Quantum leaps in technology, instant global communication, mega bandwidth: the cult of speed & hyperviolence.” Discuss.

There is an inherent violence in things that go fast. I learned, quite young, to be fearful of speed. Reading Roald Dahl’s tales of his own childhood in Boy, I discovered that the car, that humble people-mover without which my relatively extended family would be lost, can all but rip your nose off. The account of Dahl’s childhood scrape with speed-induced facial mutilation would leave its own scars on my understanding of speed. Violent too, the sight of R.A.A.F jets streaking the sky with red, white and blue every Anzac Day. April 25th, two days after that other annual commemoration, my own birthday, meant being reminded that the thrill, and beauty, of speeding jets was also the horror and terror of war. One last memory, somewhat later in life, as I teetered on the brink of wanton, advanced adolescence, the maternally engrained knowledge that inebriation, from alcohol or drugs, might well seem fun and exhilarating but that it inevitably leads to vertigo, loss of control and long-lasting psychoses. The weight of history, of a family and not a military nature this time, once again checked my fall.

Though these examples may have lost their relevance over time, their cautionary power, the association between speed and violence still remains strong in my mind. As I take to the highway, take to decrying the inanity of national days of militaro-historic expression or take to biting off more hops and barley than I can chew, I am still conscious of the unbreakable bond between dromos and thanatos. Yet what of that other speed, the one that surrounds us, humming in the background at an ever increasing frequency though completely disregarded. Indeed, I’ve ridden its wave of desctruction for years.

The first computer I touched came well before I had any understanding of World Wars, manual transmissions or hang overs. Fearful of the sounds of thunder at three in the morning, I would happily sleep through the quiet breathing of the old Pentium III safely plugged into the wall behind my desk. And how else did I react to technological advances than with glee, gloating and gluttony? The ability to download twice as quickly, to see imaginary videogame characters twice as clearly, to liaise with virtual communities of others twice as easily? Yes please sir, no questions asked. A simply binary equation.

How then do I react, now that one Paul Virilio tells me those frightful machines of the past are on the same wavelength as these familiar machines of the present? With the intellectual self-satisfaction of one who has read critical theory enough to appreciate the glib logic of the argument? With the wrankled denial of an avid and addicted advocate of new media? With the excessively concessionary exegesis of Douglas Kellner who, only in the closing pages of an otherwise generous article, tentatively posits the potentially liberating and plainly complex specificity of speed qua technology compared with speed qua war?

All of those and more, no doubt. I am, after all, the byproduct of this quasi-Hegelian establishment known as l’Éducation nationale. Computers are terrifying, technology all the more so. The microprocessor is not an object, separate from the world of living subjects, it is a “thing”, a “Ding” - a Latourian actant whose very shape belies its nature(s): a flat surface (the grid, that “field of possibilities” the likes of which Malevich captured so well) propped up on skinny little metallic insect legs (so many prongs to sink into the mainframe). This is the model of hyperspeed I see: a phenomeno-entemology.

Not hyperspace, an imagined topography of virtual beings enlaced one with the other in spite of the oceans between them. Not hypertime either, that phenomenological no man’s land where Virilio claims we’re doomed to tread, trailing our computer cables behind us in vain, like 21st century Hansels and Gretels. No, the phnomeno-entemology of hyperspeed has us and our societies (two relative concepts though they may be), like so many termites, bees or spiders building and destroying, pollenating and swarming, laying and hunting. The “imagined relations” Kellner speaks to are no more artificial than the ties that will bind them. The social possibilities of the “cyborg” are not new, they did not begin with World of Warcraft, terrorist recruiting websites or computer-controlled robotic arms. Donna Haraway lay down their potential, their socialist natureculture, in 1980 with her Cyborg Manifesto. The notions of time and space have certainly been modified by speed and technology, but neither is yet at any great risk. We emerged from the blinkered bunker of the Cold War with new hands in our tools and heads in our ideas; to start up the sirens of war à la Virilio would be to deny these new insect possibilites and hang on to a phenomenology that, like Proust’s madeleine, cannot but dissipate. A storm in a tea cup that, like Roald Dahl’s nose post-accident, hangs but by a thread.

