In 1946, George Orwell pondered the fragility of the capitalist order.
Reviewing the work of the influential theorist James Burnham, Orwell presaged several concepts that would later form the groundwork for his best-known novel, 1984.
In his book The Managerial Revolution, Burnham envisioned, as Orwell put it, "a new kind of planned, centralised society which will be neither capitalist nor, in any accepted sense of the word, democratic. The rulers of this new society will be the people who effectively control the means of production."
"Not only is the best of capitalism behind us, but the worst of it may lie just ahead."
"The real question," Orwell adds, "is not whether the people who wipe their boots on us during the next fifty years are to be called managers, bureaucrats, or politicians: the question is whether capitalism, now obviously doomed, is to give way to oligarchy or to true democracy."
While Orwell was wary of Burnham's worldview and of his more specific predictions, he agreed that the relationship between capitalism and democracy has always been, and always will be, a precarious one.
"For quite fifty years past," Orwell noted, "the general drift has almost certainly been towards oligarchy."
Pointing to the concentration of political and economic power in the hands of the few and acknowledging "the weakness of the proletariat against the centralised state," Orwell was far from optimistic about the future — but he was quite certain that the economic status quo would eventually give way.
Recent events, and the material circumstances of much of the world's population, have prompted serious examinations of the same questions Orwell was considering seven decades ago. And though it appears as if rumors of capitalism's imminent demise have been greatly exaggerated, there is good reason to believe that its remarkable ability to adapt and evolve in the face of frequent (self-induced) shocks has reached a breaking point.
Widespread discontent over stagnant incomes and the uneven prosperity brought about by neoliberal globalization has, in 2016, come to a head in striking fashion; Donald Trump, Brexit, and the rise of far-right parties in Europe have many questioning previously sacred assumptions.
"Is the marriage between liberal democracy and global capitalism an enduring one?" asked Martin Wolf, a formidable commentator in one of the world's leading business papers, the Financial Times.
This was no rhetorical softball; Wolf is genuinely concerned that the winners of globalization have grown complacent, that they have "taken for granted" a couple that was only tenuously compatible to begin with. He also worries, rightly, that they have downplayed the concerns of the "losers."
Wolf concludes that "if the legitimacy of our democratic political systems is to be maintained, economic policy must be orientated towards promoting the interests of the many not the few; in the first place would be the citizenry, to whom the politicians are accountable."
Not all members of the commentariat share Wolf's willingness to engage with these cherished assumptions, however. Indeed, many analysts have reserved their ire not for failing institutions or policies but for the public, reviving Walter Lippmann's characterization of the masses as a "bewildered herd" that, if left to its own devices, is sure to usher in a regime of chaos.
"It's time," declared Foreign Policy's James Traub, channeling the sentiments of Josh Barro, "for the elites to rise up against the ignorant masses."
Apologists like Traub and Barro — just two among many — speak and write as if the leash previously restraining the "herd" has been loosened, and that the resulting freedom has laid bare what elitists have long believed to be the case: To use Barro's infamous words, "Elites are usually elite for good reason, and tend to have better judgment than the average person." They point to the rise of Donald Trump as evidence of an intolerable democratic surplus — evidence, in short, of what the masses will do if granted a loud enough voice.
Aside from being conveniently self-serving, this narrative is also false.
Far from loosening the leash, elites have consolidated power to an unprecedented extent, and they have used their influence to undercut democratic movements and hijack public institutions. The resulting concentration of wealth and political power is jarring, and it puts the lie to the farcical notion that elites are a persecuted minority.
But, in the midst of these anti-democratic diatribes, fascinating and important critiques of a rather different nature have emerged.
Instead of urging us to align Against Democracy, to use the name of a recent book by the libertarian political philosopher Jason Brennan, many are arguing that it is capitalism, and not the excesses of the democratic process, that has provided figures like Trump a launching pad.
Far from loosening the leash, elites have consolidated power to an unprecedented extent, and they have used their influence to undercut democratic movements and hijack public institutions."
