Cambridge Journal of Economics Advance Access published online on December 16, 2008
Cambridge Journal of Economics, doi:10.1093/cje/ben055
Reality and technology
* The University of Montana
Address for correspondence: Department of Philosophy, The University of Montana, Missoula, MT 59812-5780, USA; email: albert.borgmann{at}umontana.edu
Manuscript received January 17, 2008; final version received October 20, 2008.
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Abstract |
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 Top Abstract 1. A theory of...2. Economic and moral...3. The device paradigm4. The ethics of...References |
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Is it possible to have a wide and deep theory of technology? Commodification provides a helpful clue. It refers to the width of the economy and suggests incisive criticism. Although it is economically precise, its moral and cultural force needs explication. In that sense it refers to the detachment of a thing or practice from its context of engagement with a time, a place, and a community. Engagement is replaced by a technological machinery. The conjunction of commodity and machinery sheds light on consumption and labour and on the discontents of life in an advanced industrial society. It also suggests a disjunctive view of the future—still more commodification or a recovery of engagement.
Key Words: Philosophy of technology • Commodification • Device paradigm • Ethics of technology
JEL classifications: A13, O33
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1. A theory of technology |
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We all have a commonsense understanding of technology. We think of it as the devices that surround us and perhaps as the procedures that employ devices. A computer is technology; oil drilling has a technology. Yet the common understanding of technology is inarticulate and hence subject to misguided hopes and blind to the possibilities of human flourishing in a technological culture. Thus there is a need to explicate the deep structure of technology, or so I will argue.
That explication requires a theory that sheds light on the wide and deep effect technology has had on our world. ‘Wide’ means that the effect concerns all of us. ‘Deep’ means that the effect matters. To be sure, the effect of technology may be neither wide nor deep. Then there would be, as in fact there are, lots of particular problems of technology, but there could not be an illuminating theory of technology as well. Whether there is such a theory has to be decided effectively. If it can be furnished, sceptics will be silenced. Sceptics will be vindicated if our best efforts fail. Success is unlikely, of course, unless there are pretheoretical questions to which a theory of technology would be a likely answer. These questions may show up as nothing more than puzzles, misgivings, or hopes, and a theory would both articulate and answer those concerns.
We do in fact have concerns about technology. Foremost is a common ambivalence about it. Technology is good and bad. Is there a way of making the benefits and detriments commensurable? Can we judge and adjust the balance of what's good and what's bad? A second worry is about the power of technology. What makes it so hard to resist? Why is it invading every corner of the world? And why is it intensifying in countries that have been ruled by it for two centuries?
Let me formalise what I have said so far before I set out my sketch of a theory of technology. First, by ‘technology’ I mean modern technology, the one that began with the Industrial Revolution and was eventually potentiated by what preceded it, modern science. Modern technology is the problem because, as I will try to show, it is not just the most recent and powerful extension of human tool making and tool using, but constitutes a ground-breaking change of the human condition. Next, whether and how technology matters is a question of ethics or morality. It involves norms of what is right or good. But the extent and power of technology also suggest questions about the nature of reality or of ontology. Both ‘ethics’ and ‘ontology’ refer to scholarly disciplines and to the subjects of these disciplines viz., norms of rightness and goodness in the case of ethics, structures and powers of reality in the case of ontology. I will leave it to the context to resolve the ambiguity between discipline and subject matter. Further, a theory of technology qua ethics needs to be concrete, otherwise it would not matter and a theory of technology qua ontology needs to be fundamental, otherwise it would not be widely illuminating. Finally, a theory of technology cannot rely on conventional ethics or ontology. If it could, our concerns would have long been clarified and out anxieties allayed.