De la lecture de L'Occident et la religion on avait en effet
retenu l'idée, provocatrice mais ô combien éclairante, qu'au
mot "religion" ne peut être assignée aucune définition
précise, opératoire pour toutes les sociétés et toutes les
époques, ce vocable ne renvoyant en définitive qu'à "une
sorte de concept indigène, typiquement européen,
rassemblant sous son nom les efforts de la conscience
occidentale aux prises avec elle-même". Ceci étant,
comment imaginer qu'il soit possible de se faire l'historien de
quelque chose - la religion en l'occurrence - qui n'existerait
pas, ou ne consisterait au mieux qu'en représentations
chimériques ?
Rassurons tout de suite le lecteur : le Dubuisson du
Dictionnaire est bien le même que celui de L'Occident et la
religion, où d'ailleurs figurait déjà en filigrane le projet de
l'ouvrage que nous avons aujourd'hui entre les mains.
L'auteur y faisait en effet observer que "Nier l'existence de
l'objet n'oblige jamais à nier celle des discours, bien réels
eux, qui s'y rapportent".
Cette dernière affirmation ne concernait pas directement la
religion, mais seulement le mythe, aussi durement traité que
la religion par Dubuisson, qui n'hésite pas à soutenir qu' "il
est probable que le mythe n'existe pas, si nous entendons
par là un objet singulier doté d'une sorte de permanence ou
d'identité ontologique immuable". Ce qui n'exclut toutefois
pas, estime l'auteur, qu' "existent bel et bien le champ de
controverses et le système d'interprétations qui se sont
édifiés autour de lui", et qu'en ceci réside une raison
suffisante pour considérer qu'en définitive le mythe "existe",
mais de la même manière qu' "existent la Justice, l'Amour ou
l'Art, c'est-à-dire comme objets de discours".
Au terme d'un raisonnement analogue, l'auteur nous convie
aujourd'hui à partir du point de vue que l'Histoire des
Religions ne porte pas témoignage de la validité irrestrictive
de son objet, mais qu'elle constitue en elle-même un
phénomène susceptible d'être l'objet d'une approche
historique. L'itinéraire sur lequel il nous propose de
l'accompagner n'est donc pas celui de l'Histoire des
Religions proprement dite, mais celui du repérage de ce qui
a fait l'histoire et fournit la matière de cette discipline.
Le terme "dictionnaire" figurant dans le titre prendra aussi à
contre-pied pas mal d'attentes, tant il fait mal augurer du
contenu de ce gros livre, qui en fait est une vaste anthologie
regroupant plus de 600 textes sélectionnés chez près de 200
auteurs, et ne s'ajuste à l'idée qu'on se fait généralement
d'un dictionnaire que dans la mesure où ces différents
extraits couvrant depuis le pré-socratisme jusqu'à l'époque la
plus contemporaine, se trouvent regroupés sous une
trentaine de rubriques alphabétiquement alignées de A à V,
depuis AGNOSTICISME/ATHÉISME jusqu'à VIE ET
CONCEPTIONS CHRÉTIENNES. Ce n'est toutefois pas ce
(très large) regroupement thématique qui donne la vraie
mesure du sens et de l'importance de l'ouvrage, dont l'auteur
définit le projet dans les 10 pages, très serrées, de son
Introduction.
Il y est tout d'abord fermement rappelé, conformément à ce
qui était démontré dans L'Occident et la religion, que "le mot
"religion" ne désigne pas quelque disposition immuable,
inscrite au tréfonds de l'esprit et du coeur humain, et que l'on
retrouverait par conséquent partout, à toutes les époques".
Ce dont la présente anthologie s'applique à retracer l'histoire,
ce n'est donc pas des manifestations successives d'un
introuvable "fait religieux" pris pour lui-même, mais du
développement continu d'un ensemble particulier de
"dispositifs textuels destinés à fonder l'idée de religion".
Sur ce point, dans L'Occident et la religion, l'auteur évoquait
la notion d'hypertexte, défini comme "un lieu permettant sans
cesse que s'opèrent des créations textuelles",
tendanciellement isomorphes et inévitablement
paraphrastiques par rapport à ce qui a précédemment été
produit dans le champ du même hypertexte. Remarquant
que celui-ci préserve son homogénéité tout en étant l'objet
d'une constante évolution, l'auteur ne manquait pas de
souligner l'étroite homologie de cette notion d'hypertexte
avec celle de "culture", cette dernière pouvant parfaitement
être conçue comme étant elle-même un hypertexte.
Voilà pourquoi le terme d'anthologie que nous utilisons
ci-dessus (et que, faute de mieux, l'auteur lui-même reprend
dans son Introduction) ne rend qu'imparfaitement justice à la
vaste ambition de Daniel Dubuisson qui, loin de se contenter
d'empiler patiemment un inerte florilège, vise à nous
