, in brief, which Hegel shares with the early Schelling, is to grasp the “objective subject-object” (life) as bearing a non-mechanical, internally purposive form and thus as being “speculatively identical” with the “subjective subject-object” (self-consciousness) (107). That is, reason is not something wholly heterogeneous to life but is a higher and freer actualization of the same self-organizing form. As I understand this claim, rational agents are constrained by the necessity of satisfying the internal purpose of self-maintenance, but the requirements that specify what counts as successful self-maintenance are, for beings like us, not simply given but must be recognized by us and are subject to change, giving rise to the complex historical dynamic for which Hegel’s philosophy is best known. This barely scratches the surface of this rich and suggestive chapter, which also contains an important and highly original account of Hegel’s appropriation of various Kantian transcendental strategies for his deduction of life prior to the Logic.

    Towards the end of part one, with the “apperception view” in her sights, Ng argues that Hegel answers the quid juris question of our entitlement to the concept of life “not by presenting life as a category among others in a metaphysical deduction” but by arguing that, without life, self-consciousness would itself remain unintelligible (111). While this is intended as a characterization of Hegel’s method in the Phenomenology, it also applies to Ng’s understanding of Hegel’s task in the Logic. As she further clarifies in Chapter 4 (an illuminating account of the engagements with Kant and Spinoza in the Logic of Essence), Hegel attempts “to provide, in the logical context, a series of arguments for the constitutive character of inner purposiveness for any account of self-conscious conceptual activity whereby determinations of thinking have the power to determine actuality” (126). Chapter 4 traces the transition from the Logic of Essence to the Logic of the Concept, showing how Hegel derives the standpoint of subjectivity—of which life is the first, immediate form—through a development of the concept of “actuality,” glossed earlier in terms of Aristotle’s notion of energeia. Through a demonstration of the emptiness of Spinoza’s conception of substance as the necessary cause of all finite things (137-8), Ng’s Hegel defends a version of what Paul Redding has called “modal actualism” (Redding 2017), the view that possibility and necessity are constrained by what is actually the case. (Kant’s theory of pure intuitions is also “actualist” in this sense, insofar as they are meant to limit the application of the pure categories to reality.) Contrary to widely held views about Hegel’s position, he establishes in the Logic of Essence the “necessity of contingency,” which grounds the idea of real rather than merely logical possibility: it is logically possible (it does not violate the law of non-contradiction) that the moon might be made of cheese, but it is not really possible—the contingent conditions are not in place for such a possibility to be actualized (145).

    Yet actuality remains “blind,” in Hegel’s words, reducible to mechanical necessity, without the notion of purposive self-actualization. Ng’s illuminating example is of a musician whose father’s death prompted him to cultivate his musical talent; his father in turn was shot and killed in a war. Does that mean that the bullet that killed the musician’s father was the cause of his musical career? The potential endlessness of such explanations—what about the causes that led to the bullet’s production?—reflects their unsatisfying nature. They point to the need for an internal explanatory principle, whereby the son can be grasped as determining for himself that music was worth taking up and pursuing (154-55). In holding himself to such a principle (in valuing himself under the description of the “practical identity” of musician, to borrow Korsgaard’s phrase),[xxiv] the son becomes subject to a norm, a criterion of success and failure, in light of which he must discriminate between what he ought and ought not do as a musician. Likewise, it can thus be asked whether he is “actually” a musician, whether he is not just pretending, perhaps acting on his father’s wishes, or just temporarily sublimating his grief. It is “actuality” in this sense of purposive striving that secures the determinacy of objectivity in Hegel’s account, constituting things as the distinct things that they are and furnishing a truly satisfying—that is, internal and self-determined—principle of explanation.

    Note that this does not mean that all things are “actual” in this sense. An inanimate entity like the moon does not have an internal purpose; to explain its constitution and its orbital activity, we must make reference to natural laws. It is thus subject to a lower explanatory principle, mechanism, which depends for its intelligibility on the activity of self-actualizing living beings, which distinguish themselves a priori from inert matter, just in striving to be what they are (155-56). While Ng does not make the point in this way, one can say that there are three fundamental principles of explanation, which pure thought requires of itself in judging anything to be the case: (1) laws, which govern the constitution of the inanimate; (2) purposes, which govern the self-constitution of the animate; and (3) reasons, which govern the self-legislating activity of the rationally alive. The progressive adequacy of such principles lies in their ability to render intelligible each prior criterion of explanation, with reason itself grounding the very idea of explanatory principles by virtue of its recognition that it alone is the source of their normative authority.[xxv]

    At the end of the Logic of Essence, however, we do not yet have an account of the dynamic of such self-actualization, which necessitates the transition to the Logic of the Concept. Over the remaining three chapters of Hegel’s Concept of Life, Ng develops an account of life as the “immediate form of the Idea,” Hegel’s term of art for the unity of concept and reality in self-determining activity. The Idea is meant to grasp Hegel’s notion of “immanent universals,” the species-concepts in light of which living beings constitute themselves as the kinds of beings they are. To return to my earlier example of plant life, the concept of a succulent is not just an organizing category for taxonomic purposes but a principle of self-organization for certain types of plants.[xxvi] As Ng argues, life is to be understood as the “original judgment” or activity of rendering intelligible (171, 259), since living beings must distinguish between what is worth pursuing and what ought to be avoided, what counts as pleasurable and what counts as painful. They thus posit a distinction between themselves and their external environment and a distinction between themselves and their species-concept, which they must constitutively strive to fulfill.

    On Ng’s account, this notion of a distinction internal to the living being is Hegel’s way of inheriting Hölderlin’s famous claim that judgment (Urteil) is the “original division” (Ur-Teil); as Hegel himself puts it, “Judgment is the self-diremption of the concept.” Whereas in Hölderlin judgment is the original division between subject and object that renders being in itself permanently inaccessible, Ng’s Hegel dispenses with the prelapsarian notion of unscathed being and understands the originary division in terms of life (168), which constitutes the immediate form of a meaningful responsiveness to reality, opening up the very space of determinate being. As Ng points out in a footnote (171n9), this interpretation diverges from that of Dieter Henrich, who claims in his path-breaking account of Hölderlin’s influence on Hegel that Hölderlinian being is replaced by Hegel not with life but with spirit (Geist).[xxvii] This again raises the key difficulty of Hegel’s method of deriving the categories: if the judgment enacted by living beings is itself only intelligible as such from the higher standpoint of self-conscious knowing, can it truly be said that life has explanatory priority over Geist in deducing the concept of full-blooded being?

    Nevertheless, Ng proceeds to argue that it is because life is distinct from and “lie[s] outside cognition” that it secures cognition’s determinate, contentful relation to empirical reality (258, 257). There are three necessary constraints on the idea of life. First, life must always be embodied in a living individual, which can feel irritated or excited by external stimuli on the basis of its purpose of self-reproduction. Second, life must consist in the metabolic activity of consuming and assimilating an external environment on which the living individual is inherently dependent. Third, life must always exemplify a genus (Gattung), which dictates how the embodied individual is to live (the life of a wolf is distinct from that of an elephant) and what would count as successful reproduction. It is because the species-category (Gattung) constitutive of living individuals cannot be grasped from the standpoint of life (living beings are not conscious of their species membership) that the transition to “Knowing” is required. This final category in the Logic actualizes the three constraints on life (Corporeality, Externality, and the Genus, as Ng enumerates them) in a distinctly self-conscious—social, historical, recognitive—form. “This self-conscious reflexivity transforms the determination of life,” Ng writes, “but it does not eliminate its distinctive contribution as the immediate schema of any possible unity of Concept and objectivity” (277). Knowing is grasped as the fundamental condition for rendering intelligible the idea of “intelligibility” itself, but it does not “leave nature behind,” to cite Pippin.[xxviii]

