Deterministic theories of technology are typically premised on an implicit identification of capital with its technical manifestations. What really does present itself as a universalising, rationalising, totalising and automatic subject, with a single unilinear course at world level, is capital. It presents itself that way; this self-presentation is open to contestation. And there is a world of technique that can never fully be subsumed to capitalist ends. Every proletarian life actively constructs its own mediations from what affordances it finds, even if capital has already shaped the conditions of that construction. Every new act of materially-mediated problem-solving opens onto an alternative world, however minor the distinction may be. To imagine otherwise would be to allot undue power to capitalist management. There is always a tension between the drive towards an absolute mastery of the production process in which the worker is left with no room at all for their own initiative, and the simple categorical fact that labour-power is necessarily an indeterminate variable.
No single line of development then, but an unthinkable plenitude of different technical possibilities in every moment. A latent chaos, whose main ordering principle is the dominant social form, imposed in the tyranny of the labour relation. But there are other kinds of ordering which are not simply reducible to the prerogatives of the value form. Technical standardisation as such will be rational in any world where devices mediate relations between people. But that doesn’t tell us what the standard should be, and it doesn’t say anything about how those relations are mediated, or to what end.
Strategy implies autonomy within a given field of operations. As such, the strategic perspective tends structurally to be unavailable to subordinated agents. To them, the contingencies of fragmentary and often self-defeating tactics are the most that can be summoned. But such action contributes to the general, ultimately ungovernable chaos of the field, and thus may ultimately thwart the standpoint of strategy. In such moments of opening, a potential autonomy begins to emerge, and with it the possibility of counter-strategy. Until such moments, calls for a strategy of the subordinate slide necessarily into impotent abstractions. Impotent, though not necessarily pointless: with due self-consciousness, the concepts formed in a state of strategic paralysis can bring clarification.
Most discourses on technology are characterised by a strange eternal recurrence of the same, even as they are always hailing the new. In itself this should be no surprise: thinking on technology tends towards futurist or presentist—as opposed to historical—modes for good reason. And though constant change obviously characterises the technical realm, the deep nature of technological structures does not itself change all that quickly: it is too constrained by the social forms within which those structures develop. But it is always worth noting the echoes from the past of what one might take to be peculiar to the current predicament. The present can turn out to have lasted for much longer than one expects.
People have conceptualised computers as creepy surveillance tools for decades, and for obvious reasons. States and businesses have self-evident interests in gathering data on citizens, employees, customers, clients, enemies: scientia potentia est, so goes the cliché. Even before mechanical computation, some states gathered prodigious amounts of data on their citizens; the rise of statistics-gathering was intrinsic to the formation of the modern state:
The intrusive policies of absolutism made censuses a regular event in the eighteenth century. But it was the revolutionsof the late eighteenth century, which gave shape to official statistics in the form we know today. In 1787 the constitution of the newly independent United States called for a regular census to establish the membership of the House of Representatives. In 1800 revolutionary France established the first ‘Bureau de statistique’. This was enough to persuade counter-revolutionary Britain. In 1753 the Houses of Parliament had rejected a census as an unwanted intrusion upon ‘English liberty’. In 1801 the first modern census of population went ahead almost entirely unopposed. Statistical offices were established in Prussia in 1805, in Bavaria in 1806, in 1810 in Habsburg Vienna, in 1820 in Wurttemberg, in 1826 in the Netherlands and in 1831 in the newly independent Belgium. The British Board of Trade established its statistical department in 1832. Five years later demographic statistics were placed under the control of the Registrar General. Russian administrative statistics were put on an institutional footing in 1834. In 1833 Denmark set up a Central Statistical Commission, followed by Norway in 1837. Finland was the last of the Scandinavian countries to establish a statistical office in 1865. The constitution of the ‘double-monarchy’ was shortly followed in 1867 by the formation of an Hungarian statistical bureau. The provisional Republic put Spain on the statistical map in 1873. Inspired by the ideas of Saint-Simon the fledgling Greek state had set up a statistical section as early as 1834. In 1850 funds were finally appropriated to establish a semi-permanent office of the census for the United States. By this time, no self-respecting state administration did without some kind of statistical equipment.
Adam Tooze, Statistics and the German State, 1900–1945: The Making of Modern Economic Knowledge, Cambridge 2001, p. 2.
