Come, divinity, whoever you are, you who have set my hand to the plow, who have branded my forehead with the sign of the slave and the master. Inspire me, and, perhaps, in this wide culture, some fragment of what I write will outlive me, and so do I still live, not merely as an individual, but as a voice from beyond the grave.

The fear of “super-intelligent” machines has existed at least since the days of Descartes. While he conceived of a world of mind and matter populated by autonomous human beings and dumb atoms, he was troubled by the prospect that we might build clocks that could “speak.” His fear was that a day might come when this automaton would achieve cognitive powers approaching our own and thereby challenge our dominion over the Earth.

A mechanistic universe peopled by passive objects over which humans reigned because of their unique thinking ability held little comfort for a man who also believed that the cosmos might be populated by evil demons eager to deceive us. More fundamentally, by conceiving of intelligent behavior in terms of internal representations and rules for manipulating them, Descartes effectively prefigured the theory of information, which would allow a scientific understanding of thought, in principle, in terms of machine operations.

The same logic that justified to him the fear of automata also implied, albeit he was too early to recognize it, that eventually, machines might actually do justice to that fear by developing an authentic, thinking intelligence.

Over the intervening centuries, the tension between the excitement over technological progress and the fear of losing our humanity has waxed and waned. Some of the more hyperbolic passages of Mary Shelley’s novel Frankenstein express better than I can here the loathing felt by Romantic thinkers like Shelley herself or Novalis for what they saw as the Promethean ambitions of rationalism and science, especially when those ambitions translated into mechanistic engineering projects.

The hope was to put machinery at the service of man, not to develop “servomechanisms” capable of taking over human functions. Karl Marx went to considerable trouble to debunk what he called “bourgeois technology” while stressing the “unlimited” powers that technology itself must make available to us once the productive apparatus is taken out of the control of a capitalist class that uses it only for the purpose of exploiting labor. Engels predicted that “just as machinery displaced manual labor,” so “other machines will displace those hired for their brains, that is, the workers employed in mental labor.”

Nineteenth-century Progressivism in the United States initially harnessed a radical technophilia to what proved to be an ephemeral period of real democratic control over economic development in America. The message of Fredrick W. Taylor’s Principles of Scientific Management that business had a “solemn obligation” to the “happy employees” to tell them how, when, and where to work, however much this contradicted what was then a vigorous workers’ movement for the eight-hour day and other goals, proved hugely attractive to people who believed, wrongly as it turned out, that efficient, rationalized operations were irresistibly expanding the sphere of human choice and freedom.

The essence of efficiency was human domination over human labor. The net result, at least on a global scale, was less control over one’s life than ever. As Benjamin Franklin had told workers before they accepted the proposition that giving them jobs in their own factories was enough to satisfy the requirements of a decent capitalist: “To invent, to improve, that is a divine impulse. To profit by our inventions, by the improvement, this is not only a good right but a sacred duty.”

Those, like John Dewey, who wanted to build what they took to be democratic control of the productive process into the fabric of school life took another hit in the same game when what they had naively hailed as the march of efficiency brought, especially in the realm of cognitive and informational technologies, what is known as the “industrialization of education,” more effectively put American schools into the control of managerial bureaucracies than had ever been done in the bad old days when teachers hired and fired themselves and freely formed the curriculum.

All along the way, prophets have proclaimed that science and technology must lead, inevitably, to liberation and unbounded creativity. Others have argued that we will all, soon or late, be helplessly buffeted by the by-products of a way of thinking that has put human life and planetary ecology at grave risk.

Either way, from Thomas Paine to Paul Ehrlich, the deepest mythical and emotional themes of Western thought have been fed by and, in turn, fed science and technology in the secular Western world. But it is no exaggeration to say that today—regardless of how the process is interpreted—every level of life is being permeated and reshaped by science-based technology in ways no generation has before been asked to comprehend or, under existing circumstances, to control.

A moment’s reflection is enough to show that no country and no group has managed to exclude these transformations. This is more than to say that people are unprepared to welcome, that they would rather avoid, technics of one sort or another—although this is no doubt often true. It is to say that they are on a highway of development whose fundamental features have been shaped, geographically, economically, militarily, culturally, above all technologically, outside their control, outside their power of collective choice. The new, highly differentiated social formation taking shape today throughout the world can properly be called “industrial civilization.”

What distinguishes it, not without contradictions and ambivalence, is its pervasiveness. From its humble beginning as a specialized technological adjunct to daily life, the industrial sector has grown so dramatically in the past two centuries that its presence, or rather its technics, have begun to colonize or invade—a more accurate verb—all areas of activity, cultural as well as material, that do not directly lie within its purview.

Not all these intrusions are marked by rapid change and movement. Industrial growth proceeds, nonetheless, by destroying or absorbing social practices and values that seem to obstruct or retard its advance. Among these, highly variable but none the less real, are certain revered principles of political thought that presuppose an alternative, pre-industrial basis for the social formation and, it would seem, no genuine commitment to that alternative.

Not the least remarkable feature of modern industrial society is its propensity for high levels of polarization. This is no mere tendency or more or less adequate theory but an actual state of affairs objectively conditioned by the technologies that power it. Not to see it, not to understand what this means for all we thought we knew about politics is to remain groping in the dark where theory and practice, reality and ideal are concerned.

Nothing is more depressing, or dangerous, than to pick up a book by an influential scholar and to discover on every page an indignant rebuttal of some proposed transformation in social relations and technologies without the least suggestion of why the scholar holds these views or how they might be—God forbid—wrong. These days a scholar must not only be alive, in contact with daily events; he must also feel he knows where social history is headed. The price of doubt or indifference is ridicule, polemical demolition—as witness Jurgen Habermas’s truculent attack on science in The Poverty of Sociology.