    Ng’s account of life as “original judgment” is a real contribution to our understanding of Hegel and should be carefully studied by students of the Science of Logic (and, I would argue, those interested in the issue of life in Marx). But tendentious readings of proponents of the “apperception view” as well as fundamental ambiguities in her own formulations regarding the “deduction” issue mar her approach. On the first point, Ng often greatly overplays her differences with Pippin in particular, as in a footnote early on in the book in which she takes remarks by Pippin out of context to obscure his own acknowledgment of the indispensability of Kant’s account of “reflecting judgment” in the third Critique (5). Pippin has long emphasized that the theory of judgment provided in the first Critique is insufficient, that the crucial move made in Kant’s later work is his demonstration of the necessity of a non-subsumptive, reflective form of judgment oriented by the “particular.”[xxix]

    Such moments not only weaken Ng’s argument on a rhetorical level; they are symptomatic of a more substantive difficulty: her contention that life lies “outside cognition” and is irreducible to acts of apperceptive judgment. Ng suggests that the addition of the category of life is what prevents Hegel’s “metaphysical deduction” from entailing subjective idealism, but this misses Hegel’s fundamental renovation of the Kantian notion of deduction, which now consists in the self-determination by thought of what would count as an intelligible conception of being. The apperceptive nature of any thinking lies in its minimal responsiveness to the demand for reasons: in writing this review, I take myself to be writing it as reviews ought to be written and am on that basis susceptible to mistakenness, open to the potential need for self-correction. In brief, this notion of self-conscious judgment accounts for the peculiar dynamic at the heart of the Logic. In resolving to think the thought of anything at all, pure thought tasks itself with thinking being as it ought to be thought and with thinking thought itself—the capacity for making sense of being—in its intelligibility.[xxx] To try, for example, to think of the object of thought solely under the rubric of “quantity,” as if judgments of magnitude were sufficient to account for the being or determinacy of objects, results in the “apperceptive” recognition that quantitative predicates are unable to specify what they are quantities of.[xxxi] This necessitates the legislation by thought of the new category of “measure,” which is a self-defeating attempt in its own right to grasp quality and quantity as co-constitutive. Thought thus determines for itself not just what “we” must think but a genuine requirement on being itself, in its potential knowability: objects cannot be—because not intelligible as—mere collections of magnitudes or quanta.

    As Hegel remarks, Kant had already attempted to “turn metaphysics [the forms of being] into logic [the forms of thought], but [he] gave to the logical determinations an essentially subjective significance out of fear of the object.”[xxxii] Hegel makes clear that his own approach to the deduction will lie in the self-development of “pure self-consciousness,” its determination of the pure categories constitutive of any possible judgment and of any possible object of judgment. As he puts the point against Kant:

    If there was to be a real progress in philosophy, it was necessary that the interest of thought should be drawn to the consideration of the formal side, of the ‘I,’ of consciousness as such, that is, of the abstract reference of a subjective awareness to an object, and that in this way that path should be opened for the cognition of the infinite form, that is, of the concept. Yet, in order to arrive at this cognition, the finite determinateness in which that form is as ‘I,’ as consciousness, must be shed. The form, when thought out in its purity, will then have within itself the capacity to determine itself, that is, to give itself a content, and to give it as a necessary content—as a system   of thought-determinations.[xxxiii]

    What Hegel means here by the “abstract reference of a subjective awareness” is a formalized notion of consciousness, “pure thinking,” abstracted from any notion of experience. At issue is not the consciousness of the Phenomenology, confronted by an external object, but the very concept of a possible object, “pure being.” Hegel is giving an account of the form of any possible empirical act of knowing as well as the pure form of the object of any such act. Thinking in the context of the Logic has itself as its object and thus the determinations of any possible thinking as its content. In the end, thought has its own self-determining form as its content, the thought of pure thought itself.

    We are in deep woods here, but the basic point against Ng is clear: throughout her book, she argues that the purposive drive of thought towards its own self-comprehension is a product of its “living” nature, which is itself understood to be irreducible to thought (120). In a recent review of Pippin’s book, Ng claims that since “intelligibility rests on immanent species-concepts actualized in things in themselves as a ‘foundation,’ this would appear to be independent of any acts of apperceptive judgment.”[xxxiv] But in the passage cited above and elsewhere in the Logic, Hegel argues that at each moment in the text, self-consciousness is giving a progressively more explicit account of itself. That is, even the concept of life, in its three distinct moments, is a self-specification by thought of the activity of thinking. In this sense, life both is and is not a thought-determination like the others. It is in the sense that life is self-legislated by thought. If the category of life were not a product of the apperceptive unity of thought, it would be hard to understand how it relates to the text as a whole, as the “science of pure thought.”[xxxv] Life does not lie “outside” cognition but is the first attempt by thought to grasp the condition of any act of cognition.

    By the same token, life is not like the other thought-determinations in that it is an explicit attempt to specify what it means to be a sense-maker, in the sense that Pippin misses and in the sense that Ng defends. In Hegel’s Realm of Shadows, Pippin shows that Hegel entitles himself to—does not just arrogate—a “constitutive” rather than merely regulative category of life: Hegel argues against the Kantian idea that pure concepts are “empty” by showing that “pure thinking’s determination of the necessary moments of possible conceptual determinacy are just thereby a specification of objects in their knowability.”[xxxvi] Nevertheless, Pippin tends to treat life as a possible object of judgment rather than as an initial specification of its active, objective form. In a response to Ng’s contribution to a symposium on Realm of Shadows, Pippin raises the worry that such an approach would render “the results of the logic species-specific and so provincial,” while also noting the “obviousness” of the fact that “any thinker must be alive to be thinking.”[xxxvii] Yet what Pippin merely takes for granted (the “fact” of any thinker’s living nature) is a categorial constraint on the form of subjectivity that his own reading of the Logic enables us to properly ground. While Ng does promote the unfortunate idea that Hegel is advancing a “formal anthropology,”[xxxviii] there is another way to understand the “life of thought,” made possible by Pippin’s conception of logic as metaphysics. For Hegel, thought is not an anthropological idiosyncrasy, an accident of Homo sapiens, nor is life a mere accident of thinking beings. As Hegel writes, “The fact that [the subject] is a living being is not contingent but in accordance with reason.”[xxxix] Accordingly, it is not that thought is necessarily restricted to some one species. There could or could not be other species of rational animals, whether in this galaxy or in another one, whether in the past or in the future. The point, however, is that thinking must be the activity of a living being to be thinking, in any possible universe. The logical category of life is both given to thought by itself (through apperceptive awareness of what further thought-determinations are required by the failure of the prior categories of the Logic) and can be understood to grasp a “proto” or “immediate” form of what, at the highest level, will be living, embodied apperceptive spontaneity. Life is the proto-form of apperceptive spontaneity and rational agency is self-conscious life.

    Ng attempts to tie everything together by pursuing a reading of Hegel’s notion of the Idea in terms of her earlier account of the Differenzschrift. In many ways, this is a productive strategy, but in at least one crucial respect, it is radically distorting. Ng draws on a pivotal remark from Faith and Knowledge in which Hegel suggests that the forms of intuition in the B-Deduction of the first Critique are already synthetic unities produced by apperceptive spontaneity. “From this passage,” Ng writes, “it is usually inferred that Hegel therefore does away with an intuition theory altogether and concentrates instead on a theory of thought’s autonomous self-determination” (251). Ng goes on to argue—against this Pippinian approach—that Hegel does develop an intuition theory, under the rubric of “life.” Yet this is precisely where Ng’s reliance on the Differenzschrift leads her astray: the Science of Logic as a whole is Hegel’s “intuition theory,” insofar as it is an attempt to grasp the form of any possible intuitive or empirical content, a “this-such” (an individualized, context-dependent token of a type).