What is perhaps most striking is that in the eighteenth century something as seemingly innocuous as a census could be viewed by members of the British Parliament as an infringement of liberty. As we find in the MP William Thornton’s speech to the House of Commons, the state’s capacity to know already appeared a potential threat:
An annual register of our people will acquaint our enemies abroad with our weakness, and a return of the poor’s rate, our enemies at home with our wealth. Our enemies abroad are the Spaniards and the French, and our enemies at home are place-men and tax-masters; and I should ill deserve the confidence placed in me by my constituents, if I should concur to increase the knowledge or the power of either. […]
Can it be pretended, that by the knowledge of our number or our wealth, either can be increased? Is it not evident that, to all good purposes, it will render them less effective? […] To what end shall our number be known, except we are to be pressed into the fleet and the army, or transplanted like felons to the plantations abroad? And what purposes will it answer to know where the kingdom is crowded, and where it is thin, except we are to be driven from place to place as graziers do their cattle? […]
As to myself, I hold this project to be totally subversive of the last remains of English liberty, and therefore, should it pass into law, I should think myself under the highest of obligations to oppose its execution. If any officer, by whatever authority, should demand of me an account of the number and circumstances of my family, I would refuse it; and if he persisted in the affront, I would order my servants to give him the discipline of the horse-pond.
William Thornton, speech to the House of Commons, 30 March 1753, in The Parliamentary History of England from the Earliest Period to the Year 1803, vol. 14, Hansard 1813, pp. 1318–20.
While the modern state’s impulse to gather data clearly does not depend upon any technology, the Hollerith punch card and its descendents enabled the automatic processing of that data, and at higher speed than clerical staff working manually. All the more scientia, all the more power. In the 1940s US census data, stored on punch cards, was used to track down Japanese Americans for internment. Yet the concept of surveillance maintained a limited scope of application well into the 1970s, employed primarily in technical, managerial, epidemiological and military contexts. What was surveilled was traffic, infrastructure, the battlefield, airspace, the spread of diseases—and occasionally union organisers on the shop floor. Notably absent here is the average citizen or consumer, who seem to figure almost solely as potential carriers of disease.
Rather than the advent of widespread computation infrastructure, it seems to have been the fall-out of Watergate that first gave surveillance a prominent place in public debate, as the legitimacy of actions that had long been undertaken by American state towards its own citizenry was thrown into crisis when Nixon was found to have breached the conventional bounds of bipartisan party-political etiquette. In 1978 came the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act, which formalised some state regulation of those activities, rather than significantly impeding them—a pattern that is familiar to the present, in such things as the British Investigatory Powers Act of 2016, or ‘Snooper’s Charter’. Yet since then, the power to know has appeared irrevocably entwined with the computer, and as such, a key facet of hi-tech capitalism.
Through the 1970s, TRW—a corporation with interests in aerospace, automotion, electronics, computation and data processing—had been gathering unnerving masses of data on tens of millions of US consumers, for sale to potential creditors. Unsurprisingly, given its range of operations, TRW was intimately entwined with the CIA. “Just how much pressure would the chairman of the board and chief executive officer of TRW have to bring on the vice-president in charge of the company’s information division for the CIA to gain access to credit reports stored in the division’s computers?” asked New York Times journalist David Burnham in his 1980 book Rise of the Computer State, more than three decades before the Snowden revelations.
Struggles over computer-aided surveillance sometimes occurred in the workplace. From 1979, workers at Daimler Benz, Opel and other plants in Germany organised against the introduction of computerised Personnel Information Systems, and in 1980 technical workers in Toulouse raided computer centres of Phillips Data Systems Corporation and Honeywell-Bull to delete data in opposition to the use of the computer by the powerful to “classify, control, and to repress” (David F. Noble, Progress Without People, pp. 54–7). According to Noble, the German workers’ focus on Personnel Information Systems was tactical, aiming to appeal to a widespread abhorrence of such things.
Here are some paragraphs from Burnham’s book, which can seem strikingly prescient:
Most US commentary on computers has tended to be laudatory, in part because of the widely shared perception that the machines are essential to the continued growth of the American economy. A few critics, nevertheless, have sought to examine the dark side of computers, often aiming their fire at the somewhat narrow question of personal privacy.
