Our Posthuman Future: Consequences of the Biotechnology Revolution. By Francis Fukuyama. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. $25.00. xiii 256 p; ill.; no index. ISBN: 0–374–23643–7. 2002.

11/13/2012

Hugo Chesshire

Francis Fukuyama’s work is perhaps misleadingly titled, since it does not contain much

of great substance about posthumanity, the future, or biotechnology. This is not a pop-science

account of modern biotech. Instead, the questions raised by the development of biotechnology

have been used as a springboard from which to dive into a discussion of rights theory and the

framing of an argument against the positivistic rights discourse with which modern liberalism

and science have draped themselves. Fukuyama’s perspective may not be terribly original, as it

references and draws upon ancient ideas – literally – but it is worth asking whether these ancient

ideas can still have relevance for the modern world.

Criticisms of his lack of scientific depth are rather unfair, especially since they tend to

come from that paradigm wherein only a “true” scientist with an understanding of technique

could make moral judgements about science. Fukuyama’s contention is that it is not scientists

but the democratic state that ought to sit in judgement of these techniques. Referencing Aristotle

as much as he does, it is probably fair to say that he favours the Aristotelian argument that the

judgement of the masses is generally superior, even when compared to that of the experts –

although this may fall into a positivistic trap itself, as a naturalistic rights theory would be forced

to concede that the judgement of the masses would be wrong where it conflicts with natural law.

Insomuch as the book concerns biotechnology, Fukuyama’s premise is stated early on –

that Aldous Huxley was right, that biotechnology may well usher in a post-human future, and

that, rather than lavishing the praise that our society reserves for the scientific and the technical

on these developments, we ought to greet them with something approaching the disquiet and

unease that accompanies a reading of Brave New World. Perhaps, as Huxley suggests, something

of our humanness is lost through the application of biotechnology, and Fukuyama tends to agree.

First, he establishes a concept of humanness derived not from positivism, or from religion (which

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has, as he observes, become the principal wellspring of objections to biotechnology), but from

observations and deductions concerning human nature made in the mode of Aristotle. From this

perspective, he sets out to demonstrate that the rampant and unchecked use of biotechnology

poses some danger to our humanness.

Fukuyama examines several facets of the biotechnology revolution which he feels are

causes for trepidation. For example, gerontology is likely to worsen the aging-demographic

problem and the north-south divide through the extension of life (and, he fears, may only extend

infirmity rather than youth and middle age), Ritalin and Prozac tend to steer people towards a

bland median of thought and behaviour, and genetic engineering may give rise to a “designer

baby” phenomenon, with an attendant and alarming resurgence of interest in eugenics, albeit in a

more libertarian mode. The important point is not that these outcomes are inevitable; the problem

is that they are both conceivable and plausible, and that there seems to be no coherent ethical-

theoretical framework outside of the religious from which to address them.

Fukuyama finds the idea of a discoverable, innate human nature or essence most

convincing, and makes a good argument that the positivistic-rights theorists actually do assume

something about human nature, despite claims to the contrary, since positivistic rights can never

be universal without some covert appeal to naturalism. In the case of Immanuel Kant, for

example, these “covert” naturalistic claims are that humans are rational, that they benefit from

and use their power of rationality, and that they can develop their rationality over time.

Fukuyama proposes that the “naturalistic fallacy” is flawed, and that we should return to a rights-

theory grounded in pre-Kantian tradition and derived from nature.

He posits that perhaps the concept of rights itself is flawed. Plato and Aristotle do not

mention “rights” in their discussions of human goods and ends, and perhaps it is that they are

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looking at the ceiling rather than the floor, so to speak. The rights discourse concerning the state,

for example, is preoccupied with protecting citizens from its potential abuses. Plato and Aristotle

prefer to focus on the ideals of good statesmanship, justice and sagacious governance – of the

state, and of oneself. Rather than focusing on a rights discourse, which inevitably tends to be

drawn towards the negative (the need to protect from rather than the need to educate or strive

towards), Fukuyama proposes that we could take a leaf from the Greeks and move toward a

discourse centred on human needs and interests.