    We can thus identify the fundamental problem with Ng’s overall argument. Life as a category cannot alone resolve the “subjective idealism” problem without a deduction of the status of categoriality in general. Without the renovated account of Kant’s Deduction, Ng’s emphasis on life as a category simply kicks the problem “down” a level: why would life on its own be any better equipped to guarantee the objective purport of the categories, including the category of life itself? This is what is at stake in Pippin’s thesis—argued for at length in his recent work, Hegel’s Realm of Shadows—that logic and metaphysics are shown to “coincide” in the Logic. That is, Hegel’s logic (the science of pure thought) articulates a consistent metaphysics, the science of pure being. Life plays a crucial role in specifying the basic form of purposive responsiveness to empirical reality, but it does so as part of the broader attempt to grasp being in its intelligibility.

    The systematic significance of Ng’s neglect of Hegel’s appropriation of the apperception thesis can be seen in her discussions of the transitions in the Logic. One example of how this plays out is Ng’s discussion of mechanism, chemism, and teleology, which comprise Hegel’s account of “objectivity” within the subjective Logic. Ng argues that we can understand the movement from mechanism to teleology and ultimately to life in light of life’s capacity for self-determination: mechanism, for example, is a “violent” external determination of the object by a law rather than a self-determination on the basis of an inner purpose (229-230). The problem with this interpretive tact is that it presupposes the category of life, rather than showing how mechanism, for example, fails on its own terms. Mechanism fails not because it is not yet life but because lawfulness is unable to adequately specify objects in their determinate individuality. As Hegel himself puts it, in his inimitable way, mechanism “does not have the objects themselves for its determinate difference; these are […] non-individual, external objects.[xl] Life not only grounds the activity of “rendering intelligible” but also fulfills (or begins to fulfill) the demand for an account of being in its intelligibility. Because Ng neglects or greatly downplays the status of the Logic as the “science of pure thought,” she is forced to derive a criterion for the inadequacy of the paradigms of objectivity from a later point in the text—a decidedly un-Hegelian procedure.

    Ng’s belief in the recalcitrance of life to thought has consequences for her understanding of the status of the Logic, its transitions, and perhaps most importantly, the account in Hegel’s text of the form of rational action. In the otherwise excellent sixth chapter, which rigorously reconstructs the Concept-Judgment-Syllogism sequence in the “Subjectivity” chapter, Ng follows Paul Redding in arguing that Hegel is committed to a “weak inferentialism”—a counter-position to Brandom’s “strong inferentialism” that holds that the role judgments play in inferences is not sufficient to account for the determinacy of their content (189). For Ng/Redding, this is an aspect of Hegel’s inheritance of the Kantian notion of reflecting judgment, a form of judgment indexed to its particular perceptual, experiential context. The “original judgments” made by living beings about what ought to be done under certain environmental conditions for the sake of their self-maintenance are judgments of precisely this sort. What it means to be a good friend here and now is situation-dependent, cannot be deduced from a general rule, and is thus a matter of “objective judgment” rather than syllogistic inference (240). By the same token, Ng does invoke Aristotle’s notion of the practical syllogism to explain the operation of the species-concept (Gattung) in the context of rational life. The major premises in practical syllogisms constitute the “inner purposes” of rational animals: I am your friend; friends go to their friend’s piano recital; I attend your recital (239). I satisfy my purpose of being a friend in attending the recital and thus constitute myself as the kind of rational being I am.

    Ng’s account of the logical form of inner purposiveness in terms of Aristotle’s practical syllogism is exactly right, but in her attempt to assert the priority of judgment over syllogism, her account falters. She helpfully invokes John McDowell’s “uncodifiability thesis” (the idea that judgments about what to do in concrete situations cannot be codified as universal principles),[xli] but she draws the wrong lesson from his argument. She writes that concrete situations “render the practical syllogism superfluous” because “self-determining, internally purposive activity cannot be reduced to being the conclusion of a sound practical syllogism” (241). Yet this misses the way the practical syllogism is distinct from theoretical syllogism, as underscored by McDowell and others (Wiggins and Nussbaum both come to mind).[xlii] It is rather that the practical syllogism is itself not reducible to the deductive theoretical model, insofar as its minor premise (“friends go to their friend’s piano recital”) is always a matter of what shows up as worth doing or avoiding in a concrete situation. The practical syllogism cannot be rendered superfluous because it is the very form of rational activity—what renders such activity intelligible as the distinctly intentional, reason-responsive activity that it is. This is why Hegel writes that “the connection of purpose is therefore more than judgment; it is the syllogism of the self-subsistent free concept that through objectivity unites itself with itself in conclusion.”[xliii] Practical syllogisms result not in “sound conclusions” (thoughts about what to do) but in actions themselves, which embody the syllogism as a whole. Moreover, as thinkers like Brandom have argued, the content of the concept of friendship is dependent on its use: each “objective judgment” about how to be a good friend inflects and transforms the concept of friendship, constituting it anew for future agents.[xliv] Ng’s understanding of the practical syllogism as a superfluous form used to retrospectively make sense of or to explicitly formulate practical purposes reflects her view that the category of life secures thought’s determinate relation to the empirical world as well as her hard separation of cognition from life. In contrast to Ng’s view that the practical syllogism is epiphenomenal, Hegel’s point is that the practical syllogism is what allows the objective judgment of life to become fully articulate, to come into its own.

    One might ask what the broader stakes are of an intervention that unfolds at such a high level of abstraction—indeed, the highest level of abstraction. One key “concrete” implication of her approach can be seen in her recent article, “Ideology Critique from Hegel and Marx to Critical Theory.” Ng draws heavily in the piece on her account of the Idea in the Science of Logic, which is held to provide a universal criterion for assessing ideologies as reason become unreason, “social pathologies, wrong ways of living” (393). She shows that in the conclusion to the Logic, “Hegel transforms the critique of reason into a critique of rational forms of life,” arguing that reason has empowered itself to reflexively examine its own collective and historical activities (396). Drawing on the three aspects of life delineated above (corporeality, externality, and the genus) and Axel Honneth’s idea of a “formal anthropology,” Ng develops an account of Marx’s notion of species-being as “providing formal, anthropologically rooted conditions of self-actualization that are subject to historical variation and yet substantial enough to help us identify social pathologies” (398). For instance, one of the three aspects of the anthropology she provides is the formal condition of “embodiment” (corporeality in the terms of the book), which is thought to provide “the basis for critiquing and assessing ideological distortions of practices surrounding health, for example, the commodification of health care” (402).

    Yet the problem with adopting embodiment as a critical criterion is that it establishes an ahistorical standard of “health,” against which historical “pathologies” like commodification are measured. This is a direct result of Ng’s claim that life lies “beyond cognition” in her reading of the Logic. If the commodification of health care is a form of suffering, it is not because it runs athwart the formal category of embodiment, but rather because commodified health care fails to fulfill its own promise, cannot adequately provide the care that it purports to provide, a historically novel need whose fulfillment we now recognize as essential. This marks the contradiction of a historical form of health, not a deficiency according to an anthropological criterion. Embodiment is a formal condition of the historical unfolding of rational life. But as such, it is too thin a category to function as a critical yardstick. Indeed, throughout history, embodiment has itself often been considered a sickness or stain, a condition to be overcome, as in Novalis, the model for the “beautiful soul” in the Phenomenology: “Life is a disease of the spirit.” As we learn from Hegel, embodiment is a logical constraint that pure reason must give to itself—not an anthropological given it simply discovers. Accordingly, while a truly free form of life would recognize the embodied nature of spirit as a positive condition rather than as a negative restriction, what counts as successful embodiment, as sickness versus health, is determined by us, on the basis of collective self-legislation.

