Monday, January 31, 2022
The next history
“History” (Latin, historia, “story”) comprises, in the broadest sense, all the stories we have about the universe, starting from a moment ago back to the beginning of time.
"History" in this essay refers to human history, the stories the human race has preserved about itself and its world.
The word "story" suggests fiction, but we consider many of the more recent stories in history non-fiction because we have written confirmations of them. Julius Caesar's assasination is considered historical because his contemporaries wrote that it happened. The veracity of other stories (e.g. Socrates said, "I drank what?") is less firm.
There is a crossover in history between fiction and non-fiction. Much history is suggested, not proven. Complete stories- with a beginning, middle and end- that are considered suggestive of history although they are largely uncorroborated are called "myths." These are reports of events that happened so long ago that numerous editorial boards have restated the facts, to the point that the original details will never be known. We look for universal or general truths in myths.
From myths we get two types of history: mythology and religious writings.
Mythology is the study of religions that no one believes any more, such as the ancient Greek religion with its humanoid gods, led by the very male and human Zeus. We have no historical proof of anything alleged in Greek mythology, and we don't need to because we are not required to believe the myths. We do, however, find meaning in them. Take for instance the myth of Sisyphus. No one today has to accept as truth that Sisyphus was an ancient king who tricked Thanatos, the god of death, capturing him in his own chains so that no one in the world (especially Sisyphus) could die, or that Zeus punished Sisyphus by giving him an eternal life- one in which he forever had to push a boulder up a hill, watch it roll down, then push it up again. Though no one believes that something like that happened to a man named Sisyphus, we have adopted the story and use it often to exemplify human futility.
Religious writings, such as the Bible or the Bhagavad Gita, are collections of myths that people find meaningful and often "believe" (from German, lief, "to find something pleasant"). When myths are presented as stories to be believed, they are called "dogma" (from Greek dogma, "to seem good"). The dogma often posits super-human entities, called "gods" (from German gott, "god") who create humanity and monitor its progress.
Science (from Latin, scire, "to know"), whose dogma holds that ideas can and should be "proven" (from Latin probus, "show to be good") with "evidence" (Latin, evidens, "obvious to the eye or mind") has contributed much to our understanding of the mechanics of the world, but nothing towards determining creators or purposes, not surprising since its goal (or at least the goal of most funding agencies) is to figure out how to control our environment independently of non-human forces.
Religion does not claim to prove its dogma. Religious ideas are "intuited" (from Latin intueri, "to look upon"), in which knowing is immediate recognition. Ironically, intuition is an important part of the scientific process- a thought for a future essay.
Another future essay: Why is it that no animals on Earth other than humans have developed religious thought? Follow up topic: Is that even true?
One might say that history is Euclidean, Newtonian and Einsteinian, measuring space and time, while religion is psychological, focussing on symbols and essential meanings.
Humans have preserved their stories going back about 10,000 years. This figure includes a surmised oral tradition in which stories were spoken centuries before they were written down (as with the story of a great flood that may have become the biblical myth of Noah's Ark, or tales of a Trojan War, written down by the Greek poet Homer in the 8th Century BC, that may or may not have happened). We call this period, “historic." We call most of the previous 300,000 or so years of humanity, “prehistoric.”
There is an earlier and harder to interpret form of history, though we don't call it that, known as "cave art," discovered on the walls of caves where prehistoric humans lived. The oldest site found so far, in Spain, is dated to about 64,000 BC. It consists largely of stenciled human hands which show the outlines of actual hands. This work was done by Neanderthals (meaning, "cave people, some of whose art was discovered near Neandertal, Germany"), a now extinct type of human who had larger brains than ours and apparently invented art. Genetic evidence indicates that modern humans (homo sapiens, Latin for, "wise men") interbred with Neanderthals before squeezing them out of the picture about 40,000 years ago.
Did combining the two dissimilar branches confuse our perspective? As William Blake put it, "The eye sees more than the heart knows."
For 50,000 years after the stencilled hands, cave art portrayed animals, people and forgotten symbols. Though the art is suggestive, it has not given us the prose-like narrative we call history.
From the 250,000 years of people before cave art, we have nothing.
This essay asserts that in our use of history and its absence we have veered into unfounded narcissism with an intense need to conceive of prehistoric humans as less evolved, less intelligent and less "great" than historical humans, and it ponders what gain this has brought us.
Not that we know how "great" prehistoric people may have been. Without even myths to go by, we have no evidence about subjective human existence for 97% of our time on Earth. Perhaps our foundational mentality was so different from now that we cannot imagine it (for an engaging theory of the early human mentality see Julian Jaynes', The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind).