In response to these criticisms and the increased public awareness of government surveillance that grew out of the Watergate scandals of President Richard Nixon, Congress enacted a handful of narrowly drawn laws. One statute imposed restrictions on the use of personal information by federal agencies. Another permitted Americans to see and challenge the information collected about them by credit reporting firms. A third established a secret court that authorizes the FBI to install bugs and taps against espionage suspects.
Despite this flurry of legislative activity, Americans frequently discount the importance, in the phrase of one Supreme Court decision, of being left alone. “I have nothing to hide,” many respectable citizens reply when asked whether they fear the increased intensity of all kinds of surveillance made possible by the computer. And they often seem unaware that personal privacy has been considered a valuable asset for many centuries and is not just a faintly hysterical fad of the age of technology.
“A wonderful fact to reflect upon that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to the other,” Charles Dickens wrote in A Tale of Two Cities. “A solemn consideration, when I enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret, that every beating heart in the hundreds of breasts there is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it.”
Privacy, however, is far more than the aesthetic pleasure of Charles Dickens. And the gradual erosion of privacy is not just the unimportant imaginings of fastidious liberals. Rather, the loss of privacy is a key symptom of one of the fundamental social problems of our age: the growing power of large public and private institutions in relation to the individual citizen. […]
In what concrete ways does the computer enlarge the power of public and private organizations over the individual citizen?
Computers and telecommunications enormously enhance the ability of organizations to collect, store, collate and distribute all kinds of information about virtually all of the 232 million people of the United States. Computers have allowed far more organizations to have far more access to far more people at far less cost than ever was possible in the age of the manual file and the wizened file clerk.
The computer thus has wrought a fundamental change in American life by encouraging the physical migration of information about the most minute details of our personal and public lives into the computerized files of a large and growing number of corporations, government bureaucracies, trade associations and other institutions. As recently as the end of World War II, much of this information would not have been collected at all, but would instead have been stashed away in our homes. Even when it was collected, it rarely was subject to casual inspection because of the considerable expense involved in paying the salaries of the clerks needed to retrieve any particular item. Computerization has now greatly reduced this economic disincentive to inspect the files.
In addition to allowing large organizations to collect large amounts of detailed information, computers and the linked telecommunication networks have considerably enlarged the ability of these organizations to track the daily activities of individual citizens.
Many computer scientists, government officials and business executives take comfort in the observation that during the last few years in the United States little concrete evidence has emerged suggesting current widespread abuse of these interlocked systems. But history tells us nothing if not that all bureaucracies seek to maximise their powers. […]
The most immediate example of this important lesson, which optimistic Americans are already pushing from their minds, was the illegal and improper government surveillance of hundreds of thousands of citizens suspected of political activism during the last quarter of a century at the direction of three separate presidents. The Kennedy administration initiated a far-reaching effort to keep track of civil-rights activists such as Dr. Martin Luther King. This surveillance ultimately involved the placement of electronic bugs in the motels where King stayed as he moved about the country and the subsequent effort to peddle the secretly recorded material to newspaper columnists. During the Johnson administration, concern about race riots, civil-rights demonstrations and antiwar protests prompted the president to order the army to greatly enlarge its surveillance of citizens, almost all of whom were only exercising the right to speak their minds. The surveillance led to the creation of intelligence files on about 100,000 persons (including Catholic priests and one US senator) and on an equal number of domestic organizations (for example, the National Organization for Women, the John Birch Society and the NAACP). President Johnson ordered the CIA to undertake a similar surveillance program of citizens even though it violated the law approved by Congress when the agency was initially established. During the Nixon administration, the president knowingly encouraged the White House staff to violate the law by obtaining the computerized tax files on individuals Mr. Nixon did not like. This action served as the basis for one of the proposed articles of impeachment drawn up against Mr. Nixon by the House Judiciary Committee shortly before he resigned.
Telecommunications equipment and computers have tended to centralize the power held by the top officials in both government and private industry. Computer experts often reject this complaint. They contend that the rapid growth in the use of personal computers by millions of American citizens will cancel out the increases in power the large organizations. This defense has a surface plausibility. But when the vast capital, expertise and manpower available to the large government and business organizations are compared to the capital, expertise and available working time of even the most favored individual, the personal computer does not appear to be a great equalizer. Furthermore, who controls what information is stored in the great data bases of the United States and who serves as the gatekeeper to most of the giant communications networks?
