Our Oldest Task: Making Sense of Our Place in Nature

Our Oldest Task

Our Oldest Task

Making Sense of Our Place in Nature

Eric T. Freyfogle

The University of Chicago Press

CHICAGO & LONDON

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London

© 2017 by The University of Chicago

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact the University of Chicago Press, 1427 E. 60th St., Chicago, IL 60637.

Published 2017

Printed in the United States of America

26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17    1 2 3 4 5

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-32639-9 (cloth)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-32642-9 (e-book)

DOI: 10.7208/chicago/9780226326429.001.0001

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Freyfogle, Eric T., author.

Title: Our oldest task : making sense of our place in nature / Eric T. Freyfogle.

Description: Chicago : The University of Chicago Press, 2017. | Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2016054304 | ISBN 9780226326399 (cloth : alk. paper) | ISBN 9780226326429 (e-book)

Subjects: LCSH: Nature and civilization. | Human beings—Effect of environment on. | Nature and civilization—United States. | Human beings—Effect of environment on—United States.

Classification: LCC CB460 .F74 2017 | DDC 910—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016054304

This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

For Jane

Contents

Introduction

1  Composing the World

2  Use and Abuse

3  Science and Morals

4  Liberal Fragments

5  An Ecological Foundation

6  Social Justice

7  The Capitalist Market

8  The Path Ahead

Acknowledgments

Notes

Selected Bibliography

Index

Introduction

This is a book about nature and culture, about our place and plight on earth and the nagging challenges we face in living on it in ways that might endure. It deals with what American conservationist Aldo Leopold once termed the oldest task in human history, the task of living on land without degrading it.¹ By land, Leopold meant not just soils and rocks but the entire interconnected, interdependent community of life, people included. It was an ancient task, Leopold said, an essential one, and we were struggling with it much as civilizations before ours had struggled and quite often failed. Our cleverness, technology, and fecundity: all had advanced well ahead of our collective ability to align our modes of living with nature’s life-giving ways.

All living creatures change the world around them simply by going about the daily business of staying alive. To change the physical world is thus inevitable and appropriate. Indeed, the community of life that we inhabit is largely the product of such changes, made by countless species going back several billion years. The challenge that Leopold saw was thus not to avoid change to nature or even to minimize it. Instead, it was to use nature in ways that kept it fertile and productive for people then living and for future human generations, if not for other species as well. Our challenge—our oldest task—was to use nature but not to abuse it.

Collectively we have had trouble with this oldest task, particularly as our numbers have risen, new technologies have emerged, and market-driven competition has overwhelmed customary restraints on land use and resource use. Laws have curtailed some of the worst practices in many countries; green technologies are gaining a bit; and green consumerism is on the rise. But overall, our trajectory has not materially changed course. We continue to alter nature in ways that seem to involve abuse rather than use and to do so on ever-larger scales—seem to, that is, but then who can really be sure given the increasingly contentious debates? How do we know when a change we’ve made to nature goes beyond legitimate use to become abusive?

I entered teaching over three decades ago, in a law school, where I’ve led courses on environmental, natural resources, and property law along with graduate readings groups on nature and culture, social justice, and conservation thought. This book arises out of this learning and instruction. It also draws together two core stands of my thinking and writing, going back as far or farther. One strand has been my effort to come to terms with our environmental problems in their full complexity, physically, socially, and morally. Land degradation is a product of human behavior and thus of the messy mix of factors and forces that motivate and shape how we act. My sense from early on was that this degradation arose proximately if not inexorably from business as usual in the modern age more than it did from individual mischief or malfeasance. We were all complicit to varying degrees, even the most well-meaning and conscientious among us. For me this recognition posed tough questions, especially about causes and responsibility. These questions gained complexity when they were examined together with our troubling, too-frequent tendencies to deny the scientific evidence of ecological ills and to resist even proven, cost-effective reforms. Plainly, the root causes of degradation run deep, among and within us.