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2. Economic and moral commodification |
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Commodification provides a good entry to a theory of technology. It refers us to the concreteness and extent of the economy. It also reveals our moral confusion about technology. To commodify something is to turn it into a commodity. In economics, ‘commodity’ can refer to a standardised good such as wheat. There is some anxiety at Microsoft that software may get to be commodified (or ‘commoditised’) in this sense. Sometimes it is assumed, by Karl Polanyi, for example, that a commodity has to be produced for sale and that land, labour and money cannot really be commodities (Polanyi, 1975 [1944], pp. 72–73, 162). For better or worse, however, there are now markets for these ‘fictitious’ commodities (though money has crucial functions other than as a commodity), and this suggests a broad and yet precise definition of commodification as the process whereby something is moved into a market and made available for sale and purchase. Into a market—because there are many of them. Combining them into larger ones has been the purpose of the European Union and the North American Free Trade Act. Uniting all markets into one is the goal of globalisation.
But these many markets are all of the same type. Historically, commodification has been the leveling of the qualitatively different markets of the past, and this process has been described with alarm by Karl Marx, Karl Polanyi, E. P. Thompson and many others (Marx, 2003 [1873]; Thompson, 1971). For Polanyi especially, commodification has been the great transformation of the human condition. Its social dislocations have been radical and painful. But in the late nineteenth and the early twentieth century, the benefits of commodification began to spread across the populations of the industrial countries, and today almost everyone has come to terms with the market system and lives unquestioningly, if uneasily, in a largely commodified world. It is bordered only by the world of intimate goods (the goods of family, friendship, and generosity) and the world of public goods (justice, education, welfare, etc.). There are border skirmishes, to be sure. Should surrogacy be in or outside of the market? Should we leave health care to the market or is it a requirement of social justice the government has to meet?
Even if these problems were solved by consensus, we would be left with our misgivings about life within a commodified world. Some of them surface under the heading of the very word—commodification. It is not a term that any of the great theorists of commodification has used. It was coined in the seventies by Anglo-American Marxists. In the New York Times it first (and obliquely) showed up in 1979 (New York Times). But it was not until the mid-1990s that it was fairly regularly, though still infrequently, used by the writers of the New York Times, roughly ten times a year.
In almost all cases (roughly 160 since 1979), commodification has been used as a term of implicit criticism and disapproval, but the worries are chiefly not about social injustice, the predominant concern of the venerable critics of commodification. The worry in the New York Times is about an issue that Marx and his successors would touch on, only to confuse it with the question of exploitation and injustice. It is the apprehension that what gets commodified gets degraded as well, e.g., sex, sports, or human life.
Are all commodified goods, then, degraded when compared with their premarket counterparts? Is clothing? The water supply? Housing? Transportation? Most of us would feel confined and penurious if we had to depend on ourselves or our mothers or wives for our clothes, had to fetch water from a well, had to share our sleeping quarters with four or five others, and could travel no farther and faster than horses could take us. At least in these cases, commodification means liberation and enrichment rather than degradation. But arguably sex is less valuable when it is drawn into the market by way of pornography or prostitution.
We need to find a way to capture the moral dimension of commodification. I mean ‘moral’ in the broad Humean sense that includes the ethical and the cultural character of a social phenomenon. So what happens morally when something is commodified? A thing or a practice is morally commodified when it is detached from contexts of engagement with a time, a place, and a community (see Thompson, 2006). Such contexts of engagement are morally valuable, and when they disappear there is always a loss. But in some cases that loss is outweighed by a moral gain—an increase, for example, in equality, liberty, or health. Being measured by your mother for a new suit or dress for Easter was memorable and valuable, but liberating women from confinement to the household is more valuable.
For an understanding of technology it is important to recognise that economic and moral commodification largely overlap, but do not coincide. A farmers market is economically commodified—produce is for sale and purchase. But it is not morally commodified—it centres contexts of engagement with the seasons, a location, and familiar people. Conversely, a lot of information and entertainment on the internet is free for the taking, but it also floats free of attachments and obligations.