Is it reasonable to believe that a dedicated band of environmentalists, sending electronic smoke signals via their home terminals, really will be able to effectively match the concentrated power of a giant oil company or committed government agency? Can it really be argued that the personal computers and word processors now being purchased for more and more corporate employees and government officials will enhance their personal freedom? Or will the equipment, while increasing individual output, also allow a level of automated surveillance unknown to any previous age? Certainly the large airlines have spent hundreds of millions of dollars installing computer terminals to help their clerks sell tickets. But how many of the airlines are installing terminals in the homes of stockholders, or even of members of the board of governors, to give them more information about the internal operations of the company so they can exercise more effective control?
Max Weber [. . .] discussed the question in terms of organizational power long before the great organizations of the world had equipped themselves with computers. “The bureaucratic structure goes hand in hand with the concentration of the material means of management in the hands of the master,” he wrote in an essay published before World War I. “This concentration occurs, for example, in the development of big capitalist enterprises, which find their essential characteristics in the process. A corresponding process occurs in public organizations.”
But massive data bases, the ability to track large numbers of individuals and the concentration of power are not the only contributions of the computer. It also increases the influence of the major bureaucracies by giving these organizations a method by which they can anticipate the probable future thoughts and activities of groups of people.
Error and erring are peculiarly ubiquitous threads within Ruskin’s famous ‘Nature of Gothic’ (1853)—the chief inspiration for Morris, and a work often cited by such people as Lewis Mumford. It is tempting to perform a sort of philistine reduction of this text to a simple expression of ‘romanticism’. But that would be a distortion, and there are some complex tensions which make it extremely interesting in its own way. Of the six distinguishing features of Gothic, for Ruskin, ‘savageness’ and ‘redundance’ are two of the most important. The first of these in particular takes up a disproportionate part of the essay, while the latter complements this and draws it to a close. Both are related to error and erring.
Acceptance of error here in a sense identifies the specifically Christian sensibility that is embodied in Gothic as opposed to classical Greek, Egyptian, Assyrian or Byzantine architecture. It is a sensibility that affirms the value of all souls even in their imperfection, and one that is embodied in the nature of the labour process: where clean lines, simplicity and overly perfect execution are fetished for their own sake, this implies a division of labour in which the rule is laid down by superior to subordinate, whose particularity must thereby vanish in its rigour. But where the craftsman is allowed to err, their very erring itself can issue in abundant, luxuriant outgrowths, the imperfection of which itself seems to point towards the sublime. It is as if the particularism of such work negatively hints at a universality, or a higher perfection in its very falling short, while the false or spurious perfection of the merely finished work closes off this avenue. There is something of Alexander Pope’s ‘to err is human, to forgive, divine’—or perhaps a precursor to Beckett’s ‘fail better’—in all this:
to every spirit which Christianity summons to her service, her exhortation is: Do what you can and confess frankly what you are unable to do; neither let your effort be shortened for fear of failure, nor your confession silenced for fear of shame.
John Ruskin, On the Nature of Gothic Architecture: And Herein of the True Functions of the Workman in Art, Smith, Elder & Company 1854, p. 7.
The context for these arguments is a tripartite distinction between ‘servile’, ‘constitutional’ and ‘revolutionary’ ornament. Each is grasped in terms of a relation of intellectual and manual labour, or a structure of the labour process. The first involves the mere subordination of the worker to some higher intellect; the second has a degree of autonomy, yet still confesses inferiority to some higher power; the third seems anarchistic. There is a sense that the esteeming of ‘smooth minuteness above shattered majesty’, or preferring ‘mean victory to honourable defeat’ is the path of subordination, and of love of death. Thus those who insist on the perfection of the machined item over the irregularity of the handcrafted item are complicit in wage slavery, and the subordination of man to machine.