introduire au coeur de cette fabuleuse dynamique qui, loin de
se limiter à la suscitation d'une suite de textes à la
généalogie analogue, régit l'arachnéenne complexité d'une
constellation de dispositifs textuels dont le mouvement
s'articule en fonction de la mise en évidence de l'idée de
religion. À cette fin se trouvent mobilisés - en même temps
qu'ils y trouvent leur raison d'être - toute une série de savoirs
("théologiques, anthropologiques, juridiques, cosmologiques,
ou encore psychologiques"), qui à leur tour ont tout lieu d'être
considérés comme "des créations possédant un caractère
éminemment poétique" puisqu'on les voit capables
d'engendrer une prolifération de textes perpétuellement
inattendus, bien que toujours coordonnés.
Cette homogénéité d'ensemble n'implique pas qu'on ait
affaire à un choeur unanime. Bien au contraire. Un peu de la
même façon que la matière implique l'antimatière, ce qui
parachève la complexité de cette constellation de dispositifs
textuels, c'est leur capacité d'englober l'affirmation et sa
contradiction. "Un athée, observe Dubuisson, qui nie
l'existence de l'âme et de Dieu et qui croit pour cela posséder
une souveraine indépendance de jugement, accepte,
souvent à son insu, l'esprit et les termes d'un débat choisis et
suscités par la religion". L'inclusion dans son Dictionnaire
d'extraits du marquis de Sade (pris dans le Dialogue entre un
prêtre et un moribond) permet à Dubuisson d'aller au bout de
cette logique, qui n'a de paradoxal que l'apparence.
De fait, l'envisagement au sein d'un même ensemble de ces
deux processus que sont "la constitution des "savoirs
religieux" et les débats interminables auxquels ils donnèrent
lieu", ne conduit pas seulement Daniel Dubuisson à
"démythifier la notion de religion" en la soulageant de "tout
mystère insondable et de toute aporie mystique"; il lui permet
en outre - et c'est là l'objectif ultime de l'auteur - de restituer à
cette notion "sa vocation historique de création humaine" en
rendant apparent qu'elle constitue l'aboutissement d'un
processus constructiviste multiséculaire, qui par définition
n'est ni intemporel, ni dissociable de son enracinement
géographique.
En effet, si comme l'observe Dubuisson, "la vaste entreprise
impérialiste qu'a menée l'Europe depuis l'époque de la
Renaissance" a eu pour conséquence de conférer une
apparence d'universalisation à ce que l'Occident christianisé
se plaît à considérer comme étant le propre de l'homme, et si
de la sorte, "au prix d'innombrables massacres,
exterminations et contraintes brutales, au prix aussi de nos
implacables influences coloniales, notre concept indigène de
religion est devenu une "notion commune"", ceci n'oblitère
pas le fait que ces réseaux de controverses autour de l'idée
de religion se trouvent bel et bien inscrits dans la longue
durée de notre propre culture et nulle part ailleurs.
La démonstration que propose le Dictionnaire de Daniel
Dubuisson revient donc à réaffirmer que si l'Occident fut
religieux, c'est parce qu'il s'est construit à travers l'invention
de cet "autre lui-même" qu'est le concept de religion, puis
qu'il s'est édifié "au sein de sa propre création", en
naturalisant cette donnée qui au départ était tout à fait
contingente. Il n'y aurait donc à proprement parler de
religions nulle part ailleurs qu'en Occident, et si celui-ci crut
naguère en trouver l'indice au-delà de ses limites, ce n'est
que par un pur effet du mirage ethnologique qui pousse à ne
se représenter autrui qu'à la seule aune de soi-même.
Cet éclaircissement n'est sans doute pas sans apporter
quelque enseignement pour la compréhension du monde qui
nous entoure. Ainsi, à l'heure où chacun s'interroge sur ce
qui pourrait bien constituer le fond irréductible de l'identité
européenne, il est permis de suggérer que Daniel Dubuisson
offre à cette réflexion un critère essentiel : le repère ultime de
notre culture ne consiste pas en l'adhésion irrévocable
quoique tumultueuse à telle ou telle tradition religieuse, mais
en l'appartenance à une immémoriale ligne de pensée qui,
tout en s'assignant la religion en tant qu'horizon nécessaire,
s'applique continûment à la remettre en question et même à
y renoncer pour esquiver les terribles conséquences de sa
mise en pratique.
Daniel Dubuisson (Textes réunis par) : Dictionnaire des
grands thèmes de l'Histoire des religions. De Pythagore à
Lévi-Strauss. Éditions Complexe, 831 p., 49 euros
1 Aux Editions Complexe, 1998. Voir le compte rendu que
Viktor Stoczkowski a fait de cet ouvrage dans le n° 739 de la
QL (13-31 mai 1998).

