I begin with a provocation: what if modern states do not need, and are not in need of, any form of resistance whatsoever? The prevailing narrative in public discourse and alternative thought is that we need resistance because the modern state, especially its newer, global form, is a menacing behemoth, insensitive and impervious to individual needs and human dignity, run by shadow elites who thrive on violence, oppression and secrecy. A hundred books a year are written to prove this and a thousand conferences held to discuss ways to confront, resist and even topple the dread monster of global neoliberalism. But what if none of this is true? What if resistance is not only unnecessary but harmful? This would seem a rather peculiar position for anyone to take, but bear with me, dear reader, I think it can be made to stick.

In the past, I have tried to show that, contrary to conventional wisdom, there are good reasons to be skeptical about the “modernity” of modern states, their purported power and the historical narrative by which we are told to understand them. Rather than seeing modern states as monolithic, rationally ordered and enduring structures, we ought to understand them, I argued, as thin, fluid, constantly changing interfaces, with permeable and leaky boundaries, shaped by powerful underlying currents and trends and populated by human beings who are only loosely and temporarily related to the system. Far from being controlled and steered from the center, the activities and behavior of those who inhabit the system follow patterns determined by a mixture of factors largely outside its formal structure. Modern states have no stable essence, no true core; they are, in other words, less real than they appear to be.

I believe that this radical approach can help us rethink not just the nature of the state but the notion of resistance, as well. Rather than thinking of it as something external and oppositional to the state, something that “exists in the negative,” so to speak, I propose that we think of resistance as an internal quality of modernity that can manifest itself, depending on the conditions, either as part of the state system, as a productive force within it, or as something that acts upon it from the outside. To understand how this may work we need to reflect upon the concept of modernization, which, as we shall see, is intrinsically linked to that of resistance.

In my view, modernization is best thought of not as a process that turns premodern entities (individuals, social formations, institutions, states, etc.) into modern ones but, rather, as a self-generating series of events and conditions, a flow, if you will, into which premodern things get dragged, modified, recombined and sometimes broken. In this sense, it is less like an arrow that pierces a target and more like a river into which various things (such as premodern entities or events) get washed and swept away, often far away from their original sites and uses. The river, so to speak, does not have any clear goal, nor are the objects it carries preordained to reach any specific destinations; the process is much more fluid and indeterminate than that.

What seems important to bear in mind is that there is no fixed distinction between what is “modern” and what is not. Instead, modernization ought to be seen as a process that is, in and of itself, undefinable but characterized by a particular set of conditions. These conditions, it seems to me, are threefold:

1. increasing functionalization;
2. diminishing trust and social solidarity; and
3. heightening of entropy and randomization. Let us examine each of these in a little more detail.

Functionalization is a characteristic of all complex systems, modern states included, where everything that takes place must, ultimately, be explained in terms of the maintenance of the system in question. Thus, even human desires or values come to be subordinated to, and made dependent on, the imperative of functional integration, of keeping the machine working and stable. One might call it the “logic of efficiency.” In the past, religious belief, for example, did not have to be justified by any criterion of efficiency. Its existence was enough in itself and, in a sense, the whole cosmos, to a greater or lesser degree, revolved around religious ideas and values. By contrast, the idea of God or the afterlife, in modernity, needs to make sense functionally: there should be a reason for religious beliefs and values, they should serve some purpose or contribute in some way to the functioning of modern society.

In modern societies, the imperative of functionalization has had the effect of radically disassembling the cosmic order into its component parts. Nothing, in theory, is beyond analysis into its component parts and, as Max Weber famously put it, we must learn “to calculate” in order to survive in the new world that was emerging at the beginning of the twentieth century. We need to know not only what things are made of but also how these components work and fit together in larger structures. Above all, we must have “ideal types,” general models, that will enable us to understand and manipulate reality in ever more functional ways.

The process of modernization is inextricably tied to a general weakening of social solidarity, which has become one of the dominant themes in sociology since the 1980s, even though, as Ulrich Beck has rightly noted, it has its roots much further back in the writings of Simmel, Weber, and Durkheim. The process of increasing functionalization tends to produce atomization and disaggregation. If all things come to be defined by their function and utility then everything gets turned into an exchange value to be weighed and measured in the marketplace and, ultimately, even the human being, in Max Weber’s famous formulation, will become a “specialist without a mission.”

This process was greatly accelerated in the late twentieth century by a general decrease of trust in all kinds of social relations. The distrust was directed at such things as politicians, businessmen, the police, lawyers, judges, professors, scientists, journalists, and, last but not least, priests and ministers. Trust in political leaders dropped below 50% in the late 1970s, and essentially never recovered (the US is in the low 20% today). What has changed is that there no longer exists a consensus as to which group should have primacy—and, as we all know, without such a consensus there can be no lasting basis for social trust.

As a result of this general breakdown of solidarity, all kinds of new social formations and ideologies have emerged in recent decades—from neoliberal capitalism to radical fundamentalism—each trying to claim authority in the name of a “higher” interest and to promote the submission of individual needs to collective purposes, however defined. In my view, none of them have much chance of succeeding for the simple reason that no such success would ever be lasting. There is no “higher” interest that can triumph over all others—or, to put it in slightly different terms, no human society can be sustained over the long haul without a general submission to a common authority that will remain stable only so long as it can maintain the appearance of being grounded in the self-evident interests of the community.