The need to distinguish between economic and moral commodification is illustrated by the reversal of commodification, a process that has come to be known as decommodification. There are two kinds. The standardisation of commodification is reversed when a customer can specify what bundle of features she desires in her car or computer. Let us assume that the bundle of possibilities is thick and the computer she gets turns out to be unique—there is none like it on the face of the earth, a perfectly bespoke machine. The other kind of decommodification dispenses with the market. Certain goods are freely available. The internet is exhibit number one. Information, communication, entertainment are there for the taking once you have a computer and an internet connection. (Often, however, there is another currency in which you have to pay, ‘eyeballs’ or attention paid to advertisements.) What is crucial, in both cases, is that goods are economically decommodified and yet are morally commodified in most cases, devoid of contexts of engagement with a particular place, time, or community. The lack of communal engagement is often concealed by seemingly intense and frequent communication. But the low cost of entering and leaving an internet relationship is the very mark of moral commodification and makes for short-lived and immaterial connections. The internet can enhance but not produce actual communities.
For a consumer an iPod and much of the music it delivers have never been embedded in a particular place, a special time, or a community of persons to whom the user would be tied by bonds of interaction or affection. Electronic devices and goods have always and already been detached. But other goods, such as clothing or food, underwent an actual process of detachment, well-described by Marx, Polanyi, and Thompson. It is a benefit of the moral conception of commodification that it refers us to the contexts it has disrupted, and a look at the disruption reveals that technology is not just an extension or intensification of primal human dispositions, but rather the term for a sea change in ethics and ontology.
In a pretechnological world there was no sharp distinction between the nature of reality and the norms of conduct, i.e., between ontology and ethics. In eighteenth century England, bread was not an object that required the mechanics of the market to establish its value, norms of social justice to judge its distribution, standards of nutrition to fix its composition, and rules of dieting to direct its consumption. The sight of bread provoked gratitude. If it was entirely made of wheat, it was evidence of wealth. Sitting down to break it was an occasion of rest and grace. Bread was the focal point of a context of work and of working together—during harvest time when all able-bodied people had to help, in the barn when the threshers did their rhythmic flailing, at the mill when wheat was entrusted to the miller, at the village oven where all families took their loaves to have them baked (Hartley, 1979, pp. 171-96; Thompson, 1971).
The moral ambience of bread could be dark as well as bright. Bread could be scarce when there had been wheat rust or too little rain. Poor people had to mix wheat flour with oats, bran or even ground acorns. There was resentment when people were forced to use the lord's mill or suspicion when the miller returned less flour than what he had received in grain. In any case, people lived in a coherent and familiar world that was centred on things such as bread and events such as the harvest celebrations. Engagement was the way things and practices provoked people's pains and pleasures and the way people exercised their skills of mind and body to produce things and sustain practices.
In the eighteenth and even the nineteenth centuries, such engagement was to be found in England as well as in a Blackfeet band or a Swiss village (Netting, 1981; Welch, 1986). People were typically disciplined in their work and faithful to one another not just because of preachings and teachings, but because the world they lived in demanded and rewarded tenacity and fidelity (Laslett, 1984). In Europe, this texture of things and practices was stressed by the voyages of discovery, the Protestant reforms, the spread of manufacture, and international trade. It was finally torn apart by the Industrial Revolution, and this process is often described as the reckless enterprise of bourgeois capitalism. That is not incorrect, but something more fundamental was happening, presciently described by Descartes and Bacon and carefully analysed by thinkers like Max Weber (1995 [1922]) and Charles Taylor (1989).
Things and practices lost much of their moral authority. Food was no longer the gift of God or nature, but the result of physical and chemical processes. Misfortune was no longer a providential burden or the mischief of spirits, but a morally incomprehensible scandal. These transformations cleared the way for a promise of liberty and prosperity. It was advanced both by the difficulty of finding consolation in traditional reality and by the possibilities that were opened up by industry and science. The disenchantment of reality split the world into the ontology of physics and the ethics of principles, viz., Kant's principle of equality and autonomy or Mill's principle of pleasure and prosperity. Although the ostensible ontology and ethics of the modern era provide necessary conditions for understanding contemporary reality, neither physics nor Kantian or utilitarian ethics can explain what has been propelling technology and why we are ambivalent about it.