In his book Postcapitalism, Paul Mason argues that the rapid emergence of information technology has corroded the boundaries of the market; "capitalism," he insists, "has reached the limits of its capacity to adapt." And its attempts to reach beyond these limits have fostered an economic environment defined by instability, crippling austerity for the many, and rapid accumulation of wealth for the few.
According to Oxfam, the global 1 percent now owns as much wealth as the bottom 99 percent. CEO pay has continued to soar. And though post-crisis reforms have carried soaring promises of stability, the financial sector is still far too large, and many of the banks harmed by the crash they created are back and nearly as powerful as ever.
Mason summarizes: "According to the OECD, growth in the developed world will be 'weak' for the next fifty years. Inequality will rise by 40 per cent. Even in the developing countries, the current dynamism will be exhausted by 2060."
"The OECD's economists were too polite to say it," he adds, "so let's spell it out: for the developed world the best of capitalism is behind us, and for the rest it will be over in our lifetime."
Sociologist Peter Frase, in his new book Four Futures, implicitly agrees with many of Mason's key points, but he then takes up the task of looking further ahead, of contemplating possible futures that hinge largely upon how we respond to the crises we are likely to face in the coming years.
For Frase, not only is the best of capitalism behind us, but the worst of it may lie just ahead.
Central to Four Futures are what Frase calls the "[t]wo specters...haunting Earth in the twenty-first century" — "the specters of environmental catastrophe and automation."
Rather than attempting to predict the future, Frase — guided by Rosa Luxemburg's famous words, "Bourgeois society stands at the crossroads, either transition to socialism or regression into barbarism" — lays out potential, contingent scenarios. And while Mason's book exudes optimism about the advancement of information technology and automation, Frase is more cautious.
"To the extent that the rich are able to maintain their power," Frase writes, "we will live in a world where they enjoy the benefits of automated production, while the rest of us pay the costs of ecological destruction—if we can survive at all." And, "To the extent that we can move toward a world of greater equality, then the future will be characterized by some combination of shared sacrifice and shared prosperity, depending on where we are on the other, ecological dimension."
It comes down, in short, to who wins the class struggle. "I am a very old-fashioned Marxist in that way," Frase remarked in a recent interview.
None of the futures Frase maps out are inevitable, the result of historical forces that are beyond our control. He is contemptuous of those who cling to "secular eschatology"; capitalism's collapse, he notes, will not likely be the result of a single, revolutionary moment.
In expressing this view he aligns with Wolfgang Streeck, who has argued that capitalism is "a social system in chronic disrepair," and that while "we cannot know when and how exactly capitalism will disappear and what will succeed it," we can know that a system that depends on endless growth and the elimination of all restraints will eventually self-destruct.
The disappearance of capitalism, though, as Orwell understood, does not necessarily imply the emergence of an egalitarian society, one in which resources are shared for the benefit of the many. But while few agree on precisely how to establish the framework for such a society, there are, Mason and Frase argue, policies that can move us in the right direction.
Both, for instance, support the idea of a universal basic income, which, in Frase's words, would "create a situation in which it possible to survive without depending on selling your labor to anyone who will pay for it," making automation a path to liberation, not destitution. And Mason rightly argues that, in order to avert catastrophic warming, we must radically reduce carbon emissions.
But the usual political obstacles remain, as does the fact that the "winners" are not likely to hand over their gains, or their positions of power and influence, without a fight. We cannot, then, passively rely on amoral forces like technology to bring about the necessary change.
"Technological developments give a context for social transformations," Frase writes, "but they never determine them directly; change is always mediated by the power struggles between organized masses of people."
The future is necessarily disobedient; it rarely conforms to even the most meticulous theoretical anticipations, to say nothing of our deepest desires or fears.
But one thing is clear: The future of capitalism and the future of the planet are intertwined. The health of the latter depends on our ability to dismantle the former, and on our ability to construct an alternative that radically alters our course, which is at present leading us toward catastrophe.