It has often been pointed out that modern societies have no fixed center and no clearly defined limits. The image of the organism, in which every cell has a place and an indispensable function and where the loss of any part will lead to a reduction of the whole to a less perfect but still recognizable form, is no longer adequate for understanding social systems. Modern society, it is said, is a network or a system of systems, with each part (individual, institution, subgroup) having its own life and goals. Moreover, this lack of structure is not merely spatial, in the sense of modern society being sprawling and without clearly demarcated boundaries, but it is also temporal, in the sense that modern life is devoid of fixed reference points, such as seasonal rhythms, and tends toward endless repetition without a sense of movement, of development or decay, and without a clear beginning or end.

To this disaggregated and unanchored social fabric, which is held together more by functional needs than by common interests, trust or a sense of obligation, we moderns must rely instead on the logic of the situation, which will always leave open the possibility of individual creativity and entrepreneurial freedom. The price for such freedom is, however, a generalized loss of reality—the loss not only of “traditional” ways of understanding the world, but also of the very distinction between fact and fiction, which is to say that it leads, inevitably, to a runaway world, a world without constraints.

There is nothing, it seems, to prevent our inventions, our creations, from turning into nightmarish monsters that take on a life of their own and threaten to overwhelm us. The disasters that have followed in the wake of the Enlightenment—fascism, authoritarianism, genocide, ecological catastrophe—do not seem to have come from the “wrong use” of science, or technology, or rationality in general but, rather, from the very logic that drives these processes. Thus, in the 1920s and 1930s, as nuclear physics opened up the possibility of limitless energy production, it simultaneously set in motion a dynamic that could only end in atomic weapons. Likewise, in the twentieth century, the development of mass media seemed inseparable from the emergence of mass totalitarian movements.

In other words: resistance in the modern state is not a special “problem,” to which we must devote a specific attention, but is in fact part of the very nature of the modern state and must be understood, therefore, as a kind of constitutive principle, without which modern politics simply could not function. Resistance does not appear within the modern system as something extraneous or external, as a force that might threaten to bring down the house of cards—on the contrary, it is like the force that holds up the roof, it is what the roof is made of, it is what the entire construction is dependent on. We cannot defeat it or transcend it. It is what we must learn to navigate—if not for our own individual survival, at least insofar as that is possible, then for the sake of something we hold dear: a project, a desire, a need to go somewhere and not necessarily the place they want to take us, somewhere else they need to go, which may have no value for us, no intrinsic interest, but which is nevertheless connected with the force of resistance in an inextricable way.

This line of thinking might seem, at first sight, to be very close to the position of a postmodern conservative—someone who accepts the general outlines of the postmodernist critique of modernity, of its alleged lack of structure, fixed reference points and teleological movement, while still wanting to uphold the structures of authority that characterized modern life and to return to an earlier, more solid premodern reality that has vanished for good. But, of course, this is not at all how I see the matter.

We have now reached the point where it would be natural for me to conclude this discussion with a call to “resistance,” if you will, by which I would mean something like what the postmoderns are urging us to do. In fact, the opposite is the case. If there is any message in this essay it is that resistance is not only impossible, it is undesirable. Instead of fighting against something we do not like, something that threatens or even annihilates what we hold dear, we must find some way of making room for our needs and desires, for the things that give life meaning and direction, in a reality that seems to care for nothing except the impersonal maintenance of its own structures of domination and exploitation. We cannot put up fences or make walls between the system and ourselves: the system has no substance, no concrete shape or form that might lend itself to being isolated and annihilated. The only walls that will hold are those that the system builds for itself—the walls of prisons and of nation-states—but these are walls that we cannot share because they are made of something we cannot penetrate, something that repels us, that destroys all life and feeling.

Our project—and here I come to the conclusion—is not to destroy but to undermine. Not to block but to erode. Not to encase but to drain. Not to fortify but to dissolve. To find a place where life can live, a niche where we can grow and flourish. To do what it takes to make this place habitable and welcoming—this is our mission.

“So be it,” someone might say, “but how can this possibly succeed?”

To which I can only answer: We’re not trying to win. We’re trying to escape. It is they who must win—but they are playing with the wrong pieces on the wrong board. Their goal is to defend and reinforce their structures of power and privilege, but their pieces are all deconstructing themselves: their walls are made of cardboard, their force born of fear. If we want to survive, it is not by taking their game seriously, by fighting to win, but by making sure their structures crumble and their pieces lose their shape. It is by outwitting them, not by overpowering them.

Think of our condition like that of moles in a prairie or rabbits in a field of tall grass. They cannot see far ahead, but they manage to burrow or run a network of passages that allows them to move around safely, despite the fact that any single route can end in a trap, in the jaws of a hawk or the muzzle of a rifle. We are like the moles and rabbits who manage to make their way through the grass by digging and running zigzag paths—we cannot see ahead but we can feel when we are in danger, and we know that we must avoid straight lines at all costs.

Thus, we must play not for keeps but for time. We must find a way to live while the structures of domination, which do not yet have our shape, do not yet know how to make use of our skills and desires. For what use is there in fighting for power when power has no real substance except in those who yield it? We must detach ourselves from the outcome. It is not for us to decide how things will turn out. The situation is fluid: it is the enemies of life who must hold their ground, while life, in all its open-endedness, is free to move.