Commodification, finally, points us to the full structure of technology. Commodified goods, being detached from the burdens of engagement, seem to realise the dreams of magic. They are instantaneously, ubiquitously, safely and easily available. You travel as if you had a magic carpet, and you eat as if you had a table-set-yourself. Magic is not reality, however; goods have to be produced somehow. They can be detached only if something takes the place of the contexts of engagement. That something is machinery. Moral commodification is also and always mechanisation. Bread became a moral commodity when its production was mechanised, a process whose invention and development was difficult, laborious and—an indication of the force of technology—thought to be inevitable (Giedion, 1969 [1948], pp. 169–208; Matz, 1984).
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3. The device paradigm |
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The initial and most visible mechanisation is commonly called industrialisation, and the very word connotes the violent disruption of the traditional contexts of engagement. Even in England, however, and more evidently in the developing countries today, the benefits of commodification have accompanied the pains of mechanisation from the start, and by the middle of the twentieth century, the balance of pains and pleasures had turned heavily toward the latter.
Today the paradigmatic shape of technology is most familiar to us in the technological devices that pattern our lives. The clock radio that awakes us, the shower that cleanses us, the toaster that feeds us, and the car that takes us to work, all of these are devices whose machinery provides a commodity—timely music, warm water, a tasty bite to eat, comfortable and entertaining transportation. Mechanisation and commodification are joined in the device paradigm, the division and conjunction of machinery and commodity. The device paradigm constitutes an ontology that prompts a phenomenology which in turn implies an epistemology and finally an ethics (Borgmann, 1984, pp. 33–153).
Technology is the transformation of reality according to the device paradigm, and it constitutes an ontology that is historic, dynamic, and enclitic or parasitic. It is historic because it emerged at a certain time and warrants no claims to timelessly applicable categories. It is dynamic because the device paradigm did not transform reality everywhere at once, but rather began to mechanise and commodify the world at a certain place and has been spreading and sweeping everything before it since.
It is an enclitic ontology because technology does not reconstitute reality entirely. The device paradigm has to lean on resources not of its making. Resources in the first instance are raw materials and energy. More revealing, traditional culture is a resource as well. It has lost its former moral force, but not its characteristic texture that comes to be deeply imprinted by technology. The sacredness of a temple becomes a resource for tourism, the majesty of mountains becomes a recreational resource, the vigour and devotion of people become human resources.
The machinery of the device paradigm has a characteristic phenomenology. It comes to light in historical perspective—the machinery of technology has gone from brute force to subtle sophistication. Brute force is still evident in mines, quarries and civil engineering. But even there, machines are more efficient and refined and require less of a toll in injuries and fatalities and in damage to or destruction of the environment.
Ontologically and morally more significant is the phenomenology of the devices that direct our daily conduct. The general pattern is the progressive sophistication, shrinking, and concealment of the machinery and the growing prominence, brilliance and availability of the commodity. No device shows this more impressively than the computer. Its machinery shrank from a lumbering and fragile behemoth to the powerful and mobile something that is now so small that the goal of engineers is no longer to reduce it to human commands, but to keep its physical realisation large enough for the demands of human hands and eyes. Typically also, the exponential increase in the power of computers was directed, not to challenge human discipline and skill in newly creative ways but to make the commodities of information and entertainment more instantly, ubiquitously, safely and easily available. Computers, to be sure, are skillfully used by highly trained experts, just as cars are by Formula One racers. But such expert use is rarely just an exercise in the pursuit of excellence. It usually serves to improve the machinery of technology or to produce commodities of entertainment.