Whether the path to which we are ultimately confined is one that leads to a utopian dream or a dystopian nightmare is contingent upon our ability to connect the struggles that currently occupy the left — those fighting for the right to organize are confronting, at bottom, the same forces as those working to prevent the plunder of sacred land.
"One thing is clear: The future of capitalism and the future of the planet are intertwined."
There are reasons to be both hopeful and pessimistic about the prospects of these struggles.
The campaign of Bernie Sanders, and the movements that emerged before it and alongside it, revealed that there is a large base of support for social democratic changes that, if enacted, would move us in the right direction.
The obstacles, however, are immense, as is the arithmetic: As Bill McKibben has noted, "The future of humanity depends on math," and the climate math we face is "ominous."
But, as Noam Chomsky has argued, the debate over the choice between pessimism and optimism is really no debate at all.
"We have two choices," he concludes. "We can be pessimistic, give up and help ensure that the worst will happen. Or we can be optimistic, grasp the opportunities that surely exist and maybe help make the world a better place. Not much of a choice."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jake Johnson is an independent writer covering politics and other stuff. His website is Words of Dissent.
Why the Peak Oil Movement Failed
John Michael Greer
This article was originally published in
The Archdruid Report, 14 December 2016
Hubbert's upper-bound prediction for US crude oil production (1956), and actual lower-48 states production through 2014.
As I glance back across the trajectory of this blog over the
last ten and a half years, one change stands out. When I began blogging in May
of 2006, peak oil—the imminent peaking of global production of conventional
petroleum, to unpack that gnomic phrase a little—was the central theme of a
large, vocal, and tolerably well organized movement. It had its own visible
advocacy organizations, it had national and international conferences, it had a
small but noticeable presence in the political sphere, and it showed every sign
of making its presence felt in the broader conversation of our time.
Today none of that is true. Of the three major peak oil
organizations in the US, ASPO-USA—that’s the US branch of the Association for
the Study of Peak Oil and Gas, for those who don’t happen to be fluent in
acronym—is apparently moribund; Post Carbon Institute, while it still plays a
helpful role from time to time as a platform for veteran peak oil researcher
Richard Heinberg, has otherwise largely abandoned its former peak oil focus in
favor of generic liberal environmentalism; and the US branch of the Transition
organization, formerly the Transition Town movement, is spinning its wheels in
a rut laid down years back. The conferences ASPO-USA once hosted in Washington
DC, with congresscritters in attendance, stopped years ago, and an attempt to
host a national conference in southern Pennsylvania fizzled after three years
and will apparently not be restarted.
Ten years ago, for that matter, opinion blogs and news
aggregators with a peak oil theme were all over the internet. Today that’s no
longer the case, either. The fate of the two most influential peak oil sites,
The Oil Drum and Energy Bulletin, is indicative. The Oil Drum simply folded,
leaving its existing pages up as a legacy of a departed era. Energy Bulletin, for its part, was taken over
by Post Carbon Institute and given a new name and theme as Resilience.org. It
then followed PCI in its drift toward the already overcrowded environmental
mainstream, replacing the detailed assessment of energy futures that was the
staple fare of Energy Bulletin with the sort of uncritical enthusiasm for an
assortment of vaguely green causes more typical of the pages of Yes!
There are still some peak oil sites soldiering away—notably
Peak Oil Barrel
, under the direction of
former Oil Drum regular Ron Patterson.
There are also a handful of public figures still trying to keep the
concept in circulation, with the aforementioned Richard Heinberg arguably first
among them. Aside from those few, though, what was once a significant movement
is for all practical purposes dead. The question that deserves asking is simple
enough: what happened?
One obvious answer is that the peak oil movement was the
victim of its own failed predictions. It’s true, to be sure, that failed
predictions were a commonplace of the peak oil scene. It wasn’t just the
overenthusiastic promoters of alternative energy technologies, who year after
year insisted that the next twelve months would see their pet technology leap
out of its current obscurity to make petroleum a fading memory; it wasn’t just
their exact equivalents, the overenthusiastic promoters of apocalyptic
predictions, who year after year insisted that the next twelve months would see
the collapse of the global economy, the outbreak of World War III, the
imposition of a genocidal police state, or whatever other sudden cataclysm
happened to have seized their fancy.