    What is needed, consequently, is not a formal anthropology (as Ng claims), but a speculative account of the formal conditions for the possibility of a critical theory. And to be fair, Ng takes us a long way in the right direction. Hegel’s Concept of Life is a valuable work of Hegel scholarship, contributing in major ways to our understanding of the Logic of the Concept and to many other aspects of Hegel’s text. It breathes new life into what is arguably Hegel’s most important work, whose radical ambition is to bring reason to consciousness of its own status as living. It is crucial, however, to keep in view Hegel’s radical renovation of Kant’s deduction, if we are to truly have a chance of achieving the holy grail of an absolute idealism. We must not forget either of Kant’s two greatest services to philosophy: the concept of life (inner purposiveness) and the original synthetic unity of apperception.

    _____

    Jensen Suther is a PhD candidate in Comparative Literature at Yale University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in a range of academic publications, including Modernism/modernity and The Review of Metaphysics. 

    Back to the essay

    _____

    Notes

    [i] See Marx (1970) and Adorno 2004, 23.

    [ii] For the clearest statement of Schelling’s position, see Schelling 2008, 134-163. In Heidegger (1988), the issue is framed primarily in terms of Hegel’s prioritization of subjectivity over time, in contrast to Heidegger’s prioritization of time over subjectivity. For Foucault’s claim that we should “free ourselves from Hegel,” see Foucault (1998).

    [iii] See Comay (2013).

    [iv] McDowell 2000, 65.

    [v] See the magisterial chapter “To Be Is to Live, to Be Is to Be Recognized” in Bernstein (2015); for a more sustained critique of Pippin, see Bernstein (2017).

    [vi] For a recent critique of Pippin and Robert Brandom, see Žižek (2015). While I am sympathetic to Žižek’s critique of Pippin’s “transcendental dualism,” I think his own proposed solution—a Schellingean naturalism—is anti-Hegelian and serves to undermine the principle of freedom on which German Idealism—and ultimately Marxism—is founded. See also Johnston (2018). For Pippin’s response to Žižek, see Pippin (2012); for his response to Johnston, see Pippin (2018c).

    [vii] See Ng’s article—discussed below—on the implications of Hegel’s logic of the “Idea” for ideology critique, Ng (2015).

    [viii] For a concise enumeration of those differences, see Pippin (2018b).

    [ix] There is one minor exception to this. While Ng does engage with McDowell’s arguments about the practical syllogism (see the discussion below) as well as with his conception of the “deductive impotence” of the Aristotelian categorical in the case of rational animals, the only allusion in her book to his distinctly naturalistic understanding of self-consciousness is in a short footnote just a few pages before the end (277n47).

    [x] See Pippin (2007).

    [xi] One difficulty with McDowell’s account is that some of his formulations suggest that we are born “mere animals” and become rational animals through initiation into a language; see McDowell 2000, 125. If human children are merely animals, what renders their motivations and desires—as distinct from those of non-human animals—susceptible to being shaped by reason? For McDowell’s view to be coherent, he would have to acknowledge that human animals are born with a distinctly rational form of the power of self-maintenance, which is not, therefore, first obtained but only fully actualized in adulthood. For my own account of the actualization of the structure of self-maintenance by rational animals, see Suther (2020).

    [xii] See Kant 1998, A55/B80.

    [xiii] See McDowell (2000).

    [xiv] See Brandom 2007, 130. See also Brandom’s comment regarding the prospects of analytic philosophy: “My hope is that by slighting the similarities to animals which preoccupied Locke and Hume and highlighting the possibilities opened up by engaging in social practices of giving and asking for reasons, we will get closer to an account of being human that does justice to the kinds of consciousness and self-consciousness distinctive of us as cultural, and not merely natural, creatures” (Brandom 2001, 35). Yet by ceding an account of our nature to Lockean and Humean thought, Brandom misses the Aristotelian account of nature that preoccupied Hegel. On that account, culture is not simply other than nature but is a distinctly rational form of the natural.

    [xv] See Hegel 2018, 112/§189. Not to mention Hegel’s further claim, in the Logic, that life is not simply “left behind” in the progression of categories. As he writes in the Encyclopedia, “The absolute idea is first the unity of the theoretical and practical and, by this means, at the same time the unity of the idea of life and the idea of knowing” (Hegel 2010a, 299/§236A).

    [xvi] See Hegel 2010b, 654/12.157. Translation modified.

    [xvii] For Aristotle’s development of the concept of energeia, see books VII-IX of Aristotle (2016). For an important book-length argument for the translation of energeia as “activity,” see Kosman (2013).

    [xviii] For a full defense of such a reading, see Suther (2020).

    [xix] Hegel links Kant’s distinction between transcendental and general logic to his subjectivism at Hegel 2010b, 40/21.46-7. It is crucial, however, to understand that Hegel is not simply running the two together and trying to derive things themselves from thought, as in the rationalist tradition. For an extended defense of Hegel against the rationalism charge, see chapter two of Pippin (2018a).

    [xx] Hegel calls his rewriting of the metaphysical deduction an “immanent deduction” of the concept, at Hegel 2010b, 514/12.16. Ng takes note of Hegel’s notion of an immanent deduction but reads it exclusively in terms of “his attempt to provide, in the logical context, a series of arguments for the constitutive character of inner purposiveness for any account of self-consciousness conceptual activity” (126). Yet this ignores Hegel’s vitally important claim that “the content and determination of the [concept]” have been provided on the basis of the deduction—that is, the determinate content of being itself.

    [xxi] See Hegel 2010b, 654/12.157. My emphasis.

    [xxii] Hegel uses this same phrase at Hegel 2010a, 245/§171 to refer to Kant’s partial satisfaction of the demand for “a totality determined by thinking” of the “various species of judgment.”

    [xxiii] See Hegel 2010b, 515/12.18.

    [xxiv] See Korsgaard 1996, 101.

    [xxv] See also Hegel 2010b, 675/12.175: “Finite things are finite because, and to the extent that, they do not possess the reality of their concept completely within them but are in need of other things for it—or, conversely, because they are presupposed as objects and consequently the concept is in them as an external determination.”

    [xxvi] See Hegel’s discussion of how the features of animals are not just “distinguishing marks” useful for subjective classification but “the vital point of animal individuality,” in Hegel 2010b, 717/12.219.

    [xxvii] See Henrich 2007, 132.

    [xxviii] This is the unfortunate, waggish title of Pippin’s first critique of McDowell, in Pippin (2005). To be fair, Hegel himself does sometimes talk this way: “[The being of spirit] is this motion of freeing itself from nature” (Hegel 1978, 93). Yet this must be understood, as Hegel explains in that context, in terms of an emancipation from given notions of “human nature” and from determination by natural necessity, rather than in terms of an emancipation from life, embodiment, finitude. Pippin would not deny spirit’s inseparability from nature, but he offers no positive account of what that inseparability (the nature of spirit’s “nature”) looks like and often just takes it for granted. In a word, spirit does not strive to leave nature behind but to render life activity fully free. Or as Hegel puts it: “The fact that [the subject] is a living being is not contingent but in accordance with reason, and to that extent [she] has a right to make [her] needs [her] end. There is nothing degrading about being alive, and we do not have the alternative of existing in a higher spirituality. It is only by raising what is present and given to a self-creating process that the higher sphere of the good is attained” (Hegel 1991, 151/§123A, my emphasis). That we have genus requirements is given; what those requirements are has been determined historically through violence and domination and—more recently—debate and negotiation; and why they are sustained is a matter of rational deliberation over what would constitute the good life, a flourishing world we could call our own.

    [xxix] See, for example, Pippin 1997, 140, for an earlier account of Hegel’s reliance on the Kantian notion of reflecting judgment. For a more recent account of the crucial role played by reflecting judgment in the Science of Logic, see Pippin 2018a, 290-91.

    [xxx] This is the reading of the Science of Logic defended in Pippin (2018a).

    [xxxi] Hegel 2010a, 168/§106A.

    [xxxii] Hegel 2010b, 30/21.35.