André-Marcel D'Ans

In 2004 just before I became totally lost in my cybernarcosis, cyberdeliria, enraptured by the deep internet I played with the digital image of the foremost German Romantic landscape painter David Casper Friedrich's (1774-1840) Wanderer Overlooking the Sea of Fog (1818 ) His anti-classical work was part of a new synthesis of art, philosophy, and science focusing on the natural world which seemed somehow embued with the spiritual experiences of life. Friedrich's timeless depiction of a wanderer looking out over a sea of fog evokes the journey of life towards higher more difficult summits. I enjoy the irony that the man depicted in his original image was a mere warden, not a world traveller. David Casper Friedrich gained the admiration of the poet Goethe, "the initiator of the tradition of the Bildungsroman, the novel of formation" (more). "In Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship the protagonist undergoes a journey of Bildung, or self-realization" (more).

"With interventions into man's genetic inheritance, the domination over nature reverts into an act of taking-control-over-oneself, which changes our generic-ethical self-understanding and can disturb the necessary conditions for an autonomous way of life and universalistic understanding of morals (Jantschek 2001 cited by Habermas cited in Žižek 125)."

Bildung is the painful struggle to form/educate one's natural dispositions through which an individual develops his/her moral identity.

Žižek summarized Habermas' concern with biogenetics argued that biogenetics threaten a vital concept of moral identity formation based on the painful lifelong struggle (Bildung) to realize one's innate potential while educating one's natural dispositions. Direct biogenetic interventions render the notion of such an education meaningless. Also, at an intersubjective level

tag cloud: biogenetics,

Webliography and Bibliography

Habermas, Jurgens. Lecture. Marburg.

Jantschek, Thorsten. 2001. "Ein ausgezehrter Hase." Die Zeit. July 5.

Žižek, Slavoj. 2004. "Against hyphen-ethics." Organs without Bodies: on Deleuze and Consequences. New York/London: Routledge. pp. 123-132.

When Charles Darwin set off on his voyage aboard the Beagle there was absolutely no sign that this relatively simple naturalist would cause such a great wave in western thought. His student years were the epitome of mediocrity––hunting and gambling his days away––and his presence on the ship seems to have been not much more than an after thought. The ship’s captain, a phrenologist, almost denied Darwin passage on the ship because the shape of his nose seemed to indicate undesirable moral tendencies (laziness). But Darwin seemed to have an innate passion for natural history and, through his friend Adam Sedgwick, found himself very interested in geology. The works of Alexander Humbolt and John Herschel were also very influential to Darwin––while Humbolt’s scientific travelogues sparked in Darwin the urge to travel, Herschel’s investigations into natural philosophy introduced him to rigourous philosophical and scientific thought. It was, however, geology that would first inspire Darwin’s theoretical task.