No, the problem with failed predictions ran straight through
the movement, even—or especially—in its more serious manifestations. The
standard model of the future accepted through most of the peak oil scene
started from a set of inescapable facts and an unexamined assumption, and the combination
of those things produced consistently false predictions. The inescapable facts
were that the Earth is finite, that it contains a finite supply of petroleum,
and that various lines of evidence showed conclusively that global production
of conventional petroleum was approaching its peak for hard geological reasons,
and could no longer keep increasing thereafter.
The unexamined assumption was that geological realities
rather than economic forces would govern how fast the remaining reserves of
conventional petroleum would be extracted. On that basis, most people in the
peak oil movement assumed that as production peaked and began to decline, the
price of petroleum would rise rapidly, placing an increasingly obvious burden
on the global economy. The optimists in the movement argued that this, in turn,
would force nations around the world to recognize what was going on and make
the transition to other energy sources, and to the massive conservation
programs that would be needed to deal with the gap between the cheap abundant
energy that petroleum used to provide and the more expensive and less abundant
energy available from other sources. The pessimists, for their part, argued
that it was already too late for such a transition, and that industrial civilization
would come apart at the seams.
As it turned out, though, the unexamined assumption was
wrong. Geological realities imposed, and continue to impose, upper limits on
global petroleum production, but economic forces have determined how much less
than those upper limits would actually be produced. What happened, as a result,
is that when oil prices spiked in 2007 and 2008, and then again in 2014 and
2015, consumers cut back on their use of petroleum products, while producers
hurried to bring marginal petroleum sources such as tar sands and oil shales
into production to take advantage of the high prices. Both those steps drove
prices back down. Low prices, in turn, encouraged consumers to use more
petroleum products, and forced producers to shut down marginal sources that
couldn’t turn a profit when oil was less than $80 a barrel; both these steps,
in turn, sent prices back up.
That doesn’t mean that peak oil has gone away. As oilmen
like to say, depletion never sleeps; each time the world passes through the
cycle just described, the global economy takes another body blow, and the
marginal petroleum sources cost much more to extract and process than the light
sweet crude on which the oil industry used to rely. The result, though, is that
instead of a sudden upward zoom in prices that couldn’t be ignored, we’ve
gotten wild swings in commodity prices, political and social turmoil, and a
global economy stuck in creeping dysfunction that stubbornly refuses to behave
the way it did when petroleum was still cheap and abundant. The peak oil
movement wasn’t prepared for that future.
Granting all this, failed predictions aren’t enough by
themselves to stop a movement in its tracks. Here in the United States,
especially, we’ve got an astonishing tolerance for predictive idiocy. The
economists who insisted that neoliberal policies would surely bring prosperity,
for example, haven’t been laughed into obscurity by the mere fact that they
were dead wrong; au contraire, they’re still drawing their paychecks and being
taken seriously by politicians and the media. The pundits who insisted at the
top of their lungs that Britain wouldn’t vote for Brexit and Donald Trump
couldn’t possibly win the US presidency are still being taken seriously, too.
Nor, to move closer to the activist fringes, has the climate change movement
been badly hurt by the embarrassingly linear models of imminent doom it used to
deploy with such abandon; the climate change movement is in deep trouble,
granted, but its failure has other causes
It was the indirect impacts of those failed predictions,
rather, that helped run the peak oil movement into the ground. The most
important of these, to my mind, was the way that those predictions encouraged
people in the movement to put their faith in the notion that sometime very
soon, governments and businesses would have to take peak oil seriously. That’s
what inspired ASPO-USA, for example, to set up a lobbying office in Washington
DC with a paid executive director, when the long-term funding for such a
project hadn’t yet been secured. On another plane, that’s what undergirded the
entire strategy of the Transition Town movement in its original incarnation: get
plans drawn up and officially accepted by as many town governments as possible,
so that once the arrival of peak oil becomes impossible to ignore, the plan for
what to do about it would already be in place.