    [xxxiii] Ibid., 41-42/21.48.

    [xxxiv] See Ng 2020, 7.

    [xxxv] Hegel 2010b, 38/21.45.

    [xxxvi] Pippin 2018a, 289.

    [xxxvii] Pippin 2019, 1072.

    [xxxviii] Ng 2015, 401.

    [xxxix] Hegel 1991, 151/§123A.

    [xl] Hegel 2010b, 644/12.147.

    [xli] McDowell 2002, 65-69.

    [xlii] See Nussbaum (1985) and Wiggins (1998).

    [xliii] See Hegel 2010b, 656/12.159.

    [xliv] See Brandom 2002, 48: “What we actually do, perform, and produce affects the contents of the conceptual norms, and so what inferences and exclusions determine what we ought and ought not to do, perform, and produce.”

    _____

    Works Cited

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  • Zachary Loeb — Flamethrowers and Fire Extinguishers (Review of Jeff Orlowski, dir., The Social Dilemma)

    Zachary Loeb — Flamethrowers and Fire Extinguishers (Review of Jeff Orlowski, dir., The Social Dilemma)

    a review of Jeff Orlowski, dir., The Social Dilemma (Netflix/Exposure Labs/Argent Pictures, 2020)

    by Zachary Loeb

    ~

    The myth of technological and political and social inevitability is a powerful tranquilizer of the conscience. Its service is to remove responsibility from the shoulders of everyone who truly believes in it. But, in fact, there are actors!

    – Joseph Weizenbaum (1976)

    Why did you last look at your smartphone? Did you need to check the time? Was picking it up a conscious decision driven by the need to do something very particular, or were you just bored? Did you turn to your phone because its buzzing and ringing prompted you to pay attention to it? Regardless of the particular reasons, do you sometimes find yourself thinking that you are staring at your phone (or other computerized screens) more often than you truly want? And do you ever feel, even if you dare not speak this suspicion aloud, that your gadgets are manipulating you?

    The good news is that you aren’t just being paranoid, your gadgets were designed in such a way as to keep you constantly engaging with them. The bad news is that you aren’t just being paranoid, your gadgets were designed in such a way as to keep you constantly engaging with them. What’s more, on the bad news front, these devices (and the platforms they run) are constantly sucking up information on you and are now pushing and prodding you down particular paths. Furthermore, alas more bad news, these gadgets and platforms are not only wreaking havoc on your attention span they are also undermining the stability of your society. Nevertheless, even though there is ample cause to worry, the new film The Social Dilemma ultimately has good news for you: a collection of former tech-insiders is starting to speak out! Sure, many of these individuals are the exact people responsible for building the platforms that are currently causing so much havoc—but they meant well, they’re very sorry, and (did you hear?) they meant well.

    Directed by Jeff Orlowski, and released to Netflix in early September 2020, The Social Dilemma is a docudrama that claims to provide a unsparing portrait of what social media platforms have wrought. While the film is made up of a hodgepodge of elements, at the core of the work are a series of interviews with Silicon Valley alumni who are concerned with the direction in which their former companies are pushing the world. Most notable amongst these, the film’s central character to the extent it has one, is Tristan Harris (formerly a design ethicists at Google, and one of the cofounders of The Center for Humane Technology) who is not only repeatedly interviewed but is also shown testifying before the Senate and delivering a TED style address to a room filled with tech luminaries. This cast of remorseful insiders is bolstered by a smattering of academics, and non-profit leaders, who provide some additional context and theoretical heft to the insiders’ recollections. And beyond these interviews the film incorporates a fictional quasi-narrative element depicting the members of a family (particularly its three teenage children) as they navigate their Internet addled world—with this narrative providing the film an opportunity to strikingly dramatize how social media “works.”

    The Social Dilemma makes some important points about the way that social media works, and the insiders interviewed in the film bring a noteworthy perspective. Yet beyond the sad eyes, disturbing animations, and ominous music The Social Dilemma is a piece of manipulative filmmaking on par with the social media platforms it critiques. While presenting itself as a clear-eyed expose of Silicon Valley, the film is ultimately a redemption tour for a gaggle of supposedly reformed techies wrapped in an account that is so desperate to appeal to “both sides” that it is unwilling to speak hard truths.

    The film warns that the social media companies are not your friends, and that is certainly true, but The Social Dilemma is not your friend either.

    The Social Dilemma

    As the film begins the insiders introduce themselves, naming the companies where they had worked, and identifying some of the particular elements (such as the “like” button) with which they were involved. Their introductions are peppered with expressions of concern intermingled with earnest comments about how “Nobody, I deeply believe, ever intended any of these consequences,” and that “There’s no one bad guy.” As the film transitions to Tristan Harris rehearsing for the talk that will feature later in the film, he comments that “there’s a problem happening in the tech industry, and it doesn’t have a name.” After recounting his personal awakening, whilst working at Google, and his attempt to spark a serious debate about these issues with his coworkers, the film finds “a name” for the “problem” Harris had alluded to: “surveillance capitalism.” The thinker who coined that term, Shoshana Zuboff, appears to discuss this concept which captures the way in which Silicon Valley thrives not off of users’ labor but off of every detail that can be sucked up about those users and then sold off to advertisers.

    After being named, “surveillance capitalism” hovers in the explanatory background as the film considers how social media companies constantly pursue three goals: engagement (to keep you coming back), growth (to get you to bring in more users), and advertising (to get better at putting the right ad in front of your eyes, which is how the platforms make money). The algorithms behind these platforms are constantly being tweaked through A/B testing, with every small improvement being focused around keeping users more engaged. Numerous problems emerge: designed to be addictive, these platforms and devices claw at users’ attention; teenagers (especially young ones) struggle as their sense of self-worth becomes tied to “likes;” misinformation spreads rapidly in an information ecosystem wherein the incendiary gets more attention than the true; and the slow processes of democracy struggle to keep up with the speed of technology. Though the concerns are grave, and the interviewees are clearly concerned, the tonality is still one of hopefulness; the problem here is not really social media, but “surveillance capitalism,” and if “surveillance capitalism” can be thwarted then the true potential of social media can be attained. And the people leading that charge against “surveillance capitalism”? Why, none other than the reformed insiders in the film.

    While the bulk of the film consists of interviews, and news clips, the film is periodically interrupted by a narrative in which a family with three teenage children is shown. The Mother (Barbara Gehring) and Step-Father (Chris Grundy) are concerned with their children’s social media usage, even as they are glued to their own devices. As for the children: the oldest Cassandra (Kara Hayward) is presented as skeptical towards social media, the youngest Isla (Sophia Hammons) Is eager for online popularity, and the middle child Ben (Skyler Gisondo) eventually falls down the rabbit hole of recommended conspiratorial content. As the insiders, and academics, talk about the various dangers of social media the film shifts to the narrative to dramatize these moments – thus a discussion of social media’s impact on young teenagers, particularly girls, cuts to Isla being distraught after an insulting comment is added to one of the images she uploads. Cassandra (that name choice can’t be a coincidence) is presented as most in line with the general message of the film and the character refers to Jaron Lanier as a “genius” and in another sequence is shown reading Zuboff’s The Age of Surveillance Capitalism. Yet the member of the family the film dwells on the most is almost certainly Ben. For the purposes of dramatizing how an algorithm works, the film repeatedly returns to a creepy depiction of the Advertising, Engagement, and Growth Ais (all played by Vincent Kartheiser) as they scheme to get Ben to stay glued to his phone. Beyond the screens, the world in the narrative is being rocked by a strange protest movement calling itself “The Extreme Center” – whose argument seems to be that both sides can’t be trusted – and Ben eventually gets wrapped up in their message. The family’s narrative concludes with Ben and Cassandra getting arrested at a raucous rally held by “The Extreme Center,” sitting handcuffed on the ground and wondering how it is that this could have happened.