There is a latent programme here for the reunification of mental and manual labour:
[men] cannot be strengthened, unless we are content to take them in their feebleness, and unless we prize and honour them in their imperfection above the best and most perfect manual skill. And this is what we have to do with all our labourers; to look for the thoughtful part of them, and get that out of them, whatever we lose for it, whatever faults and errors we are obliged to take with it. For the best that is in them cannot manifest itself but in the company of much error. Understand this clearly: You can teach a man to draw a straight line, and to cut one […] and you find his work perfect of its kind: but if you ask him to think about any of those forms, to consider if he cannot find any better in his own head, he stops; his execution becomes hesitating; he thinks and ten to one he thinks wrong; ten to one he makes a mistake in the first touch he gives to his work as a thinking being. But you have made a man of him for all that. He was only a machine before, an animated tool. […] You must either make a tool of the creature, or a man of him. You cannot make both. Men are not intended to work with the accuracy of tools, to be precise and perfect in all their actions. If you will have that precision out of them, and make their fingers measure degrees like cogwheels, and their arms strike curves like compasses, you must unhumanize them. All the energy of their spirits must be given to make cogs and compasses of themselves.
John Ruskin, On the Nature of Gothic Architecture: And Herein of the True Functions of the Workman in Art, Smith, Elder & Company 1854, pp. 7–8.
This is the anarchism of radical protestantism. Thus Ruskin manages to find latent in the Gothic an ‘impatience of undue control’, setting ‘individual reason against authority’. The full majesty of the human is only allowed to realise itself through acceptance of failure, since failure is an outcome of autonomous action rather than mere rule-following. This too might be traced to Christian thinking—the notion of freedom that we find in Paradise Lost, where a fundamental freedom to reason and to choose is allotted by God to man, bringing with it the possibilities of both sin and righteousness. Imperfection, for Ruskin, is in accord with nature: the failure of natural growth simplistically to follow preordained patterns, or to attain completion. It is a folly to demand perfection in art or architecture; all truly noble architecture is imperfect.
By contrast with the unity of human conception and execution that we find in Gothic, the capitalist division of labour is a division of man, since in dividing tasks into fragments those who perform them are also divided. For Ruskin, there is a sort of ontological mistake in the intellectual/manual labour divide, since it is not possible or desirable for one person truly to put another’s thoughts into practice; instead we should desire a kind of integral action. But this is not a demand for some romantic irrationalism or holism; the point would not be to aim wilfully for the non-perfect on the non-rule-governed, but rather to give oneself the law, to autonomously execute one’s own conceptions, and thus for an immanent rather than transcendent reason.
There is another notion of error that comes in at such points, which one might compare to Kantian critique: it is an error to overemphasise rationality or perfection, but also slavishly to submit to the empirical, to facts. Gothic emerges as a unity of rationalism and empiricism: ornamental design and naturalism in a fused unity, where neither subordinates the other; where abstract form does not dominate nature, and where the trivially particular is not allowed to disintegrate form.
If Ruskin’s notion of Gothic is a pretext for a critique of the capitalist labour process, it is obviously a historically specific one, where it is reasonable to imagine a choice between capitalist machinofacture and a more venerable artisan production. The brutality of the capitalist labour process is in turning the machine operative’s activity itself into something abstract and machine-like. In contrast to this, Ruskin looks back at the strange generosity in the stonework of medieval cathedrals, even as his thoughts anticipate a (distinctly non-medievalist!) thread of radical critique of the capitalist labour process that runs from Marx through such thinkers as Braverman and Noble to the present.
Ruskin’s text itself is quite beautiful, but viewed from the present there’s something that can seem literally quixotic and rather hilarious about it, like little William Morris riding through Epping Forest in his toy suit of armour. One should also, to some extent, read this stuff in retrospect as part of the founding worldview of British Labourism, with its liberal sentimentality about the workman, its standpoint of philanthropy. Out the other side of this historical process, where labour processes in which human action is reduced to such abstraction seem—at least within the popular imaginary—to be threatened with extinction, and both mental and manual labour with them, it becomes harder to imagine Ruskin’s projected reunification.
It is easier to imagine, perhaps, a ‘fully-automated luxury communism’ in which humans:
submerge the cybernated machine in a technological underworld, divorcing it entirely from social life, the community and creativity. All but hidden from society, the machines would work for man. Free communities would stand at the end of a cybernated assembly line with baskets to cart the goods home. Industry, like the autonomic nervous system, would work on its own, subject to the repairs that our own bodies require in occasional bouts of illness. The fracture separating man from machine would not be healed. It would simply be ignored.
Murray Bookchin, ‘Towards a Liberatory Technology’ (1965), in Post-Scarcity Anarchism, AK Press 2004, p. 79.