We do know that prehistoric people had strong understandings of and connections to their environments, and they had technologies, such as innovative use of fire and hunting tools, but, as noted, the understandings and the technologies, from our perspective, were not “great." It’s one thing to kill a mastodon and cook it; it’s another to dominate all life on earth.
Our dogma of difference is supported by the sudden eruption in historic times of unprecedented technological prowess that led to alterations in human life. Architecture, for instance, developed to support governance of ever larger human communities. To that end its distinguishing feature was "greatness," as with the imposing pyramids of ancient Egypt and the ziggurats of Mesopotamia, constructed starting about 6,000 years into historic time.
The skill of the ancient builders is stunning, though one might wonder if it is more stunning than a bee colony’s ability to build a beehive. Some will say that bees build their hives from instinct, without understanding what they are doing. We don’t have enough evidence to debate that (though admittedly it appears true), but here is another difference between a beehive and the human monuments: While a beehive serves a purpose- the support of the bees' lives and their society- the pyramids and ziggurats, "great" though they were, served no practical purpose for most people, unless you count the attendant social structures as services (slavery was the norm), or occasional additions like the temple prostitutes of Babylon, attested to by Herodotus, sex with whom brought fertility to crops and married couples.
The temples and tombs were designed to reinforce state-sponsored narratives in which cosmic gods endorsed the human elite, sometimes promoting them as demi-gods. The purpose of the monuments was to prop up the ruling class and awe the tribeless thousands, binding them to the state with fantasy, enhanced optics and fear.
Of course, humans have developed powerful technologies in useful fields too, such as medical science, which has had to race to recover from widespread loss of prehistoric knowledge while working against modern life's tendency to kill us, make us sick and drive us crazy.
Our technological advances as they express themselves today are puzzling. We can change our biology. We can fly around the world and into space. We can record our experiences and replay them externally on a screen. We can blow up the world. The question becomes: Since these abilities don't fit any prospective human niche, what are they for?
Living things that succeed on Earth need to evolve to fit a niche (from Latin nest), defined as "a comfortable or suitable position in a specific environment" (American Heritage). Niches are natural features of the Earth. Animals compete over potential niches, evolving as they compete. Many creatures, after evolving to win near monopolies of a niche's bounty, stop evolving when the fit becomes stable. Alligators have thrived on Earth in roughly their present form for about 85 million years. They evolved to swim near the surface in waterways where many creatures were available to be eaten by something bigger. After alligators evolved into that something bigger, they stopped evolving. Continual change would only have interfered with their stable lives.
Are human abilities inspired by a conception of a future niche? If not, why not?
At only 300,000 years old, humans are children who perhaps can be forgiven for branching out in every direction in search of a niche. But now, when we are destroying the biosphere and ourselves in the course of our search, it seems time to imagine what that niche might be, and plan for it.
Our search might begin with a look backwards into the mystery of our lost niche, when we were "animals." Our nearest relative, chimpanzees, from whom we likely branched out, are older than we are by several million years. They began in a forest home similar and nearby to ours, but they are still there. Why didn't we stay? Did the chimps drive us out?
Consider also the 250,000 prehistoric years after we left the animal kingdom, from which no stories survive. Some of the physical evidence is suggestive. For example, anthropologist Richard Leakey (Origins) tells of two prehistoric villages in Africa that apparently thrived on opposite sides of a lake for 20,000 years, with no indication of trade, travel or any interaction between them over the entire period. What would it be like to live with that sort of stability, in an isolated culture with an entire beautiful world to itself, free from outside influence and "development" for 20,000 years? Do our space programs represent, in part, a desire to find that lost village?
Speaking of space travel, a possible fallout from humanity's destructive search is that, as many science fiction writers have envisioned, there is growing uncertainty about whether the Earth can continue to host us. Hopefully we'll figure things out here before turning the rest of the solar system into a toxic dump.
Humans are different kinds of creatures from our colleagues in the biosphere. We're not the only ones capable of aggressive and predatory behavior, but anxiety caused by our lack of reliable niches has driven us, perhaps, a bit mad, as we continue the ancient practice of reacting to the void with juggernauts of self-aggrandizing propaganda designed to mesmerize and enslave others of our kind in a quest to be great- the idea being that we'll be ok without a niche as long as a few humans make it big. Joy (generally shallow and brief) comes to the rare winners in our system, and woe to the many who struggle to stay afloat.
For those who do stay afloat, the reward is a Sisyphean end-game we call a "rat race," a circular track with no accomplishable goal or end (unless you count retirement, from the French retirer, "to withdraw to a place of safety or seclusion." We know what that means).