    To the extent that The Social Dilemma builds towards a conclusion, it is the speech that Harris gives (before an audience that includes many of the other interviewees in the film). And in that speech, and the other comments made around it, the point that is emphasized is that Silicon Valley must get away from “surveillance capitalism.” It must embrace “humane technology” that seeks to empower users not entangle them. Emphasizing that, despite how things have turned out, that “I don’t think these guys set out to be evil” the various insiders double-down on their belief in high-tech’s liberatory potential. Contrasting rather unflattering imagery of Mark Zuckerberg (without genuinely calling him out) testifying with images of Steve Jobs in his iconic turtleneck, the film claims “the idea of humane technology, that’s where Silicon Valley got its start.” And before the credits roll, Harris seems to speak for his fellow insiders as he notes “we built these things, and we have a responsibility to change it.” For those who found the film unsettling, and who are confused by exactly what they are meant to do if they are not part of Harris’s “we,” the film offers some straightforward advice. Drawing on their own digital habits, the insiders recommend: turning off notifications, never watching a recommended video, opting for a less-invasive search engine, trying to escape your content bubble, keeping your devices out of your bedroom, and being a critical consumer of information.

    It is a disturbing film, and it is constructed so as to unsettle the viewer, but it still ends on a hopeful note: reform is possible, and the people in this film are leading that charge. The problem is not social media as such, but what the ways in which “surveillance capitalism” has thwarted what social media could really be. If, after watching The Social Dilemma, you feel concerned about what “surveillance capitalism” has done to social media (and you feel prepared to make some tweaks in your social media use) but ultimately trust that Silicon Valley insiders are on the case—then the film has succeeded in its mission. After all, the film may be telling you to turn off Facebook notifications, but it doesn’t recommend deleting your account.

    Yet one of the points the film makes is that you should not accept the information that social media presents to you at face value. And in the same spirit, you should not accept the comments made by oh-so-remorseful Silicon Valley insiders at face value either. To be absolutely clear: we should be concerned about the impacts of social media, we need to work to rein in the power of these tech companies, we need to be willing to have the difficult discussion about what kind of society we want to live in…but we should not believe that the people who got us into this mess—who lacked the foresight to see the possible downsides in what they were building—will get us out of this mess. If these insiders genuinely did not see the possible downsides of what they were building, than they are fools who should not be trusted. And if these insiders did see the possible downsides, continued building these things anyways, and are now pretending that they did not see the downsides, than they are liars who definitely should not be trusted.

    It’s true, arsonists know a lot about setting fires, and a reformed arsonist might be able to give you some useful fire safety tips—but they are still arsonists.

    There is much to be said about The Social Dilemma. Indeed, anyone who cares about these issues (unfortunately) needs to engage with The Social Dilemma if for no other reason than the fact that this film will be widely watched, and will thus set much of the ground on which these discussions take place. Therefore, it is important to dissect certain elements of the film. To be clear, there is a lot to explore in The Social Dilemma—a book or journal issue could easily be published in which the docudrama is cut into five minute segments with academics and activists being each assigned one segment to comment on. While there is not the space here to offer a frame by frame analysis of the entire film, there are nevertheless a few key segments in the film which deserve to be considered. Especially because these key moments capture many of the film’s larger problems.

    “when bicycles showed up”

    A moment in The Social Dilemma that perfectly, if unintentionally, sums up many of the major flaws with the film occurs when Tristan Harris opines on the history of bicycles. There are several problems in these comments, but taken together these lines provide you with almost everything you need to know about the film. As Harris puts it:

    No one got upset when bicycles showed up. Right? Like, if everyone’s starting to go around on bicycles, no one said, ‘Oh, my God, we’ve just ruined society. [chuckles] Like, bicycles are affecting people. They’re pulling people away from their kids. They’re ruining the fabric of democracy. People can’t tell what’s true.’ Like we never said any of that stuff about a bicycle.

    Here’s the problem, Harris’s comments about bicycles are wrong.

    They are simply historically inaccurate. Some basic research into the history of bicycles that looks at the ways that people reacted when they were introduced would reveal that many people were in fact quite “upset when bicycles showed up.” People absolutely were concerned that bicycles were “affecting people,” and there were certainly some who were anxious about what these new technologies meant for “the fabric of democracy.” Granted, that there were such adverse reactions to the introduction of bicycles should not be seen as particularly surprising, because even a fairly surface-level reading of the history of technology reveals that when new technologies are introduced they tend to be met not only with excitement, but also with dread.

    Yet, what makes Harris’s point so interesting is not just that he is wrong, but that he is so confident while being so wrong. Smiling before the camera, in what is obviously supposed to be a humorous moment, Harris makes a point about bicycles that is surely one that will stick with many viewers—and what he is really revealing is that he needs to take some history classes (or at least do some reading). It is genuinely rather remarkable that this sequence made it into the final cut of the film. This was clearly an expensive production, but they couldn’t have hired a graduate student to watch the film and point out “hey, you should really cut this part about bicycles, it’s wrong”? It is hard to put much stock in Harris, and friends, as emissaries of technological truth when they can’t be bothered to do basic research.

    That Harris speaks so assuredly about something which he is so wrong about gets at one of the central problems with the reformed insiders of The Social Dilemma. Though these are clearly intelligent people (lots of emphasis is placed on the fancy schools they attended), they know considerably less than they would like the viewers to believe. Of course, one of the ways that they get around this is by confidently pretending they know what they’re talking about, which manifests itself by making grandiose claims about things like bicycles that just don’t hold up. The point is not to mock Harris for this mistake (though it really is extraordinary that the segment did not get cut), but to make the following point: if Harris, and his friends, had known a bit more about the history of technology, and perhaps if they had a bit more humility about what they don’t know, perhaps they would not have gotten all of us into this mess.

    A point that is made by many of the former insiders interviewed for the film is that they didn’t know what the impacts would be. Over and over again we hear some variation of “we meant well” or “we really thought we were doing something great.” It is easy to take such comments as expressions of remorse, but it is more important to see such comments as confessions of that dangerous mixture of hubris and historical/social ignorance that is so common in Silicon Valley. Or, to put it slightly differently, these insiders really needed to take some more courses in the humanities. You know how you could have known that technologies often have unforeseen consequences? Study the history of technology. You know how you could have known that new media technologies have jarring political implications? Read some scholarship from media studies. A point that comes up over and over again in such scholarly work, particularly works that focus on the American context, is that optimism and enthusiasm for new technology often keeps people (including inventors) from seeing the fairly obvious risks—and all of these woebegone insiders could have known that…if they had only been willing to do the reading. Alas, as anyone who has spent time in a classroom knows, a time honored way of covering up for the fact that you haven’t done the reading is just to speak very confidently and hope that your confidence will successfully distract from the fact that you didn’t do the reading.

    It would be an exaggeration to claim “all of these problems could have been prevented if these people had just studied history!” And yet, these insiders (and society at large) would likely be better able to make sense of these various technological problems if more people had an understanding of that history. At the very least, such historical knowledge can provide warnings about how societies often struggle to adjust to new technologies, can teach how technological progress and social progress are not synonymous, can demonstrate how technologies have a nasty habit of biting back, and can make clear the many ways in which the initial liberatory hopes that are attached to a technology tend to fade as it becomes clear that the new technology has largely reinscribed a fairly conservative status quo.

    At the very least, knowing a bit more about the history of technology can keep you from embarrassing yourself by confidently making claiming that “we never said any of that stuff about a bicycle.”

    “to destabilize”

    While The Social Dilemma expresses concern over how digital technologies impact a person’s body, the film is even more concerned about the way these technologies impact the body politic. A worry that is captured by Harris’s comment that:

    We in the tech industry have created the tools to destabilize and erode the fabric of society.