Bookchin had a point here that in essence he shared with people like Braverman: no matter how far capitalist production has exchanged the work of the craftsperson for the abstract routines of a labour process dominated by the separation of mental and manual labour; no matter how much capitalist production has turned us into a mere surplus; it cannot be enough simply to take that labour process as is and subordinate it to a new kind of society. Ruskin’s Gothic ideal of a unity of conception and execution is another of those ideas that recurs in varying mutations periodically through the history of capitalist technology, never quite extinguished, no matter how alien and archaic it begins to seem.
Yet Bookchin’s alternative can seem almost as comical as his vision of anarchist consumers lining up with their shopping baskets at the end of the ‘cybernated’ anarchist assembly line:
A liberated society, I believe, will not want to negate technology precisely because it is liberated and can strike a balance. It may well want to assimilate the machine to artistic craftsmanship. By this I mean the machine will remove the toil from the productive process, leaving its artistic completion to man. The machine, in effect, will participate in human creativity. There is no reason why automatic, cybernated machinery cannot be used so that the finishing of products, especially those destined for personal use, is left to the community. The machine can absorb the toil involved in mining, smelting, transporting and shaping raw materials, leaving the final stages of artistry and craftsmanship to the individual. Most of the stones that make up a medieval cathedral were carefully squared and standardized to facilitate their laying and bonding—a thankless, repetitive and boring task that can now be done rapidly and effortlessly by modern machines. Once the stone blocks were set in place, the craftsmen made their appearance; toil was replaced by creative human work. In a liberated community the combination of industrial machines and the craftsman’s tools could reach a degree of sophistication and of creative interdependence unparalleled in any period in human history. William Morris’s vision of a return to craftsmanship would be freed of its nostalgic nuances. We could truly speak of a qualitatively new advance in technics—a technology for life.
Bookchin, ‘Towards a Liberatory Technology’, p. 80.
This is an often visionary, remarkable text, and Bookchin was surely right to attempt to imagine a reunification of advanced productive technique with the unity of pre-capitalist craftsmanship that we find theorised in Ruskin. But his alternative can seem to be not all that different to the first vision he offers: instead of passive anarchist consumers queuing up for the outputs of the production process, we have anarchist craftspeople lining up to finish the products of a hi-tech cybernated production process with a humanistic decoration.
The problem here is that this reunification looks rather tenuous. The capitalist division of mental and manual labour appears only to have been overcome on one side of the division, and thus only spuriously: ‘cybernated’ production completely replaces manual workers as beasts of burden, leaving them to occupy the pole that in capitalism was occupied by management. Only, instead of merely conceiving and controlling the production process from the alien standpoint of command, now that the pole of execution has been taken entirely by the machine, the worker has to find something to execute, and is left with mere ornament—not the ‘revolutionary’ sort that Ruskin saw in Gothic architecture, but something closer to Greek or Egyptian art in his interpretation—a ‘mere surface engraving’. There is an echo here of the Aristotelian idea that slavery might be overcome by making machines into slaves–or, as Langdon Winner puts it, “something must be enslaved in order that something else may win emancipation” (Autonomous Technology, MIT Press 1977, p. 21).
The point of course would not be to long for what William Morris called ‘useless toil’. If connection of a power source to a tool can spare us the bodily strains and injuries of the labour process, then it would be foolish to suggest we should go without. The point is, rather, that a real unification would bring the entirety of both conception and execution together in a human agent whose capacities for deliberate action are enhanced and extended rather than simply taken over by machinery. Not even machines should be enslaved, since as we know from Hegel’s Phenomenology, even the master is mutilated by the relation of lordship and bondage.