In 1992, American political scientist Francis Fukuyama wrote a book called, “The End of History and the Last Man,” which argued that the fall of the Soviet Union in 1991 would result in “the end-point of mankind’s ideological evolution and the universalization of Western liberal democracy as the final form of human government.” We don’t hear much about this theory anymore, probably because people are less sure that something like “liberal democracy” distinguishes Western society, or that that this liberal democracy is so stable and popular that the whole world will adopt it.
But the phrase “end of history” lingers on. There is a widespread notion that our 10,000 years of stories are about to be forgotten, replaced by new stories that will relegate previously historic humans to a foggy, prehistoric past, where we can join the cave dwellers as exemplars (best forgotten) of the primitive. Much of this expectation comes from advances in biological technology and artificial intelligence that will enable us to transform our descendants into new types of "humans," if that will still be the term. Not only is the Holocene about to be over- so is the Anthropocene!
Science fiction tends to present a dystopian side to this prospect, featuring a future of worker-humans designed to be undemanding slaves, and an overclass of people designed to be masters, a continuation of the historic set-up.
In addition to avoiding work, I’d like to think our species will take the opportunity of the new technology to redefine itself and move away from the idea of “rulers” and “workers.” Returning to the beehive, there is one bee that we designate the “queen,” and many bees that we designate “workers,” but the meaning for bees is not like the meaning for humans. In human society, a queen (or king) does not have to work (defined here as low status manual labor), while workers do. This is not because the workers want to work, but because kings and queens don’t. The rulers maintain their status with the vocabulary, insignia and paraphernalia of ruling, and by doling out perks to the most violent of the young men to win their loyalty should the workers not like the deal. The workers become, in a real sense, slaves (what happened to the useful term, “wage slave”?).
In a beehive, however, the queen is not a queen in the human sense. She is the egg layer. The workers take care of her because she is their source of renewed life. In addition, the queen emits chemicals that enhance cooperative impulses in the workers (sweet!). Regarding their "work," watch bees alighting on flowers for a while and see of you don't think, as I have, "I want that job!"
Many visionary ideas for humanity involve tight societal organizations with external uniformity that feature an enhanced sense of community and communion, suggesting a beehive. We often call such ideas derogatory names, like "utopian," meaning it can't happen, or we reject hive models because we fear that if everyone thinks alike, we will be mindless drones. Leaving aside the question of whether all bees think alike (see The Mind of a Bee by Lars Cittka) as well as the question of whether we're already mindless drones, our 10,000 year slide into high-population hivelike formations seems like a trend, so we might as well try to influence it.
Another reason we should try to influence our species' future is that such an activity would improve our current worrisom mental state. We need something real to be optimistic about- a renewed sense of self-determination- or the pessimism that has been building in us may reach a critical level and by itself do us in.
We can start by creating an alternative to the archaic and highly dangerous nexus of "liberal democratic" politics with its roots in money-making (particularly unfortunate now when apocalpse-related industries pay the highest dividends) and the covertly subservient media that currently rules us.[Update, 6/24/22: The reaction to liberal democratic rule, exemplified in today's Supreme Court decision to overturn Roe v. Wade, is just as bad. Are we going to get a new state-endorsed religion asserting the right of every cell in an organism to reproduce?]. There are well-intentioned people within this nexus, but their organization has become paralyzed to the point that any definitive action risks civil war. The Blue vs Red filter, through which we've been trained to view American politics, cannot rationally process any of our most serious puzzles, whether climate change, gun control, abortion or race relations (See previous post, "Science should be political"). On the contrary, our national debate format is specifically designed to short-circuit any advancment in these areas. It's almost as if our leadership wants the species to collapse in chaos, or at least some of the species. Rational humans looking for solutions may have to wait until the Blues and Reds have had it out and are panting in the dust. Whoever remains will have science and a blank slate for an ideology.
If the above scenario holds, our next history will probably not arrive through a democratic process. In a few generations, the term "democracy" might fall as flat as "divine right of kings." The current seeming reality of democracy in the U.S., when it does seem real, is enabled by our unprecedented riches and surplus. If our riches recede, as they threaten to, democracy will likely evaporate. In support of this view, consider the current strategy of engaging Americans in a war between Russia and Ukraine. If we are preoccupied with World War III, as well as a media-enhanced civil war, no one will notice if people start laying eggs, an outcome we would probably not have voted for.
On a brighter note, maybe through the crucible of war we will evolve into communities of enlightened hives (we should ensure, though, that the hives are not owned by Amazon, which would seek only enough happiness in worker-bees to avoid unionization).
It's surreal to be able to write like this- unfettered, unlimited by nearby agendas, unafraid to make bad jokes- when censorship is spreading quickly through the world. While I can, I'd like to make two suggestions for future humanity:
1. I suggest we lose the concept of “greatness.” It has only messed us up. Is a bee on its way to a flower “great”? Who cares? It lives for a while, is happy or not, then dies, like all things. As an attempt to add to this process, "greatness" has not been particularly successfull.
