My big questions
Here (in no particular order) are eight questions or intellectual problem-areas that I find particularly exciting nowadays.
1. What is the role played by unintended effects in shaping history?
Partly this is a question about major unintended consequences, such as the way the world wars accelerated the emancipation of women, or the way the automobile dramatically reoriented the physiognomy and functioning of American cities. At a deeper level, though, it is really a question about intentions, strategies, and the efficacy of human agency. What kinds of historical actions are most likely to prove effective, that is, to bring about the results that the individuals or groups who undertook them actually intended? Implicit here is a comparison of two forms of revolutionary power: slow, incremental, voluntary, nonviolent change processes brought about by persuasion or gradual shifts in perception – as opposed to rapid, violent changes brought about by coercion.
A wonderful quotation from William Morris’s 1888 novel, A Dream of John Ball, captures this theme very well:
I pondered all these things, and how men fight and lose the battle, and the thing they fought for comes about in spite of their defeat, and when it comes turns out not to be what they meant, and other men have to fight for what they meant under another name.
2. How does a human brain beget a human mind?
For centuries – going back to Descartes and in some respects as far as Aristotle and Plato – philosophers have wrestled with the ‘mind-body problem,’ the question of how a physical organism can give rise to, or somehow accompany, the astounding complexity of human thoughts, feelings, and experiences. Today it seems that a historic breakthrough may be in the offing, because neuroscientists are making rapid progress toward mapping the functional architecture of the human brain. It seems likely that over coming decades some of the most profound mysteries of the brain may finally come to be penetrated.
What will these discoveries mean for us? Will we humans be compelled by the findings of neuroscience to see ourselves as ‘mere’ machines made of organic matter – extremely complex machines, to be sure, but machines nonetheless? Or is there something fundamentally misleading about using a machine metaphor for the operations that characterize the brain’s functioning?
From a practical standpoint, moreover, will our newfound knowledge allow us to reverse-engineer the human brain? Will we develop technologies for manipulating the neural processes that underlie our own thoughts, memories, and emotions? Might people use brain-machine interface devices to communicate directly with one another, brain-to-brain? Will the citizens of the mid-21st century use technology to control or modulate the ‘flow’ of their own thoughts, feelings, sensations, memories? What happens, in such a world, to the deepest qualities that make us human?
3. What is the foundation on which ethics stands?
I am uncomfortable with the idea that human moral judgments are purely conventional in nature – that they are culturally specific, historically contingent, and therefore at some level arbitrary. But I am also keenly aware of the danger of taking the opposite position, asserting that ethical judgments are grounded in some form of divine revelation or other transcendent plane of reality.
At the same time, I am dissatisfied with the state of debate about meta-ethics in philosophical discourse. One finds several rival theories in the literature – consequentialism, Kantian-derived deontology, neo-Aristotelian virtue ethics – and each theory helps illuminate key aspects of our ethical life. Nevertheless, few philosophers have attempted (Derek Parfit being a fascinating exception) to bring together these theories into a reasonably coherent whole. Is it possible to build a theory that encompasses persuasively the four key elements in all ethical judgments – intentions, consequences, context, and virtue?
And how would such a theory stand in relation to our theories of epistemology, metaphysics, and cosmology? How would it reflect, and underpin, our understanding of human nature?
4. What can we know, and what does it mean, to *know* something, in today’s world?
Just because philosophers have been wrestling with this question for millennia, this does not render it any less burningly relevant for each of us, at a very personal level, today. What resources can we bring to bear, post-Nietzsche, post-Heidegger, post-Foucault, post-linguistic and cultural turns, post-Rorty, post-post-post everything? Where is a good place for an educated person to stand on this question today?
I am attracted to the works of process philosophers like Hegel and Whitehead (and more recently Bruno Latour), who sought to synthesize the key elements of historicity and the transcendent, of epistemology and metaphysics, of agency and structure, in a single conceptual scheme. Can there exist a structure that perpetually renews itself from within, thereby marrying the qualities of fluidity and solidity? What are the pitfalls in seeking this kind of metaphysical/epistemological synthesis?
Here is a quotation from Whitehead’s Process and Reality that captures the gist of what I seek.
Order is not sufficient. What is required, is something much more complex. It is order entering upon novelty; so that the massiveness of order does not degenerate into mere repetition; and so that the novelty is always reflected upon a background of system.
5. How distinctive is human personhood?
What traits set humans apart from other animals? Are these distinctive traits mere matters of degree, or do they imply a deeper qualitative boundary? In what ways are humans like, and unlike, complex machines?
Do all humans possess a common core of innate characteristics? Does the unique constellation of our abilities as individuals emerge primarily through environmental influences?
What exactly do we mean by the concepts of human personhood and human dignity? Could personhood and dignity ever be instantiated in a robot or artificial intelligence? Could the functions of a human brain be downloaded into an advanced computer?