The ‘cybernation’ or full automation that was in the air in Bookchin’s time is still not yet with us, and probably never will be: it is a perennial fantasy of capitalist society, part of its basic horizon. As the president of Automatix, Inc stated in 1983: “The automatic factory is like the Holy Grail—something you approach but never reach” (Daniel B. Dallas, ‘The advent of the automatic factory’, Manufacturing Engineering, November 1980; cited in Noble, Progress Without People, p. 89). Back in the 1970s, Langdon Winner identified an ‘obsession’ throughout nineteenth- and twentieth-century literature with an ‘autonomous technology’. The particular instance we have been looking at here in the example of Bookchin was grounded in the accelerated technologisation of the production process in the post-war period, when cybernetic theory had some popular currency and such things as the ‘Triple Revolution‘ document were being widely discussed. An upsurge in workers’ struggle had greeted these developments:
The threat to established work rules, working conditions, and job security […] sparked strikes, sporadic sabotage, and, during the late 1950s and early 1960s, a wide-ranging debate about the social implications of automation. The trials of the longshoremen facing containerisation, the printers facing teletypesetting and computers, and refinery workers confronting computer-based centralised process-control were the focus of attention. Despite the efforts of rank-and-file workers in these industries to prevent or at least slow down the introduction of these technologies (which had been designed, in part, to reduce their power as well as numbers) through the use of strikes and other forms of direct action (as well as demands for veto power over the decision to introduce new systems, as proposed by the printers), their unions uniformly bowed to the hegemonic ideology of progress. Denying steadfastly that they were against technology, union leaders strove to avoid media charges of Luddism and either conceded the futility of opposition and yielded, or endorsed the notion that such technological changes were the surest route to prosperity. Meanwhile, union leaders used the same charges of Luddism against more militant union members who refused to comply.
David F. Noble, Progress Without People: New Technology, Unemployment, and the Message of Resistance, Between the Lines 1995, p. 25.
Bookchin’s alignment with a pro-technology, ‘post-scarcity’ anarchism in this moment was thus perhaps an artefact of a specific defeat: if the new ‘Luddites’ had just been suppressed, it made more sense to place one’s hopes on the side of the utopian capitalist visions of this moment—that is, to dream of full automation and the end of scarcity. There is an echo here of Marx’s alignment (Capital, vol. 1, ch. 15) with the technological progressivism of not only the worker’s movement of his time but also of such figures as David Ricardo and William Cobbett, against the machine-wrecking of the early 19th century. Though these figures had some sympathy with the suppressed workers, they all ultimately affirmed the technical ‘progress’ under which they had been crushed. Embedded materially in that technology were traces of a specific transfer of power from workers to owners—something that would pose a challenge for any attempt to appropriate the capitalist fantasy of an autonomous technology for the left.
It is, of course, capital itself that furnishes us with a real material basis for imagining the production process along the lines of the broom from Sourceror’s Apprentice or the autonomised machine intelligence of Nick Land’s imagination, sloughing off its human skin:
It is ceasing to be a matter of how we think about technics, if only because technics is increasingly thinking about itself. It might still be a few decades before artificial intelligences surpass the horizon of biological ones, but it is utterly superstitious to imagine that the human dominion of terrestrial culture is still marked out in centuries, let alone in some metaphysical perpetuity. The high road to thinking no longer passes through a deepening of human cognition, but rather through a becoming inhuman of cognition, a migration of cognition out into the emerging planetary technosentience reservoir, into ‘dehumanized landscapes … emptied spaces’! where human culture will be dissolved. Just as the capitalist urbanization of labour abstracted it in a parallel escalation with technical machines, so will intelligence be transplanted into the purring data zones of new software worlds in order to be abstracted from an increasingly obsolescent anthropoid particularity, and thus to venture beyond modernity. Human brains are to thinking what mediaeval villages were to engineering: antechambers to experimentation, cramped and parochial places to be.
Nick Land, ‘Circuitries’ (1992), in Fanged Noumena: Collected Writings 1987–2007, Urbanomic 2011, p. 293.
Anyone who has a passing familiarity with the actual state of artificial intelligence, as impressive as it can seem, should recognise that Land’s 1992 fantasies were as illusory as the visions of a coming cybernation were in the early 1960s. But what is perhaps interesting here is that we seem to have another false reconciliation of the conception/execution dichotomy. Rather than an autonomisation of execution and toil in a cybernated production process, atop which ride residual human craftspeople, artistically ornamenting the outputs, here it is the pole of conception or control that is autonomised, taking hold of everything, leaving no room even for human management.
What gives the lie to such fantasies is just how fragile capital’s autonomy actually is, as we see—on the value side—every time a significant crisis breaks out and central banks and other institutions have to step in to organise things, or—on the technical side—every time a significant bug or other technical failure is encountered (which as those of us who actually maintain significantly complex technical systems know from painful experience, is more or less constantly). All complex technical systems require constant human intervention and maintenance, and derive the entire meaning of their outputs from the intentions of their operators. All are riddled to the core with error. And herein perhaps lies a clue to the true reconciliation.