Lyell’s Principles of Geology influenced Darwin profoundly. Lyell presented a rigourously empirical historical view of natural science oriented around five key ideas:

1. The geologist investigates both the animate and inanimate changes that have taken place during the earth’s history.
2. His principal tasks are to develop an accurate and comprehensive record of those changes, to encapsulate that knowledge in general laws, and to search for their causes.
3. This search must be limited to causes that can be studied empirically.
4. The records or ‘monuments’ of the earth’s past indicate a constant process of the ‘introduction’ and ‘extinction’ of species, and it is the geologist’s task to search for the causes of these introductions and extinct ions.
5. According to Lyell, the only attempt to deal with 4 above, that of Jean Baptist Lamark who proposed the idea that species are capable of ‘indefinite modification’, is a failure on methodological grounds; for Lyell all the evidence supports the view that species variability is limited, and that one species cannot be transformed into another.

Well before Darwin arrived in South America, a fiery debate was raging with regards to the geological nature of the earth and the origins of life itself. The Platonic forms and the Aristotelian ‘chain of being’ were being challenged; and the biblical concept of creationism was being modified in an attempt to accommodate compelling new modes of thinking about the nature of life which had been introduced largely because of correlative observations made in the fossil record and geological strata. Although the idea of evolution had been introduced long before, these new observations challenged the Christian values which lay at the centre of 19th century British society in an unprecedented way. The Church countered these challenges as best it could. Arguments were made by faithful scientists with regards to the age of the planet, who claimed that it was too young to allow for evolution, and for the permanence of the geological structure of the earth––the only changes incurred were those brought on by God’s great flood. Change of any type, whether it be evolution, the introduction of new species or the extinction of others, geological or living, was inconceivable. But this was at odds with clear empirical evidence in the fossil record that demonstrated that some animal types disappear while others seem to undergo drastic changes. Christian scientists tried to explain this by putting forth the theory that there had not been one cataclysmic flood but many––God deliberately destroying his creation and recreating it. It soon became clear, however, that what was being observed was a process of transformation: invertebrates in the oldest and lowest level of the fossil records, then fish, reptiles, birds, mammals and man at the highest and most recent level. For a while pious scientists were able to counter this with the claim that these developments were distinct instances of creation and that the idea that new animal and plant types were evolving was merely an illusion.

While other defences were put up with varying degrees of success by the Christian scientific establishment, Natural Theology being chief among them, the growing feeling was that these transformations observed in the fossil record were the result of a gradual process rather than individual instances of creation. As the study of geology improved, the gaps between records became smaller thus reinforcing the idea of a continuous process; the observation of common rudimentary organs, sometimes non functional in certain species, brought Intelligent design into question; the common structure of vertebrate limbs as well as the observed similarities in embryonic development across animal types suggested common ancestry; evidence of the successes in selective animal and plant breeding as well as the discovery of new ‘non-biblical’ species in Australia questioned the permanence of types. All of this evidence, as well as the understanding that animals generally reproduced faster than the available food supply––resulting in a ‘struggle for existence’––led many to begin to view the world as a unity which was slowly changing its appearance under the influence of forces which were acting in the present moment.

Reflecting on his observations in South America and the Galapagos islands, Darwin was indeed confronted with certain facts that did not agree with the accepted Christian model of life and creation. Darwin became convinced that the fossil record and the current distribution of species could only be due to the gradual transformation of one species into another and was determined to articulate a theory to explain this that measured up to Lyell’s principles. He set out describe the process that produced the systematic patterns in the fossil record and the otherwise strange biogeographic distribution of species. He realised that he would eventually need to come up with a causal theory that would account for the transformations implied by his observations; every element of the theory would have to identify ‘causes now in operation’, which could be investigated empirically. For Darwin, the problem, and the methodological constraints, had been outlined by Lyell and defended philosophically by Herschel; but there were, however, other theories put forward by some of Darwin’s contemporaries and predecessors which would also profoundly influence the way he viewed things.