My musings on our earthly predicament led me to wonder also whether we were being careful and thoughtful enough when we passed judgment on the physical evidence of ecological change. We were altering nature profoundly—that much was clear—and some changes seemed manifestly bad. But it didn’t appear so easy many times to decide which changes to nature were acceptable or good overall and which ones instead were misguided or immoral; it didn’t appear easy, that is, to distinguish between the legitimate use of nature and the abuse of it. A normative evaluation was needed to make that determination, and that evaluation, that line-drawing, required in turn some sort of measuring standard. We didn’t possess such a standard—not a sound one, at least—and the work of crafting one, I sensed, was far harder than we recognized. Many factors seemed relevant to such an overall assessment or evaluation, including factors relating to social justice, future generations, and other life forms, and to the vast gaps in our scientific knowledge.

The second strand has been my broader effort simply to make sense of the place and time in which I live—my effort, in Cicero’s familiar phrasing, to escape the tyranny of the present. As have many others, I have tried to step back from the modern age and to think critically about it, to identify and come to terms with the ideas, values, and sensibilities that structure how we understand the world and engage with it. This age-old task has never been a simple one. In our time it seems particularly challenging, in part due to the abundant writing flowing out of our specialized and fragmented universities and research centers, so helpful in some ways, so distracting and overwhelming in others.

What I soon recognized was that I couldn’t progress far on either of these intellectual projects without make sense of the other as well. However we might assess it, our environmental plight is a central reality of our times. It offers essential evidence of how we see the world, how we understand our place in it, and how we relate to one another, other living creatures, and future generations. Similarly, we cannot grasp why we have such trouble evaluating normatively our changes to nature, or why we bicker so about alleged ills and reform options, without broadening the inquiry greatly. In complex ways our ills have much to do with the culture of our era, with the secular, rational, and liberal values and assumptions that gained dominance in the Enlightenment era of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and that retain such power today. In the case of the United States they are particularly linked to the timing and peculiar political context when our nation was founded and when our collective self-identify coalesced. Adding to our challenge has been the darkening shadow of the capitalist market, now working at the global scale, the market that yields its material bounty by fostering base impulses, fragmentation, and moral and intellectual confusion—which is to say by making us, in basic ways, lesser creatures.

Out of this long-continuing inquiry has come this book. It draws upon diverse disciplines and bodies of writing, particularly history (intellectual, social, environmental), ecology and evolutionary biology, economics, social and political writing generally, and various core strands of philosophy. My home discipline, law, also plays a role—most openly in a critique of private property norms—but this is not a work on environmental or property law, present or proposed. Nonetheless, a legal perspective aids a project like this one because the legal arena is a setting in which all relevant factors on an issue are brought to bear, or ought to be. Good lawmaking is inherently wide-ranging and synthetic: It borrows facts, values, experiences, and intuitions from any and all sources. This book is synthetic in just this way: it is a patchwork effort, a labor that seeks to generate—by gathering, assembling, and assessing—emergent properties, just as natural communities do when their components come together to create traits and powers not possessed by the parts in isolation.

My central thesis is that our struggle to live sensibly within the land community is pre-eminently a cultural one, not chiefly a matter of scientific knowledge, technology, or even population, though these factors are all highly relevant. Our age faces a grave cultural crisis, a crisis not just in the sense of a loss of cultural coherence—a kind of descent into endless, misguided bickering with rising anxieties and anomie—but in the stronger sense that the central elements of our world view are simply no longer working for us, intellectually, morally, or practically, particularly when it comes to our oldest task. The foundational assumptions that frame our understandings and actions seem less and less able to bring order to the facts of the day and to provide the tools we need to make collective sense of our many challenges, indeed even to admit their very existence. Our ecological ills and our inability to think clearly about them—to think clearly about our rightful place in nature—are tied to traits embedded within and among us and to the complex ways we think about and value the world, particularly our self-images as morally worthy, rational individuals, different not in degree but in kind from all other life forms. No amount of new science and technology will help us, not enough at least. No amount of green consumerism will help much either; indeed, our emphasis on going green, I shall argue, arises out of and aggravates elements of modern culture that are themselves root causes of our planetary excesses.