Of course the difficulty in both cases was that the glorious
day of public recognition never arrived. The movement assumed that events would
prove its case in the eyes of the general public and the political system
alike, and so made no realistic plans about what to do if that didn’t happen.
When it didn’t happen, in turn, the movement was left twisting in the wind.
The conviction that politicians, pundits, and the public
would be forced by events to acknowledge the truth about peak oil had other
consequences that helped hamstring the movement. Outreach to the vast majority
that wasn’t yet on board the peak oil bandwagon, for example, got far too
little attention or funding. Early on in the movement, several books meant for
general audiences—James Howard Kunstler’s The Long Emergency and Richard
Heinberg’s The Party’s Over are arguably the best examples—helped lay
the foundations for a more effective outreach program, but the organized
followup that might have built on those foundations never really happened.
Waiting on events took the place of shaping events, and that’s almost
always a guarantee of failure.
One particular form of waiting on events that took a
particularly steep toll on the movement was its attempts to get funding from
wealthy donors. I’ve been told that Post Carbon Institute got itself funded in
this way, while as far as I know, ASPO-USA never did. Win or lose, though,
begging for scraps at the tables of the rich is a sucker’s game. In social change as in every other aspect of
life, who pays the piper calls the tune, and the rich—who benefit more than
anyone else from business as usual—can be counted on to defend their interest
by funding only those activities that don’t seriously threaten the continuation
of business as usual. Successful movements for social change start by taking
effective action with the resources they can muster by themselves, and build
their own funding base by attracting people who believe in their mission
strongly enough to help pay for it.
There were other reasons why the peak oil movement failed,
of course. To its credit, it managed to avoid two of the factors that ran the
climate change movement into the ground, as detailed in the essay linked
above—it never became a partisan issue, mostly because no political party in
the US was willing to touch it with a ten foot pole, and the purity politics
that insists that supporters of one cause are only acceptable in its ranks if
they also subscribe to a laundry list of other causes never really got a
foothold outside of certain limited circles. Piggybacking—the flipside of
purity politics, which demands that no movement be allowed to solve one problem
without solving every other problem as well—was more of a problem, and so, in a
big way, was pandering to the privileged—I long ago lost track of the number of
times I heard people in the peak oil scene insist that this or that high-end
technology, which was only affordable by the well-to-do, was a meaningful
response to the coming of peak oil.
There are doubtless other reasons as well; it’s a feature of
all things human that failure is usually overdetermined. At this point, though,
I’d like to set that aside for a moment and consider two other points. The
first is that the movement didn’t have to fail the way it did. The second is
that it could still be revived and gotten back on a more productive track.
To begin with, not everyone in the peak oil scene bought
into the unexamined assumption I’ve critiqued above. Well before the movement
started running itself into the ground, some of us pointed out that economic
factors were going to have a massive impact on the rates of petroleum
production and consumption—my
first essay on that theme
appeared here in April of 2007, and I was
far from the first person to notice it. The movement by that time was so
invested in its own predictions, with their apparent promise of public
recognition and funding, that those concerns didn’t have an impact at the time.
Even when the stratospheric oil price spike of 2008 was followed by a bust,
though, peak oil organizations by and large don’t seem to have reconsidered
their strategies. A mid-course correction at that point, wrenching though it
might have been, could have kept the movement alive.
There were also plenty of good examples of effective
movements for social change from which useful lessons could have been drawn.