    That’s quite the damning claim, even if it is one of the claims in the film that probably isn’t all that controversial these days. Though many of the insiders in the film pine nostalgically for those idyllic days from ten years ago when much of the media and the public looked so warmly towards Silicon Valley, this film is being released at a moment when much of that enthusiasm has soured. One of the odd things about The Social Dilemma is that politics are simultaneously all over the film, and yet politics in the film are very slippery. When the film warns of looming authoritarianism: Bolsanaro gets some screen time, Putin gets some ominous screen time—but though Trump looms in the background of the film he’s pretty much unseen and unnamed. And when US politicians do make appearances we get Marco Rubio and Jeff Flake talking about how people have become too polarized and Jon Tester reacting with discomfort to Harris’s testimony. Of course, in the clip that is shown, Rubio speaks some pleasant platitudes about the virtues of coming together…but what does his voting record look like?

    The treatment of politics in The Social Dilemma comes across most clearly in the narrative segment, wherein much attention is paid to a group that calls itself “The Extreme Center.” Though the ideology of this group is never made quite clear, it seems to be a conspiratorial group that takes as its position that “both sides are corrupt” – rejecting left and right it therefore places itself in “the extreme center.” It is into this group, and the political rabbit hole of its content, that Ben falls in the narrative – and the raucous rally (that ends in arrests) in the narrative segment is one put on by the “extreme center.” It may appear that “the extreme center” is just a simple storytelling technique, but more than anything else it feels like the creation of this fictional protest movement is really just a way for the film to get around actually having to deal with real world politics.

    The film includes clips from a number of protests (though it does not bother to explain who these people are and why they are protesting), and there are some moments when various people can be heard specifically criticizing Democrats or Republicans. But even as the film warns of “the rabbit hole” it doesn’t really spend much time on examples. Heck, the first time that the words “surveillance capitalism” get spoken in the film are in a clip of Tucker Carlson. Some points are made about “pizzagate” but the documentary avoids commenting on the rapidly spreading QAnon conspiracy theory. And to the extent that any specific conspiracy receives significant attention it is the “flat earth” conspiracy. Granted, it’s pretty easy to deride the flat earthers, and in focusing on them the film makes a very conscious decision to not focus on white supremacist content and QAnon. Ben falls down the “extreme center” rabbit hole, and it may well be that the reason why the filmmakers have him fall down this fictional rabbit hole is so that they don’t have to talk about the likelihood that (in the real world) he would likely fall down a far-right rabbit hole. But The Social Dilemma doesn’t want to make that point, after all, in the political vision it puts forth the problem is that there is too much polarization and extremism on both sides.

    The Social Dilemma clearly wants to avoid taking sides. And in so doing demonstrates the ways in which Silicon Valley has taken sides. After all, to focus so heavily on polarization and the extremism of “both sides” just serves to create a false equivalency where none exists. But, the view that “the Trump administration has mismanaged the pandemic” and the view that “the pandemic is a hoax” – are not equivalent. The view that “climate change is real” and “climate change is a hoax” – are not equivalent. People organizing for racial justice and people organizing because they believe that Democrats are satanic cannibal pedophiles – are not equivalent. The view that “there is too much money in politics” and the view that “the Jews are pulling the strings” – are not equivalent. Of course, to say that these things “are not equivalent” is to make a political judgment, but by refusing to make such a judgment The Social Dilemma presents both sides as being equivalent. There are people online who are organizing for the cause of racial justice, and there are white-supremacists organizing online who are trying to start a race war—those causes may look the same to an algorithm, and they may look the same to the people who created those algorithms, but they are not the same.

    You cannot address the fact that Facebook and YouTube have become hubs of violent xenophobic conspiratorial content unless you are willing to recognize that Facebook and YouTube actively push violent xenophobic conspiratorial content.

    It is certainly true that there are activist movements from the left and the right organizing online at the moment, but when you watch a movie trailer on YouTube the next recommended video isn’t going to be a talk by Angela Davis.

    “it’s the critics”

    Much of the content of The Social Dilemma is unsettling, and the film makes it clear that change is necessary. Nevertheless, the film ends on a positive note. Pivoting away from gloominess, the film shows the rapt audience nodding as Harris speaks of the need for “humane technology,” and this assembled cast of reformed insiders is presented as proof that Silicon Valley is waking up to the need to take responsibility. Near the film’s end, Jaron Lanier hopefully comments that:

    it’s the critics that drive improvement. It’s the critics who are the true optimists.

    Thus, the sense that is conveyed at the film’s close is that despite the various worries that had been expressed—the critics are working on it, and the critics are feeling good.

    But, who are the critics?

    The people interviewed in the film, obviously.

    And that is precisely the problem. “Critic” is something of a challenging term to wrestle with as it doesn’t necessarily take much to be able to call yourself, or someone else, a critic. Thus, the various insiders who are interviewed in the film can all be held up as “critics” and can all claim to be “critics” thanks to the simple fact that they’re willing to say some critical things about Silicon Valley and social media. But what is the real content of the criticisms being made? Some critics are going to be more critical than others, so how critical are these critics? Not very.

    The Social Dilemma is a redemption tour that allows a bunch of remorseful Silicon Valley insiders to rebrand themselves as critics. Based on the information provided in the film it seems fairly obvious that a lot of these individuals are responsible for causing a great deal of suffering and destruction, but the film does not argue that these men (and they are almost entirely men) should be held accountable for their deeds. The insiders have harsh things to say about algorithms, they too have been buffeted about by nonstop nudging, they are also concerned about the rabbit hole, they are outraged at how “surveillance capitalism” has warped technological possibilities—but remember, they meant well, and they are very sorry.

    One of the fascinating things about The Social Dilemma is that in one scene a person will proudly note that they are responsible for creating a certain thing, and then in the next scene they will say that nobody is really to blame for that thing. Certainly not them, they thought they were making something great! The insiders simultaneously want to enjoy the cultural clout and authority that comes from being the one who created the like button, while also wanting to escape any accountability for being the person who created the like button. They are willing to be critical of Silicon Valley, they are willing to be critical of the tools they created, but when it comes to their own culpability they are desperate to hide behind a shield of “I meant well.” The insiders do a good job of saying remorseful words, and the camera catches them looking appropriately pensive, but it’s no surprise that these “critics” should feel optimistic, they’ve made fortunes utterly screwing up society, and they’ve done such a great job of getting away with it that now they’re getting to elevate themselves once again by rebranding themselves as “critics.”

    To be a critic of technology, to be a social critic more broadly, is rarely a particularly enjoyable or a particularly profitable undertaking. Most of the time, if you say anything critical about technology you are mocked as a Luddite, laughed at as a “prophet of doom,” derided as a technophobe, accused of wanting everybody to go live in caves, and banished from the public discourse. That is the history of many of the twentieth century’s notable social critics who raised the alarm about the dangers of computers decades before most of the insiders in The Social Dilemma were born. Indeed, if you’re looking for a thorough retort to The Social Dilemma you cannot really do better than reading Joseph Weizenbaum’s Computer Power and Human Reason—a book which came out in 1976. That a film like The Social Dilemma is being made may be a testament to some shifting attitudes towards certain types of technology, but it was not that long ago that if you dared suggest that Facebook was a problem you were denounced as an enemy of progress.