Exciting developments in fields ranging from anthropology to neuroscience, from cognitive psychology to behavioral genetics, have cast new light on these questions in recent years. A key idea that cuts across all these fields is that of emergence, or “emergent properties” – a conception of reality as a layered phenomenon, in which distinct levels of order interact with each other in nested fashion. At each higher level, a new kind of entity manifests itself, irreducible to its constituent elements, but supervenient upon them: the new ‘whole’ is greater than the sum of its parts.
I find the works of Antonio Damasio, Mark Bedau, Steven Pinker, Douglas Hofstadter, and Christian Smith particularly stimulating in carrying forward our understanding of these issues.
6. What are the most fruitful ways to think about human flourishing?
An older way of formulating this question was: What is a good life? It is simultaneously deeply personal and viscerally practical – and it lies at the heart of civic engagement and collective purpose in our broken world.
Two new areas of academic research are exploring this age-old question in fascinating ways: the “capabilities” theory pioneered by Amartya Sen and Martha Nussbaum, and the relatively novel field of positive psychology, in which three of the most prominent figures have been Martin Seligman, Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, and Jonathan Haidt.
The capabilities approach has sought to define tangible qualities of human flourishing universal enough to serve as goals to guide public policy in matters of international welfare economics and ecological governance. The problems of world poverty and ecological sustainability have become a bit more tractable as a result of these theoretical innovations.
Positive psychology has sought to offset, and complement, the traditional bias of psychological research, moving the field beyond its primary emphasis on human pathologies, and focusing instead on what makes human lives happy, healthy, meaningful, and fulfilling. These thinkers have brought a systematic and eclectically scientific approach to the question of what constitutes wisdom.
7. Will our grandchildren live in a world populated by bioengineered superhumans and intelligent machines? What kind of world would that be?
I am keenly interested in new technologies for human biological enhancement. These technologies, designed to reconfigure or boost our physical and mental capabilities, are developing rapidly in three distinct but interconnected domains: pharmaceuticals, bioelectronics, and genetics. Over recent decades, as innovations in these fields have accumulated, they have begun reaching into our lives with increasing force, raising profound questions about what it means to be human.
My underlying theme here is the blurring of boundaries: human and machine, plant and animal, mind and physical matter, nature and artifice. Humankind is entering a world – a new form of civilization, really – in which those boundaries, long considered solid and stable, are increasingly breaking down. The essential gesture underlying this topic was already given shape two hundred years ago in Mary Shelley’s masterpiece, Frankenstein: the creation of a new life form through one man’s scientific insight, technological invention, and sheer hubris. My own basic questions follow forth from this: What happens when the powers of Dr. Victor Frankenstein become standard practice for an entire society? How much control do we have over the direction in which science and technology are taking our civilization?
To speak the word “Frankenstein” is of course to summon up images of the monstrous. But this is no longer realistic: things are not so simple. What we have begun creating today – what we will create over the next hundred years – may well take the form of medicines that heal as if by miracle, machines that speak and think with us, human bodies and minds re-engineered to match our dreams. It may also take more undesired and unintended forms: weird and powerful chimeras that mock their makers, the crumbling of human dignity, a fragmentation of the species into mutually hostile successor cultures. The monstrous and the miraculous, in other words, will lie together in the same bed. Our grandchildren will be their progeny.
8. Can fiction and nonfiction work synergistically – within a single two-volume project – in conveying complex ideas and layered meanings?
Here is a characteristically evocative quotation from the novelist Richard Powers, describing his goals in writing The Echo Maker:
This was my aim: to put forward, at the same time, a glimpse of the solid, continuous, stable, perfect story we try to fashion about the world and about ourselves, while at the same time to lift the rug and glimpse the amorphous, improvised, messy, crack-strewn, gaping thing underneath all that narration.
I am trying an experiment with my next book project (which is on human biological enhancement). I am framing it as a two-volume hybrid of fiction and nonfiction. The first volume is a novel, Runaways, set in the year 2088. The second volume is a nonfiction work written for a broad audience of educated readers: Icarus 2.0: Justice and Identity in a Bioengineered Civilization. Although the novel and the analytical volume are self-standing works that can be read in separation from each other, they are really meant to be read in sequence, starting with the novel first.
Any novel, if it has a plot and characters, tells a story that moves through a vast field of possibilities: the story is like a slender thread, winding its way past thousands of bifurcation points at which the world could have been imagined differently, or from which events could have diverged down very different paths. This amounts to an inevitable narrowing of vision, an author’s unavoidable choice about what to portray and what to leave aside. In the case of this project, the interplay between the two volumes is meant as a cheating device, allowing me to resist that narrowing of choice to a certain degree, broadening things out a bit once again. It affords me a chance to comment on the novel, criticize its characters, amplify its range, reflect on the fallacies and limitations of my own assumptions. In short, the interaction between the two volumes allows me, as an author, to reveal something of the messy, gaping reality lying beneath the act of thinking, imagining, and writing. I take Richard Powers’s intention, stated so elegantly in the quotation above, very much as my own.