For Lamark, all living creatures––all ‘organic matter’––contained, in a manner of speaking, a will to self improvement. Lamark claimed that the behaviour and needs of the animal would lead to the development of certain traits; as a species inevitably moved its way upwards to greater complexity, matter formed itself into basic creatures which filled in the space opened up by this ascent. This endless process of generation put forward by Lamark––a development on the Aristotelian chain of being––was scorned by Darwin’s hero Lyell, and publicly given very little credence by Darwin himself, although it certainly had an effect on his thought. The Lamarkian position most certainly influenced Darwin’s ‘Theory of Pangenesis’ which we will discuss later. In addition to the concept of the ‘struggle for existence’ proposed by Erasmus Darwin and Buffon, the work of Chambers, which posited that the progression of fossil types was the evidence of the unceasing transformation of God’s initial creation created such a scandalous uproar that it could not have gone unknown to Darwin.

Darwin’s observations across the South American pampas eventually lead him to view the process of transformation as ‘continuous descent with modification.’ He saw a connection between the historical resemblance of organisms and their geographical proximity: different types of ostriches or armadillos seemed to descend from similar ancestors––they did not appear to be representative of separate instances of creation but rather the results of geographic separation. Bifurcating from a common ancestor the ancestors of the different types of ostrich would eventually become so estranged from each other that interbreeding would become impossible. Darwin’s experience on the Galapagos islands confirmed what he had observed on the continent. Despite the fact that the environmental conditions were very similar from island to island, the populations of birds and lizards that populated them bore unmistakable differences. Darwin would come to the conclusion that the separation of these animals had permitted the populations to vary independently from island to island. Ultimately this view would now put Darwin in conflict with Lyell who contended that, while the earth itself undergoes extensive changes, living organisms remain constant. For Darwin, Lyell’s objection to biological change was made incoherent by his belief in geological change.

Like Lamarck, Darwin initially saw biological evolution as being influenced by environmental change, as an adaptive process; but he also realised that, contrary to Lamark, the process could not be seen as a continual line of ascent. His observations had shown him that a given organism could evolve into a more complex organism with out disappearing itself. This developed into a concept of ‘adaptive radiation’ which posited the evolutionary movement of organisms into all possible habitats. Thus Darwin presents his theory of a tree of life in which all life branches out irregularly from a common stem.

But Darwin’s theory was not original. It owed profound debts to Lamark as well as Erasmus Darwin; the theory of common ancestry had also been postulated by Diderot and in the field of linguistics by Jones and Bopp. And, although Darwin had come some way in explaining how evolution works, he still had no idea why it worked––what was driving this process?

As we saw above, Darwin started by taking the position that evolution was prompted by environmental changes which bring about changes in behaviour––he was never able to quite shake off the spectre of Lamark. Darwin then moved to an hypothesis which stipulated that sexual reproduction produced ‘random unsolicited novelties’; and that positive ‘novelties’, or variations, would have the tendency to propagate themselves. While Darwin was very interested in the ways in which plants and animals had been selectively (consciously) bred by humans, he could not bring himself to believe that natural evolution worked in this way. Although Darwin was aware of the idea of the struggle for existence put forward by his grandfather and Buffon, it was only after examining the mathematical model of population growth put forward by Malthus that he came to the conclusion that any organism which found itself in the possession of a favorable variation would be more likely to survive and reproduce––whether it be the ability to move into new habitat (divergence), more easily aquire food and mates, or evade predators. For Darwin the only solution was a theory of blind competition which eliminates the unfit: Natural Selection.

Darwin still had problems. While he now had a theory, it was not one that lived up to the principles of credibility as he understood them. Darwin had always hoped to develop a properly inductive theory, but all he had was an hypothesis. He began to accept the fact that evolution would not be able to be observed directly and that the only way to present his theory in an acceptable manner would be to amass such an overwhelming volume of indirect evidence that deduction of his ideas would be impossible to escape. And, he still had not effectively explained the means by which variation was caused and maintained.