One difficulty is that you won’t find such examples in today’s liberal
environmental mainstream, which for all practical purposes hasn’t won a battle
since Richard Nixon signed the Clean Air Act. The struggle for the right to
same-sex marriage, as I’ve noted before, is quite another matter—a grassroots
movement that, despite sparse funding and strenuous opposition, played a long game
extremely well and achieved its goal. There are other such examples, on both
sides of today’s partisan divide, from which useful lessons can be drawn. Pay
attention to how movements for change succeed and how they fail, and it’s not
hard to figure out how to play the game effectively. That could have been done
at any point in the history of the peak oil movement. It could still be done
Like same-sex marriage, after all, peak oil isn’t inherently
a partisan issue. Like same-sex marriage, it offers plenty of room for
compromise and coalition-building. Like same-sex marriage, it’s a single issue,
not a fossilized total worldview like those that play so large and
dysfunctional a role in today’s political nonconversations. A peak oil movement
that placed itself squarely in the abandoned center of contemporary politics,
played both sides against each other, and kept its eyes squarely on the
prize—educating politicians and the public about the reality of finite fossil
fuel reserves, and pushing for projects that will mitigate the cascading
environmental and economic impacts of peak oil—could do a great deal to reshape our collective narrative about energy
and, in the process, accomplish quite a bit to make the long road down from
peak oil less brutal than it will otherwise be.
I’m sorry to say that the phrase “peak oil,” familiar and
convenient as it is, probably has to go.
The failures of the movement that coalesced around that phrase were
serious and visible enough that some new moniker will be needed for the time
being, to avoid being tarred with a well-used brush. The crucial concept of net
energy—the energy a given resource provides once you subtract the energy needed
to extract, process, and use it—would have to be central to the first rounds of
education and publicity; since it’s precisely equivalent to profit, a concept
most people grasp quickly enough, that’s not necessarily a hard thing to
accomplish, but it has to be done, because it’s when the concept of net energy
is solidly understood that such absurdities as commercial fusion power appear
in their true light.
It probably has to be said up front that no such project
will keep the end of the industrial age from being an ugly mess. That’s already
baked into the cake at this point; what were once problems to be solved have
become predicaments that we can, at best, only mitigate. Nor could a project of
the sort I’ve very roughly sketched out here expect any kind of overnight
success. It would have to play a long game in an era when time is running
decidedly short. Challenging? You bet—but I think it’s a possibility worth
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Michael Greer is Past Grand Archdruid of the Ancient Order of Druids in America , current head of the Druidical Order of the Golden Dawn, and the author of more than thirty books on a wide range of subjects, including peak oil and the future of industrial society. He lives in Cumberland, MD, an old red brick mill town in the north central Appalachians, with his wife Sara.
There is Only One Culture:
Bringing Back Science into the Fold of Humanism
This article was originally published in
Cassandra's Legacy, 18 December 2016
Yesterday, I was invited to give a talk at a public meeting on the usual themes: climate change, resources, pollution, and the like. This time, a question I received from the audience caused me a small enlightenment that I am describing here as I remember it (h/t Lorenzo Citti for having organized this interesting meeting) (image source)
Thanks for this question - it is a very interesting question: "are we teaching enough science to our children?" And I can tell you that it is much more than an interesting question, it caused some small earthquake in my mind. Truly, I had a flash of understanding that I had never had before and right now I completely changed my view of the world. It happens to me: the world changes so fast and I do my best to follow it.
Your question is so interesting because it has to do with the idea that there are two cultures: a scientific one and a literary one. As a consequence, some of us think that instruction is unbalanced in one or the other direction: maybe we teach too little science to our children, maybe too much. The whole idea goes back to someone named Snow who proposed it in the 1950s. He was not wrong, I think, but there were problems with the idea. The concept of the two cultures can be intended as meaning that we need somehow to bridge the gap that exists in between. Or, and I think that's what happens most often, it can be interpreted as meaning that one of the two cultures is superior to the other. That can generate a competition between the two and divide people into two different tribes: literates and scientists. We are very good, as human beings, at dividing ourselves into separate tribes fighting each other. And that's bad, as you can imagine. Actually, it is a disaster. Snow was a scientist and he decried the scientific ignorance of literates. On this, he was right but in the long run the result was that literates despise scientists as illiterate boors and scientists despise literates as feebleminded ignorants.