    There are many phenomenal critics speaking out about technology these days. To name only a few: Safiya Noble has written at length about the ways that the algorithms built by companies like Google and Facebook reinforce racism and sexism; Virginia Eubanks has exposed the ways in which high-tech tools of surveillance and control are first deployed against society’s most vulnerable members; Wendy Hui Kyong Chun has explored how our usage of social media becomes habitual; Jen Schradie has shown the ways in which, despite the hype to the contrary, online activism tends to favor right-wing activists and causes; Sarah Roberts has pulled back the screen on content moderation to show how much of the work supposedly being done by AI is really being done by overworked and under-supported laborers; Ruha Benjamin has made clear the ways in which discriminatory designs get embedded in and reified by technical systems; Christina Dunbar-Hester has investigated the ways in which communities oriented around technology fail to overcome issues of inequality; Sasha Costanza-Chock has highlighted the need for an approach to design that treats challenging structural inequalities as the core objective, not an afterthought; Morgan Ames expounds upon the “charisma” that develops around certain technologies; and Meredith Broussard has brilliantly inveighed against the sort of “technochauvinist” thinking—the belief that technology is the solution to every problem—that is so clearly visible in The Social Dilemma. To be clear, this list of critics is far from all-inclusive. There are numerous other scholars who certainly could have had their names added here, and there are many past critics who deserve to be named for their disturbing prescience.

    But you won’t hear from any of those contemporary critics in The Social Dilemma. Instead, viewers of the documentary are provided with a steady set of mostly male, mostly white, reformed insiders who were unable to predict that the high-tech toys they built might wind up having negative implications.

    It is not only that The Social Dilemma ignores most of the figures who truly deserve to be seen as critics, but that by doing so what The Social Dilemma does is set the boundaries for who gets to be a critic and what that criticism can look like. The world of criticism that The Social Dilemma sets up is one wherein a person achieves legitimacy as a critic of technology as a result of having once been a tech insider. Thus what the film does is lay out, and then set about policing the borders of, what can pass for acceptable criticism of technology. This not only limits the cast of critics to a narrow slice of mostly white mostly male insiders, it also limits what can be put forth as a solution. You can rest assured that the former insiders are not going to advocate for a response that would involve holding the people who build these tools accountable for what they’ve created. On the one hand it’s remarkable that no one in the film really goes after Mark Zuckerberg, but many of these insiders can’t go after Zuckerberg—because any vitriol they direct at him could just as easily be directed at them as well.

    It matters who gets to be deemed a legitimate critic. When news networks are looking to have a critic on it matters whether they call Tristan Harris or one of the previously mentioned thinkers, when Facebook does something else horrendous it matters whether a newspaper seeks out someone whose own self-image is bound up in the idea that the company means well or someone who is willing to say that Facebook is itself the problem. When there are dangerous fires blazing everywhere it matters whether the voices that get heard are apologetic arsonists or firefighters.

    Near the film’s end, while the credits play, as Jaron Lanier speaks of Silicon Valley he notes “I don’t hate them. I don’t wanna do any harm to Google or Facebook. I just want to reform them so they don’t destroy the world. You know?” And these comments capture the core ideology of The Social Dilemma, that Google and Facebook can be reformed, and that the people who can reform them are the people who built them.

    But considering all of the tangible harm that Google and Facebook have done, it is far past time to say that it isn’t enough to “reform” them. We need to stop them.

    Conclusion: On “Humane Technology”

    The Social Dilemma is an easy film to criticize. After all, it’s a highly manipulative piece of film making, filled with overly simplified claims, historical inaccuracies, conviction lacking politics, and a cast of remorseful insiders who still believe Silicon Valley’s basic mythology. The film is designed to scare you, but it then works to direct that fear into a few banal personal lifestyle tweaks, while convincing you that Silicon Valley really does mean well. It is important to view The Social Dilemma not as a genuine warning, or as a push for a genuine solution, but as part of a desperate move by Silicon Valley to rehabilitate itself so that any push for reform and regulation can be captured and defanged by “critics” of its own choosing.

    Yet, it is too simple (even if it is accurate) to portray The Social Dilemma as an attempt by Silicon Valley to control both the sale of flamethrowers and fire extinguishers. Because such a focus keeps our attention pinned to Silicon Valley. It is easy to criticize Silicon Valley, and Silicon Valley definitely needs to be criticized—but the bright-eyed faith in high-tech gadgets and platforms that these reformed insiders still cling to is not shared only by them. The people in this film blame “surveillance capitalism” for warping the liberatory potential of Internet connected technologies, and many people would respond to this by pushing back on Zuboff’s neologism to point out that “surveillance capitalism” is really just “capitalism” and that therefore the problem is really that capitalism is warping the liberatory potential of Internet connected technologies. Yes, we certainly need to have a conversation about what to do with Facebook and Google (dismantle them). But at a certain point we also need to recognize that the problem is deeper than Facebook and Google, at a certain point we need to be willlng to talk about computers.

    The question that occupied many past critics of technology was the matter of what kinds of technology do we really need? And they were clear that this was a question that was far too important to be left to machine-worshippers.

    The Social Dilemma responds to the question of “what kind of technology do we really need?” by saying “humane technology.” After all, the organization The Center for Humane Technology is at the core of the film, and Harris speaks repeatedly of “humane technology.” At the surface level it is hard to imagine anyone saying that they disapprove of the idea of “humane technology,” but what the film means by this (and what the organization means by this) is fairly vacuous. When the Center for Humane Technology launched in 2018, to a decent amount of praise and fanfare, it was clear from the outset that its goal had more to do with rehabilitating Silicon Valley’s image than truly pushing for a significant shift in technological forms. Insofar as “humane technology” means anything, it stands for platforms and devices that are designed to be a little less intrusive, that are designed to try to help you be your best self (whatever that means), that try to inform you instead of misinform you, and that make it so that you can think nice thoughts about the people who designed these products. The purpose of “humane technology” isn’t to stop you from being “the product,” it’s to make sure that you’re a happy product. “Humane technology” isn’t about deleting Facebook, it’s about renewing your faith in Facebook so that you keep clicking on the “like” button. And, of course, “humane technology” doesn’t seem to be particularly concerned with all of the inhumanity that goes into making these gadgets possible (from mining, to conditions in assembly plants, to e-waste). “Humane technology” isn’t about getting Ben or Isla off their phones, it’s about making them feel happy when they click on them instead of anxious. In a world of empowered arsonists, “humane technology” seeks to give everyone a pair of asbestos socks.

    Many past critics also argued that what was needed was to place a new word before technology – they argued for “democratic” technologies, or “holistic” technologies, or “convivial” technologies, or “appropriate” technologies, and this list could go on. Yet at the core of those critiques was not an attempt to salvage the status quo but a recognition that what was necessary in order to obtain a different sort of technology was to have a different sort of society. Or, to put it another way, the matter at hand is not to ask “what kind of computers do we want?” but to ask “what kind of society do we want?” and to then have the bravery to ask how (or if) computers really fit into that world—and if they do fit, how ubiquitous they will be, and who will be responsible for the mining/assembling/disposing that are part of those devices’ lifecycles. Certainly, these are not easy questions to ask, and they are not pleasant questions to mull over, which is why it is so tempting to just trust that the Center for Humane Technology will fix everything, or to just say that the problem is Silicon Valley.

    Thus as the film ends we are left squirming unhappily as Netflix (which has, of course, noted the fact that we watched The Social Dilemma) asks us to give the film a thumbs up or a thumbs down – before it begins auto-playing something else.

    The Social Dilemma is right in at least one regard, we are facing a social dilemma. But as far as the film is concerned, your role in resolving this dilemma is to sit patiently on the couch and stare at the screen until a remorseful tech insider tells you what to do.

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    Zachary Loeb earned his MSIS from the University of Texas at Austin, an MA from the Media, Culture, and Communications department at NYU, and is currently a PhD candidate in the History and Sociology of Science department at the University of Pennsylvania. Loeb works at the intersection of the history of technology and disaster studies, and his research focusses on the ways that complex technological systems amplify risk, as well as the history of technological doom-saying. He is working on a dissertation on Y2K. Loeb writes at the blog Librarianshipwreck, and is a frequent contributor to The b2 Review Digital Studies section.

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    Works Cited

    • Weizenbaum, Joseph. 1976. Computer Power and Human Reason: From Judgment to Calculation. New York: WH Freeman & Co.