In his opinion, the problem is not necessarily the technology itself. The problematic is

encountered when technology is applied by a secular society which would reject objections made

on religious grounds, especially when that society is overly concerned with wealth and scientific

progress, and is unburdened by ethical and moral questions raised outside of a positivist

framework. Religion is a source of these questions, but not the only one. However, the scientific

society may tend to lump all moralistic qualms together in the spiritual tent and dismiss them as

superstitious, medieval, unscientific and outmoded. In such a society, attempts by the state to

limit the pursuit of morally dubious avenues of technological development will be stymied by the

lack of an alternative philosophical grounding in which to base them – a grounding which

Fukuyama believes can be found in classical thought.

A problem with this analysis is that Fukuyama seems to fall into this positivist trap

himself. He attempts to define the human quality that calls for respect and dignity as “Factor X,”

and spends some time trying to define it and defend it from arguments from, for example, Peter

Singer’s philosophy or the Confucian tradition, both of which deny any clear separation of

humankind from the animal kingdom or the cosmos in general. But it seems characteristic of the

positivist mindset and the technological-scientific paradigm to desire that this “Factor X” be

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named, defined, or perhaps even quantified. Is it not possible that the source of our common

human dignity is something undefinable, something that we can never pin down exactly or

contrive some legal definition for but, to paraphrase Justice Potter Stewart, something that we

can know when we see it?

Human essence might not even be found in being at all, but in a nonbeing that gives rise

to human attributes – perhaps as nonbeing in Daoism is understood as a generative ontological

space from which being appears, or as a nothing that hides behind the particular being-ness of

humanity, as in Heideggerian thought. Fukuyama’s desire to pin down an identifiable humanness

behind each human’s existence is probably derived from the Socratic concept of the forms;

humanness might exist as a noumenon in this fashion. His “Factor X” is the human quality that

demands or deserves a modicum of respect and dignity; is “Factor X” therefore the form of

respectability or dignity? Moreover, if it were a form in the Socratic tradition, would this not

mean that individual humans would not possess respectability or dignity but only approach them

– and to varying degrees?

A problem of a more practical inclination is that these arguments derived from Aristotle

and countering Kantian notions of autonomy and rationality may end up rejecting autonomy and

rationality entirely, as in the Aristotelian concept of natural slavery. The naturally slavish are not

possessed of true rationality or autonomy, although it should be noted that Fukuyama questions

Aristotle’s convictions on the actual existence of the naturally slavish. This can even be

transformed into an assault on the concept of innate human dignity and respectability that

Fukuyama wants us to consider. The problem arises, for example, in his call for state regulation

of biotechnology in the name of an ethical regime that firstly rejects positivism, secondly, does

not derive from conceptions of human rights or Kantian autonomy but from naturalism, and

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thirdly, emphasises human aspirations rather than human rights. In all of his prescriptions, one

can find problems. Let us say that gerontology may indeed compound demographic problems as

Fukuyama suggests. Does he believe that the state either could or should tell the elderly that they

cannot receive life-extending therapies because the world is just too crowded for them – and if

not, has it occurred to him that others might use his arguments in just this way?

In his concluding chapter, Fukuyama wrestles inconclusively and unsatisfactorily with

this problem. A possible solution is to distinguish between therapy and enhancement, allowing

the former and banning the latter. However, as he admits, this is rife with flaws; not only could

“enhancement” be construed as covering many preventative measures, but in the Foucauldian

analysis so much of pathology is socially constructed, leaving it hard to establish what is

therapeutic. His propositions reject the fatalistic view of technology as something outside of

human control, and posit that it is within the grasp of humanity to harness and control the

development of technology. In the end, despite the title, the book is of the most interest as a

philosophical revitalization of classical thought in the biotechnology age and as an argument

against Kantian positivist, scientific, libertarian hegemony. However, those looking for an in-

depth review of the actual technologies, or for a well-developed set of policy prescriptions,

should look elsewhere.

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