Less Technē, More Logos
The Naturally Proper Understanding of Human Beings’ Relationship to Technology
[The cover page for Rousseau’s Discourse on the Sciences and the Arts, which contains an image of Prometheus giving fire to human beings. Describing its inclusion, Rousseau writes, “‘The satyr,’ as the ancient fable goes, ‘wanted to kiss and embrace the fire the first time he saw it, but Prometheus cried out to him: Satyr, you will mourn the beard on your chin, for it burns when it is touched.’”]
“Technology” is a curious, and somewhat misleading, word. When we speak of “technology,” we usually refer to devices that we use to perform certain functions and, in many cases, programs that run on those devices. Our primary reference for technology is something outside of ourselves, developed by people and corporations with whom we likely have no direct contact. From our common sense of “technology,” it would be difficult to see how its Greek roots—technē (art) and logos (speech, reason, rational account)—were used to form the word. When we think of “technology,” we think of its products, not the logos behind them.
With our focus on technology’s products, our vision draws us more toward the art (technē) used to create them. The purpose of “art” in the Greek sense is “to produce or make” (poieō) something. We see these productions everywhere. I could not compose this post without a computer, and you could not read it without a computer, smartphone, or tablet. New versions of these devices appear continuously; their operating systems regularly update; we therefore do not lack evidence that these technologies are always produced and engaged in producing new things. Our own orientation toward these technologies is one of productivity. Technologies are constantly produced so that we can be productive. Such constancy inclines us to think technology is the best manifestation of progress in our world.
But “progress,” especially in technology, contains its own ambiguity. When we speak of “progress,” we have, as its roots indicate, a sense of forward motion. Yet many tend to assume that this forward motion is toward something better. We know, however, that not every technological advancement has been toward something better. Here we find an open question hiding in plain sight: “Better” is a comparative term; it designates that one thing is “more good” than another. This is how we judge the products of technology. In doing this, we bring, through logos, our natural sense of what is good to bear upon the products of some technē. And this reminds us of something that we seem to have forgotten: The human capacity for logos naturally precedes the work of any technē.
With Aristotle’s help, we can see why our vision of technology must begin with logos, not technē. In Book VI of the Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle defines technē as “a productive [poiētikē] holding-state[1] with true logos” (1140a10). Properly understood, technē should derive from truth. But an immediate problem presents itself as Aristotle continues: technē’s concern is with contemplating and producing things where it is possible for them “to be and not to be” (1140b10–14). Art, in other words, has the capacity to violate the foundation for all truth—the principle of non-contradiction, which holds that it is impossible for something to be and not be at the same time (Metaphysics, 1005b19–35).[2] The sequence of arguments suggests an inherent tension within technē. Though technē should be subordinate to truth, because technē contemplates what is and what is not for the sake of production, it can be used in ways that undermine truth.
Yet technē lacks the capacity to create itself, for human beings created technē. Technology itself is incapable of producing contradictions, but the human beings who produce it have this capacity. Why, then, would human beings produce technologies that contradict truth? As Aristotle notes a little later after his definition of technē, “it is more choiceworthy [hairetōteros] to err in art” than in “prudence” (phronēsis) (1140b20–24). Since my purpose in this essay is not to go through all the philosophic questions at work in Aristotle’s conception of prudence, I limit my focus here to his insight that choice is what leads human beings either toward or away from truth. With respect to technology, this suggests that, if we wish to understand it, we ought to focus on the choices that produced it.
But how can we know the choices behind technologies when we do not have access to the people producing them? We must turn to one thing that is common to our human nature, choice, and technē: logos. According to Aristotle in Book III of the Nicomachean Ethics, “choice [proairesis] is with logos and thought” (1112a15–16), and it works by forming “deliberative desire” (1113a9–11). Put another way, choice is the result of the natural dialogue within ourselves between logos and desire or passion (pathos).
Aristotle carries this a step further in Book VI, which begins with him identifying human nature with choice, defined there as “desiring intellect or thinking desire” (1139b4–5). Again, setting aside the broader philosophic questions of his inquiry, what I want to highlight here is that choice’s natural orientation is toward what is good and bad, matters which are most likely to be confounded by pleasure and pain (consider 1104b30–1105a16 in Book III, or 1140b4–21 in Book VI). While we may have no part in producing most of the technologies that exist, our use of them is subject to the same choice between what is good and bad that the producers of those technologies faced when creating them. This choice is the only natural and proper way to judge technology in its use and its production.
We may be tempted to think that we cannot truly judge technologies if we do not know the scientific knowledge that produced them. But the science itself is not technology’s foundational question. Science and technology’s foundational question, like all human questions, is “At what good does this aim?” This is the question at the heart of all human pursuits because such pursuits begin with choice, the very thing that makes us human. Because choice requires logos, we all have the capacity to know and judge whether a technology is good for us.
The natural connection between choice and logos also points in another direction for those of us who want to contemplate our pursuit of the good a little more beautifully. Perceptive readers may have noticed that the root of the Greek verb that means “to produce—poieō—is the root for “poetry.” In Greek, poiēsis (“production”) refers either to the products of physical (sometimes slavish) labor, or the more literary forms of poetry with which we are familiar. Our world prides itself on productivity without asking if that production requires the suppression or expression of our capacity for logos. Beauty and love, however, will only be found in and through logos. If we wish to preserve what is best in our nature, we do not need massive technological or societal shifts. It would be enough if we each took our natural capacity for logos more seriously by setting aside our ceaseless striving for what is productive and learning to live and rest with what is more poetic.
[1] “Holding-state” is my translation of hexis, a term that is difficult to pin down. It derives from the verb echō, which means “to hold or possess.” A hexis is therefore a “holding” or “possessing”; I add “-state” to give a sense that a hexis is not something that easily moves or changes.
[2] This would suggest that the apparently profound insight of “Schrodinger’s Cat” is truly a logical absurdity. Opening the box does not change the truth that the cat inside is either dead or alive. “Schrodinger’s Sophistry” would be a more apt description.