This book is thus a critical inquiry into modern Western culture. It pays particular attention to the case of the United States both because I know it best and because it illustrates so vividly the cultural challenges that confront the modern age generally. The study digs into the essential components of the modern worldview, beginning with fundamental questions of reality, cognition, and morality that have long intrigued and challenged philosophers. This attention to fundamentals is essential, I believe, because our central cultural need is not, as it is sometimes said, a mere matter of learning to be nice to nature or to love mother earth—a shallow notion that is as confused and unfocused as it is well intended. Our needs for change go much deeper than that. Major elements of our worldview require revision.

This critical inquiry provides the foundation for a proposed recasting of our worldview, aimed at promoting better modes of living on earth and also at promoting—necessarily promoting, as I will argue—greater social justice and heightened concerns for future generations and other life forms. The inquiry pays extended attention to the challenge of distinguishing between the legitimate use and abuse of nature—a difficult challenge, one we’ve addressed poorly. It includes a hard look at science—what it is and is not—and at our cultural tendency to turn to science to answer questions that it simply cannot answer (even as, at the same time, we push aside scientific findings we don’t like). At the same time it digs deeply into the unsteady bases of moral thinking, revealing why our search for new moral standards for the ecological age are frustrated by an overreliance on empirically grounded objectivity and by confusion over the true, social origins of the liberal values that we do embrace. Necessarily, a new, more ecological perspective on the world is needed, along with new ecological ways of recognizing how we are embedded in nature. Further, we need to think much more broadly about environmental justice and about the roles and moral status of the planet’s other interconnected life forms.

Inevitably the recasting of culture undertaken in this book reflects my own value preferences as author. But the cultural framework I construct—my dissection and diagnosis of our plight—should have value also for readers of different temperament, readers perhaps less inclined than I to care intrinsically and aesthetically about other life forms or more prone to trust that future generations will be smart enough to handle whatever ecological forces we unleash.

I have written this book as I have because I know of no other book like it, no book that similarly endeavors to set the full intellectual stage. A particular hope is that it will help environmental scholars, students, and activists see how and whether their personal efforts make sense when viewed in context. Without the full picture it is hard or impossible to know. Is it sensible, for instance, to push forward the idea of ecosystem services as an intellectual frame? It is proper for biologists to treat species-preservation as a shared goal? Would a market-guided carbon-trading system, all things considered, help us come to terms with climate change? Are religion-based claims about the value of Creation inappropriate for public use? Indeed, is it simply a matter of personal opinion whether one landscape condition is better than another?

In its cultural malaise and confusion the modern age resembles the years during and after the American Civil War in the mid-nineteenth century. As historian Louis Menand explains, sensitive observers of that tumultuous time understood the Civil War not just as a colossal failure of democracy and goodwill but also as a failure of culture, a failure of prevailing beliefs, values, sentiments, and ideas. The war swept away the South’s slave civilization and took almost the whole intellectual culture of the North along with it.² This breakdown was complexly linked to the great forces then at work—industrialization, urbanization, shifts of power to impersonal bureaucracies, and more. These forces together with their widespread economic and social consequences seemed to foster cultural chaos, to fracture the moral order and derail the nation’s progressive trajectory. Not until the end of the nineteenth century, Menand relates, did a new culture rise up to interpret and forge a counter to these massive forces, and it did so, in retrospect, only partially and temporarily.

The new, more confident culture of the Progressive Era ran aground not long after it emerged, when and as Western civilization descended into the disorienting horrors of World War I. Perhaps modern civilization was, after all, merely the thin veneer that doubters all along had claimed it was, a veneer that when stripped away by conflict or community fracture exposed the vast depths of inner darkness that Joseph Conrad and others had probed. For novelist Willa Cather the world broke in two around 1922; year one of the new era, Ezra Pound termed it. It was the time of Ulysses, The Waste Land, and Babbitt; a time, in the United States, of railroad strikes, mining massacres, and national corruption. One could, as H. L. Mencken did, ridicule the social and moral constraints of gentile and bourgeois culture, the culture that supplied the traction for reform efforts to fight corruption and decay. But where was the nation to find a new public morality that could effectively take its place and domesticate the economic and cultural forces of the day?