Two remarks will suffice to lay a basis for thinking about what may come next, given what is already there. First, to call science—that is, methodically and purposely systematized inquiry—“one of the glories of Western culture,” as one of my colleagues frequently did, is either a statement of the blindingly obvious or of staggering irrelevance. Science is, by any intelligent person’s estimate, among the more notable of the present evils from which Western civilization must try to free itself, if it has the wit, energy and good fortune to survive long enough to do so. Far from being an improvement or salvation, it is one of the prime engines of a programmatic acceleration of entropy—known also as “growth”—whose effect has been a relentless, planetary environmental destruction.

In truth, science and technology, which I will hereafter refer to for brevity’s sake as “technology,” constitute the central problem in politics, the only really significant question of political philosophy. Does this seem like an absurd claim? It may, in fact, be one of the very few genuinely profound ideas to be found in Karl Marx’s writings—the proposition that it is not capitalists who exploit the masses but mass technological poverty that does the real exploiting and that does so not at the surface where appearances might indicate the source of exploitation, but in the very deepest levels of social organization, including, as a practical corollary, the structure of consciousness.

If I’m right about this, then what follows is a paradigm shift whose dimensions are not at all what was understood by that term when Thomas Kuhn and others applied it to science itself. The science that provided the occasion for a radical restructuring of our beliefs was one matter. The larger technology whose intrusion upon human life wreaks a similar revolution is quite another.

Imagine what it would mean if technology were the problem, not the solution, with reference to nearly every item on humanity’s agenda, from ensuring peace and health to promoting liberty and productivity to protecting nature. Consider how our very thought-processes might be—are being—transformed by technologies whose mechanism we do not begin to comprehend but whose power over us grows by the hour. Think of all the technical remedies imposed on us for problems created by technology itself (chronic illnesses, food poisoning, stress, a thousand varieties of pollution) and what they do to our pockets, to our lives, to the morale of the medical profession, to the health of our planet.

As long as technology is permitted to expand, its adverse by-products must expand. The wealth created by technological progress, like the shit created by industrial livestock, is more a problem than a solution, for it generates ecological costs (and thus human and political problems) in direct, quantitatively worsening proportion to itself. This is not mere cynicism or negativism but a straightforward extension of the fundamental mathematical proposition that, as the rate of increase of a given variable approaches its physical or ecological limit (zero in the case of no real growth at all), the problems arising from the expansion approach unsustainability, and the price to be paid for further increase moves inexorably upward (to the point where the price, which, in reality, represents the actual value of what was thought to be profit, may be said to be infinity itself, that is, negative, in the sense that continuing to carry it on entails self-destruction and thus a wiping out of all value, even that already generated, and including the “lives” of those who assumed it was still possible to grow). So things are at present throughout most of the industrialized world.

Any objective discussion of what technology does to us must start, necessarily, with an acceptance of what, to believers in science, must appear to be the extreme perversity of an idea, namely the belief that culture may be or have been a primary determinant of the direction of historical development. Nobody who holds that thought, that is, no follower of Ernst Bloch, must dream of building any kind of totalitarian regime to implement his or her beliefs. The dream must be rather, as Bloch himself seems to have maintained, of finding a way of encouraging humanity to travel the only hope there is—a path that has never existed before (thus also making necessary the radical idea, still so foreign to Western thought, that progress means learning to live without historical hope).

In any event, those who follow Bloch must accept the strange possibility, once held by such disparate minds as Herodotus, Saint Augustine and Jules Vernes, that the “curve” of human history has a wave-like profile. That is to say, what may look like “progress” from a superficial and shortsighted perspective—a particular culture’s, let’s say—may in reality be the slowing of the tempo of historical change and, after a certain point, an acceleration of decline.

In any case, whatever its outcome in the future, it seems abundantly clear that humanity faces problems today whose complexity and interlocking variously bewilder, dismay, frighten and anger. Leaving aside natural disasters such as earthquakes and floods, which science itself tells us will always be with us and are as much a part of nature as human nature itself, the crises whose gathering storm can be glimpsed on the horizon all seem to involve, directly or indirectly, technological change.

Since these crises threaten the existence of humankind as we know it, we have a right, we are bound, to ask first, is there any way technology can be contained?—for if it can’t, then what is the sense in discussing alternative possibilities?

In a word, no. Industrial technology cannot be contained. Like any growing bureaucracy or way of thinking, the technical apparatus, once set in motion, generates its own compulsions to continue and to expand. It has also absorbed most of the power of economic life into its own multiplier, and so the opportunities for human decision outside it are diminished to a point that threatens to be vanishingly small. It has done so much to satisfy human wants and needs that the gap between our lives and the satisfaction of them is widened and we find it hard to imagine what our existence would be like without it. Indeed, because of advertising, public education, the spectacular power of the entertainment media and a variety of techniques for creating wants, it continually finds new ways to delude and seduce us, making us fall ever more in love with it so that, at some point, our very submission to it will appear natural, inevitable, just as now we would accept a slave as a given fact if we were surrounded only by slaves, or the authority of a dictator as natural, just as some do today in the presence of the political systems they live under.

The question of containment also presents itself in a more radical way. Isn’t there a profound, structural flaw in our thought-processes, and thence in our society and culture, if we have lost the power to control technology? Don’t our ways of thinking participate, and in a deep sense, even, actively and, so, diabolically, in a movement that is carrying us blindfolded to a wall, and a great crash?

If technology is a product of thought, if it represents a way of thinking—above all a way of “solving problems” that has infected the whole of our culture—then has not the thought of a world beyond technology (of a world independent of technology) been fatally weakened and brought close to a vanishing point? And what would the disappearance of that thought mean?

Nothing less, I would suggest, than that technology has gained the power to destroy even the memory of a life without it.