In attempting to explain causes, Darwin was caught between chance variation or the development of ‘random unsolicited novelties’ on one hand, and the idea that environment (Erasmus Darwin, Buffon) and the generational effects of use and disuse (Lamark) played a decisive role on the other. Indeed, the very title he gave to his theory, Natural Selection, is ambiguous in this regard and his texts vacillate between these concepts. At this point Darwin seems to give up on his cherished notions of scientific rigour, postulating theories which had little or no compelling evidence to found them. His theory of ‘Pangenesis’ suggested that physical traits acquired by parents during their life time such as muscle growth or certain talents were inherited by the offspring––this could also work in reverse. As Weismann later showed, the kind of clear rigorous research into observable facts that Darwin so excelled at in his earlier yeas would have been sufficient to prove that no compelling evidence exists for such a theory and that offspring invariably revert to type. Perhaps because of the lack of a genetic model on which to base an understanding of the connection between generations, this profoundly Lamarkian theory found a large audience in the United States where the clear causal––but unscientifically founded––model of the inherited effects of use and disuse and environmental influence were preferable to the chance effects of ‘unsolicited variation.’ Indeed, even with the advancement of modern genetics, many continue out of ingnorance, or preference, to understand evolution in this way.

Darwin’s own vacillations with regards to the interpretation of his observations allowed his audience to interpret the theory itself in a number of ways. And indeed, many began to pose the question: does natural selection work at levels other than the level of Darwin’s focus? Darwin himself offered a social theory in the Descent of Man. While the phrase “favoured races” which appears at the beginning of Origin of Species certainly refers only to pigeons, it does seem to echo throughout Darwin’s ‘Descent’ under the guise of the evolution of races as a driving force of human advancement. This unrepentantly classist and anglo-centric document––the spectre of Malthus looming heavily all the while––contributed greatly to the development of racialism which promulgated wildly speculative ideas regarding the superiority of races while masquerading as science. Again, Darwin vacillates in his understanding of man’s place in natural selection and society, leaving himself open for interpretation. This led to unfortunate consequences such as Social Darwinism and the development of other racist and economically exploitative doctrines that gave themselves credence by associating themselves with the increasingly deified Darwin.

As the figure head for contemporary naturalists and environmentalists, and as the foundation––at least in part––for the “scientific” credibility of laissez-faire economics and colonial military expansion, the iconic name ‘Darwin’ has taken on many guises over the course of the last century. The triumph of Darwin the man was to create the most comprehensive empirical model of the distribution and evolution of species; and indeed, modern genetics still uses his model a fundamental part of the interpretation of its data. But, while Darwin’s thought has inspired an appreciation of the mystery and beauty of nature and has undoubtedly played a crucial role in our understanding of biology and genetics, it has also contributed, directly or indirectly, to the creation of the social nihlism and malaise that are so characteristic of the 20th century––this due, perhaps in part, to the conclusion many have drawn that Darwinism exludes God and shows that man’s special status in creation is not only an illusion, but that mankind itself is inescapably bound up in the savage and bestial struggle to survive.

Clearly, Darwin himself was surrounded by an incoherent buzz of scientific and religious dogmatism and in light of this, the limpid nature of his observations should not be underestimated. What is remarkable, however, is how the observations and ideas this unassuming naturalist came to play such a profound role among the dialectical forces that drive modern history.

READING:
1. Jacques Barzun, Darwin, Marx, Wagner: Critique of a Heritage.
2. Charles Darwin, On Evolution

It seems that a natural revolution is approaching which could, quite possibly, take humanity out of the evolutionary process or reduce it to a shadow of its former potency. All signs point to a coming crisis which, for humanity, will be as metaphysical as it is physical. This section will examine the contemporary problems of understanding and communication facing the individual, government and industry. It will propose that the environmental problem we all face demands a new conception of responsibility, and the self which must offer itself as a vehicle for the expression of positive personal action and open communication of knowledge between our institutions, the individual at large and the naural world.