The sophisticating of machinery and the luxuriating of commodity are necessarily conjoined. At the same time the conjunction perfects the detachment of the commodity from contexts of engagement, and that perfection engenders its own kind of epistemology. You simply cannot understand, take apart, repair, or maintain the machinery of a notebook computer and less and less so of your car. But this inevitable ignorance of the machinery is commonly joined with a firm, if implicit, understanding of the device paradigm. Everyone understands that the fine-grained, coloured, and moving images on your screen are not magic, but are generated by some kind of machinery that somebody has designed and produced, and everyone also understands that you have to pay your dues to the machinery through labour.
The basic acceptance of the device paradigm leaves people pleased but unsurprised by the appearance of yet another commodity or the radical improvement of an existing one. More important, it lends technological societies stability, but it has also led to a well-defined superficiality. That is the point where epistemology shades over into ethics.
Citizens in a technological society typically live in a world of opaque surfaces. ‘A modern woman,’ Dorothy Hartley wrote in 1979, ‘sees a piece of linen, but the mediaeval woman saw through it to the flax fields, she smelt the reek of retting ponds, she felt the hard rasp of the hackling, and she saw the soft sheen of the glossy flax.’ (Hartley, 1979, p. 5) Since 1979, ‘technology’ has become a category or subject heading in the New York Times on the web that refers to electronic and information technology, and the stupendous progress and propagation of this technology have concealed the substructure of reality more tightly yet and refined its surfaces even more.
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4. The ethics of technology |
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There is always a symmetry between reality and humanity, and a superficial reality seems to fix this symmetry at a shallow and morally troubling level. Engagement, on the contrary, deepens the symmetry. Other things being equal, greater engagement links humans to deeper dimensions of reality. When football, or what Americans call soccer, captivates you by way of a large high-definition screen, it engages your eyes, ears and emotions. When you scrimmage with your friends in the park, it calls on your strength, your speed, your balance, your timing and your endurance. These engagements are your response to the sun, the trees, the grass, the ball, the players; and within engagement and environment people disclose their grace, their wit and, sometimes, their impatience.
Disengagement inevitably flattens out the world and shallows a person. It gains its moral foothold, however, in the alleviation of suffering. ‘Pain’ covers a continuum from excruciation to indolence where calling your teenage children to the dinner table ‘gets to be a pain’. The progress of technological detachment traces a moral gradient from the elimination of misery to debilitating disengagement. There are losses of engagement from the very start, but they are ethically justified and in fact obligatory because needlessly excruciating pain is neither.
An additional rationale of this disburdenment has always been the promise of a rich and fulfilling life. But the logic of the device paradigm entails a prosperity without new attachments and burdens. Technological liberty and prosperity have become intertwined; and as detachment began to remove ever slighter burdens, the amalgam of liberation and enrichment became debilitating.
Since the progress of technology was gradual, there is historically no line that divides the liberating from the disabling phase, and if a line could be drawn it would be ragged, with regions of advanced frivolity and regions of dire needs side by side. Still, the middle of the last century is the period when, in the USA, a fatal divide was crossed. The automobile at the time was a reasonable conveyance. There was room for greater safety and efficiency, but these were not the prime movers of automotive innovation. They were instead the burdens of having to shift manually, to crank the windows up and down, and to suffer the summer heat; it was the lack of news and music, the absence of your favorite hits, the need to have your spouse read the map or ask the attendant at the gas station, the inability to see the sky overhead and, in the case of our children, to watch cartoons. What these developments illustrate is the commingling of disburdenment and enrichment and the way this complex advancement of commodity has increasingly detached us from the car, from the environment, and from one another.
Is that sort of life ethically reprehensible? Not by the standards of conventional ethics. It is not by its nature socially unjust. It is not without pleasure. It would not have to destroy the environment. Nor is it morally the worst kind of life. For all its superficiality and disengagement, its daily enactment is generally decent. As such it does not warrant moral outrage, but it must inspire sorrow at its shallowness that too often bleeds into ignorance and indifference. Its consequences for global justice and the global environment do deserve outrage, however.