Now, I had been thinking about all this and, as I said, today I had this flash that focused my mind on a concept. I think we have to say this clearly: this story of the "two cultures" is an idiocy. It must end. There is only ONE culture, and that's what we may call "humanism," if nothing else because we are all humans. That is, unless someone in the audience today is an alien or a droid. In such case, would you please stand up? No......? Apparently, we are all humans in this room and so we call our culture "humanism" (or, sometimes, "arts and humanities") How else would you call it?
So, there is really no reason for considering modern science a separate culture rather than part of the human culture that we call humanism. I am saying this as a scientist: science is part of what I would like to call human "sapience", what the ancient called "sophos"; that we translate as "wisdom" "sapience," or "knowledge." The term philosopher just means someone who loves sapience. And that's what we are; scientists or non-scientists, the very fact that we are here today, engaged in this discussion. means that we love knowledge: we are all philosophers. And that's a good thing to be; sapience is what makes us human and that's why we speak of humanism.
So, why do science and scientists sometimes pretend to be a separate branch of knowledge? Well, it has to do with another concept that comes to us from the Greek philosophy. It goes under the name of techné that we may translate as "craftsmanship" and that originates the modern term "technology". Here lies the problem.
Five minutes ago, someone asked me about hydrogen powered cars. I answered that they have been a complete failure and that was it. But I ask you to go a little more in depth with this question. Why do many of us think these things are important: hydrogen cars, a hydrogen powered economy, and lots of strange things we hear as proposed by scientists and that are said to be able to "solve our problems." Why is that? There is a reason and it goes back to a period in history when scientists found that they were able to devise some clever gadgets: you remember the "atomic age", right? It started more or less from there. Then there was the space age, the information age, and so on. There was this great wave of optimism when we really thought that science would bring us a new age of happiness and prosperity - it was the triumph of technology over everything else. The triumph of techné over sophos.
That period of optimism is still with us: anything that you say that disputes the sacred cow of economic growth is answered with "the scientists will think of something." Climate change? Resource Depletion? Pollution? Not really problems if you have the right gadget to solve them. And this brings, sometimes, the question "do we teach enough science to our children?" It is a result of the opinion that, in order to solve our problems, we need more gadgets and that, in order to have more gadgets, we need more science and that, in order to have more science, we need to teach more of it to our children. I think this is not a good idea. I think we have too many gadgets, not too few. And all these gadgets either don't work or cause more problems than those they are supposed to solve. Think about that: we wanted flying cars and we got killer drones, we wanted freedom and we got body scanners, we wanted cheap energy and we got Fukushima, we wanted knowledge and we got 140 characters, we wanted a long life and we got Alzheimer. The more gadgets we have, the worse the situation becomes.
Don't get me wrong: I am not saying that technology is bad in itself. We all live in heated spaces, we use electricity, when we have a headache we take an aspirin, and we use a lot of useful devices in our everyday life. I am not telling you that we should run to the woods and live as our stone-age ancestors - not at all. Being good craftsmen is part of being human. It is just that this fascination with gadgetry is generating multiple disasters, as we have been discussing today: from climate change to all the rest. One of these disasters is the decline of science, with scientists often turned into those raucous boors who feel they have to send out a press release every month or so to describe how their new gadget will save the world.
It can't work in this way. We need to take control of the technology we use, we need to stop being controlled by it. And I think the first step for retaking control is to bring science back into the fold of humanism. I am saying this as a scientist and as someone who loves science - I have been loving science from when I was a kid. Modern science is a beautiful thing; well worth being loved. It has been telling us so much that's worth knowing: the history of our planet, the origin and the fate of the universe, the thermodynamic engines that make everything move, and much more. We need to see science as part of the human treasure of knowledge and we need to love knowledge in all its forms. And, as I said at the beginning, someone who loves knowledge is a philosopher and that's what we can all be and we should be; because it is our call as human beings. If we want to save the world, we don't need gadgetry, we need to be what we are: human beings.
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