The crisis I mentioned above has been germinating since the late 15th century when Europeans first started making major inroads into exploration, world conquest and the creation of a taxonomic view of nature with the intention of mastering it and generating wealth. The Economic creed of progress that developed in the following centuries demanded scientific innovation and political infrastructure to support it, creating a situation whereby human knowledge became fractured into increasingly specialised fields of understanding while human production polluted the environment. By the 21st century we find society to be dominated bureaucratically and technologically, with the creed of progress and profit inculcated into the soul of the western man and his institutions. The complex political and technological nature of modern government and industry coupled with the quasi-religious insistence on maximal economic growth renders the contemporary institution incapable of swift and decisive action in matters which do not fall into clear and well worn categories; issues must have a clear mandate and infrastructure of their own already in place within the system in order to be dealt with effectively or at all. This renders the rapid reforms necessary to countermand the effects of global warming very difficult to realise.

Additionally, this bureaucratic and technological complexity renders critical engagement by the individual extremely difficult and, as a result, a large part of society feels insignificant and powerless with regard to the enormity of the socio-economic structure in which he or she lives. This results in a cynical social malaise which is masked by irrational consumerism and hyper-individualism. Communication between the fundamental elements of society, crucial as it is for the sustainable functioning of humanity as a whole, seems farther from reach than ever before. Indeed, the very way in which we question responsibility itself expresses this fracturing of state, industry and the individual. In order to confront the contemporary global issues we face effectively, we will need some way of unifying or, at the very least, mediating these elements of society so that production, governance and the individual can communicate efficiently and function as a sustainable part of the natural cycle.

Consider the modern University. This institution has, since the late 19th century, positioned itself as the mediator between the institutions of mankind; it establishes the criteria for credibility and transforms individuals into policy makers, professionals, educators, and CEOs. The University collects the diverse scientific knowledge which has always been key in maximising production and produces the economic theories which govern the worlds workers; it defines the judicial standards that hold us responsible for our actions––or inaction––and develops the social theories through which we understand ourselves. It also gathers and interprets the complex data regarding green house gas emissions and other pertinent environmental issues. The University is positioned to mediate knowledge in a way that no other institution is capable of. I suggest that the 21st century will offer the University an unprecedented opportunity to redefine itself as a medium through which knowledge may be communicated across and between the diverse elements of society. This will demand an evolution in our understanding of responsibility which can no longer function as introverted, categorical fields of blame, possession and power that exist within the framework of Instrumental Reason.

Responsibility must become an expression of understanding across human endeavour; it must demand knowledge and be obliged to express it. This concept of responsibility depends on communication for its effectiveness. Although it is clear that the individual is the fundamental unit out of which society is built, we must realise that the individual permeates the institution itself and therefore cannot be separated from it. It is with this in mind that I suggest the University come down from its elite position and engage in a process which continually reaches out across diverse fields of study and experience to communicate knowledge in a way that inspires the individual––regardless of institutional affiliation or social strata––to think and act in a way that engages humanity within nature and that understands the interconnected nature of the world.

Indeed, some positive steps are being taken in this regard. Some universities and other educational institutions are offering community outreach programs; the curriculum in some elementary and secondary schools is beginning to include natural and critical studies where, until recently, science and mathematics have been dominant. We must ensure that this trend continues to grow, and rapidly. By assuring that everyone has access to the knowledge required to understand, on a basic level at least, the diverse political and technological elements that constitute our modern condition, the individual may begin to realise where his or her true power lies. Given the appropriate critical tools which allow the individual to understand and dismantle the psychological forces that have, until now, manufactured material desire, he or she may be able to affect positive change that begins on a personal level; we might begin to take down the metaphysical boundaries of categorical thought that divide humanity from itself and separate mankind from nature. The individual, both at large and within the context of the institution must, as a matter of course and in the of best faith, continually demand and give knowledge that extends understanding so that it may be expressed as action which gives rather than takes. Although it is unclear whether or not the human species will continue to thrive on this planet, the adoption of a new, evolving conception of responsibility––which expresses understanding and communicates knowledge via policy making, industrial practice, education and consumption––might just allow us to redefine ourselves as a sustainable part of the natural world before nature herself removes us from it.

READING:
1. Carolyn Merchant: The Death of Nature
2. Michel Serres: Le Contrat Naturel
3. Thorsten Veblen: The Theory of the Leisure Class
4. Max Weber: The Theory of Social and Economic Organisation
5. Charles Taylor: The Malaise of Modernity