Technology is most advanced in the USA, and so is the mental and physical slackness of its citizens. This observation is not the romantic, nostalgic, Luddite, or reactionary complaint it is often made out to be. It is borne out by social science data that measure the American population by straightforward norms (Borgmann, 2006, pp. 130–35; Komlos and Lauderdale, 2007). But should not this decline of excellence slow and reverse the progress of technology? Industry and commerce, after all, are not child's play. There are two forces that continue to propel technology. One is the change from the provision of relief to the pursuit of pleasure. Here again moral commodification is a helpful concept. The progressive detachment and refinement of moral commodities carry the promise of ever more pure and intense pleasures—pleasures unalloyed with preparations and obligations. The enjoyment of such pleasures is moral consumption. The apparently irresistible promise of consumption always surpasses its fulfillment, and the elite in all relevant regions of American society both distrusts and desperately maximises consumption. The result is the unconditional devotion to production because it is more engaging than consumption and, with its lucrative rewards, makes possible extreme consumption. Hence the grueling and productive working habits and the extravagant spending of America's best and brightest.
Given this sorrowful state of sullen consumption and hyperactive production, who is at fault? The question of whether reality determines human conduct or whether humans are free to shape reality is one of the most contentious in ethics and ontology. It also raises once more the question of whether technology deserves to be called an ontology. Technology is evidently a massive and seductive force, well if implicitly understood by all who have been touched by it. It is bizarre to assume that the great majority of such individuals have, on rational consideration of all available options, chosen technology as the optimal way of life. To account for the moral implication of ordinary people in technology, something like a soft determinist view is required. Soft determinism, as philosophers use the term, recognises, of course, the determinations humans are subject to. Yet, unlike hard determinism, it recognises freedom, choice, and responsibility and gives them a determinist explication that matches our commonsense views of those phenomena. Soft determinism, then, is the opposite of technological determinism. Soft determinism explains and vindicates human agency (Dennett, 1984).
Soft determinism also suggests why conventional ethics is unable to deal with the force of technology. The ethics of principles, like the Enlightenment that produced it, is the high-minded layer of modern culture. Its concrete implementation, however, is ruled by the device paradigm and its distinctive conjunction of ontology and ethics—the ontology of machineries and commodities and the ethics of production and consumption. The seam between high-mindedness and concreteness is concealed by the ambiguities of liberty and prosperity.
Since technology is a historic, dynamic, and enclitic ontology, it fails to be total and has its rivals. It has to contend with older and, I will suggest in a moment, newer kinds of reality that command our hopes. The device paradigm and its promise of liberty and prosperity are driving the advanced technological economies. But it appears that we are mistaken in thinking that the pleasures procured by technological devices will make us truly happy. Daniel Kahneman's Nobel Prize was the landmark of this dawning realisation.
The future looks disjunctive. Technology will continue to refine moral commodification, or an engaging reality of focal things and practices will assert itself within technology and depose it as the dominant paradigm of life. Focal life may be centred on the culture of the table, of the word, of music, of athletics, or of religion (Borgmann, 1984, pp. 196–246). Work, of course, can be a focal activity too if it is informed and tempered by contexts of engagement.
The rise of the disjuntive constellation of ontology and ethics is not an all-or-nothing affair. If you order your food from SeamlessWeb (it delivers a ready-to-eat gourmet meal to your doorstep) and eat it while surfing the internet, you are in the thrall of technology. If on a late afternoon you and your children go harvesting in your vegetable garden and if in the evening you prepare the meal with your spouse and sit down to dinner with your beloved, you are blessed. If on the way home you pick up prepared food at the store, warm it, wait for your spouse, and sit down to eat it with her, you are on the side of the angels. Contexts of engagement can be thickened and widened by degrees. If that turn should be widely taken, the economy will change too. It will produce fewer cars and more buses and trains; fewer jet skis, more canoes; fewer DVDs, more books; fewer iPods and more flutes and guitars.
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References |
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