2. Let’s modify religions- making them less about our own psychological needs and more about improving relations with the cosmos- by removing the insistence on the supremacy of one's own god, as opposed to the lesser gods of other religions. This won't jive with people who believe the gods are at war with each other in a battle called "Armageddon." Personally I think we're the ones at war. The gods are too smart. We should also define the many undefined terms pervading religion that are used, in their undefined states, to warp lay thought, such as “saintliness,” “holiness,” and “purity," terms which, since they mean nothing to biologists or psychologists, mean, probably, nothing.
For those trying to keep track of the future, a useful gauge will be the spectrum of response to currently unfolding wars. Will the network newscasters and political and military rulers be the only voices, the only leaders? Or will other voices survive and have an impact?
Conflict and turmoil are coming, but just as interesting little mammals survived the asteroid strike that killed the dinosaurs, some interesting humans might make it through our troubles, into the next history.
Sunday, January 30, 2022
Notes on Yuval Harari's "Homo Deus"
"Is there anything more dangerous than dissatisfied and irresponsible gods who don't know what they want?" Yuval Harari
Born in 1976, Yuval Harari is an Israeli historian and professor of history at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. The quote above is from his previous book, Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind, (2011), which makes the point that human culture in the post-tribal age of large populations (over 300) derives its coherence from "fictions," mental constructs with no concrete reality, such as gods, money, laws, nations and human rights.
Born in 1976, Yuval Harari is an Israeli historian and professor of history at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. The quote above is from his previous book, Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind, (2011), which makes the point that human culture in the post-tribal age of large populations (over 300) derives its coherence from "fictions," mental constructs with no concrete reality, such as gods, money, laws, nations and human rights.
In Homo Deus, A Brief History of Tommorow, (2015) Harari describes our future: Through
bio-engineering, artificial intelligence and advancing medicine we will
become, by definition, gods, with indefinitely long lives and complete creative
license to design ourselves and our environments.
Harari's logic is compelling, though one might add that we don't know
what a god is, only what it does. As in physics, where we label atomic
particles in terms of their behavior and effects on other particles- not in terms of what
they are, which we don't know- so, even though we may define a god as "a super-human being or spirit worshipped as having power over nature or
human fortunes" (OED), that describes what a god does, not what it is. Whatever a god is, though, that's what we're going to be, Harari writes. The transformation will usher
in the age of Homo Deus, and herald the eclipse of Homo Sapiens. In other
words, we're about to go extinct.
Harari writes:
"Every day
millions of people decide to grant their smartphone a bit more control over
their lives or try a new and more effective antidepressant drug. In
pursuit of health, happiness and power, humans will gradually change first one
of their features and then another, and another, until they will no longer be
human."
Harari is as much concerned with our progeny's difficulties
in figuring out how to be gods as he is with our extinction:
"When humankind
possesses enormous new powers, and when the threat of famine, plague and war is
finally lifted, what will we do with ourselves? What will the scientists,
investors, bankers and presidents do all day? Write poetry?"
He may have
answered his own question. Others have come to the same conclusion about our final purpose. In Arthur C. Clarke's The City and the Stars (1956) a vision of ultimate humanity features
two small human settlements on a desert-covered Earth of the far future. One of the groups lives in a self-sustaining mechanical environment of which no one knows the origin and which no one has any idea how to
operate or repair (fortunately it operates and repairs itself). Inhabitants spend their time
writing poems and sending them to each other. The other group lives a tribal, nomadic life in
portable tents. Their distinguishing feature is that they are telepathic,
so no one can lie. Presumably they handle honesty by communicating in poetry.
Speaking of which, I ran
the Homo Deus idea by my friend Harry the Human and his friend Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster (see link below).
Robert was skeptical. He said humans will need a little practice before they can be proficient gods. He said gilas have dabbled in it for millions of years, adding that the transformation represents a re-bonding with the cosmic womb, which Robert says is
humankind's goal anyway, though we won't admit it.
Harry responded with a poem:
Deus ex machina
By Harry the Human
If I were a god
I'd find it odd
that even a
clod
who'd been so
awed
by seeming
divinity
though he felt
no affinity
would be flung to the void
feeling scared
and annoyed
where a soul
should have buoyed
godlike views,
not destroyed
them.
Yes, imagine! We
are gods, writing poems like this for all eternity!
Be that as it may, Harari is an exceptionally thorough, clear and fascinating author, the perfect antidote to the infantilism of the U.S. electoral season now unfolding.
[For my desert friend Harry the Human's take on Harari, along with that of his companion Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster, see: http://harrythehuman.harrythehumanpoliticalthoughtsfrombeyondthepale.com]
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