The cultural crisis we now experience is in many ways a continuation and strengthening of the crisis that Menand has charted and of the ensuing malaise fed on industrial-style war. To be sure, periods of peace and prosperity would come after the Great War and ensuing ones, creating times and auras of calm. But the acids of modernity had been dispersed widely. Particularly disorienting for the educated were the tales told by Darwin, Freud, and Einstein, who together cast doubt on human exceptionalism and on the objectivity and reliability of human reason and sense perceptions. Beyond that and also disorienting were the broadening demands for individual liberty and moral autonomy, the often amoral forces of industrial capitalism and bureaucratic efficiency, and the rising, dismaying evidence that the vast continent was not, after all, an unlimited warehouse of natural resources.

It will help at this beginning point to say more about these cultural ills, by way of introducing the inquiry to follow. As will be clear, our cultural deficiencies are intertwined, not just with one another but also with many of our cultural strengths. A quick look here at the overall picture might help clarify the pertinence of the individual parts of this wide-ranging overall inquiry, particularly the early ones.

Our cultural deficiencies fall rather roughly into four connected categories.

Moral value and interdependence. In the first category are the various ways that we commonly understand our roles and capacities in nature as the morally supreme form of planetary life and also perceive ourselves as autonomous beings. As human beings we do differ from other species of life, and they from one another. Yet we err gravely by assuming that we differ from them in kind rather than merely in degree, by assuming (implicitly today, more explicitly in the past) that we are in the long run really not much constrained by the planet’s physical capacities and functioning. We profess true belief in Charles Darwin’s evolutionary writings and likely chuckle at stubborn-minded contemporaries who can’t seem to face evolution’s bracing truths. But in an important sense those who reject a purely materialist interpretation of evolution are the more intellectually honest and coherent among us. They sense and profess that humans differ in kind from other life forms and they act consistent with this belief, as much interpretive and moral as it is factual. Evolution’s defenders, in contrast, while professing their kinship with the apes nonetheless seem plenty content to hold on to the generous benefits of our presumed creaturely uniqueness.

This first category of cultural elements has to do with the locus of moral value in the universe: does it extend beyond humans to other life forms, to species, and to communities? It also draws in the composition of reality (metaphysics) and the nature of individual humans and other life forms as living beings (ontology). Is the world made up not just of physical stuff—of atoms and their components and combinations bouncing about—but also of intangibles, such as ideas, moral values (goodness), and logical relationships, which exist not just in and among human minds but outside of them, embedded in the natural order? We routinely talk, for instance, as if human rights transcended mere social convention. But do such rights really exist apart from the historical forces and particular circumstances that gave rise to their proclamation; did they exist before we recognized them and will they continue existing if we forget them? If human rights do somehow exist independently of us, then what other normative or spiritual values might similarly await our belated recognition? As for the nature of existence, are we humans best understood as autonomous creatures or are we in significant ways—more important ways, even—defined and constituted by our many roles, connections, and interdependencies?

The world’s physical parts are highly intertwined, as we should certainly know. They are not merely collections of fragmented pieces and parts. When we overlook these countless interconnections it becomes too easy to ignore or downplay the essential dependence of all life on the planet’s basic functional processes. It becomes easy also to overlook how the planet’s millions of life forms have evolved in tandem with one another, gradually and inexorably, and how they can typically thrive only when these co-evolved interactions remain within natural bounds. To miss this fundamental truth is to miss the central role of cooperation in sustaining biotic communities. Even more it is to miss the many ways that communities of life give rise in their evolving interconnections to traits and capabilities that do not reside in the biotic and abiotic parts considered separately. In short, human-caused ecological degradation is plainly linked to what we see and don’t see when we look into nature, to our (over)confidence in our ability to gain knowledge about the world, and to the human-centered ways we attribute (create) moral value within it.

Reason, science, and the origins of morality. As for the second category, we are also weighted down today—even as we have been much benefited—by what might be termed our cult of objectivity, by our tendency to exalt facts and reason and to assume that, possessed of these two tools and little more (a few liberal and utilitarian principles), we can forge public policies that are workable if not better. Eighteenth-century thinkers exalted reason and demanded factual proof as part of a mission of destruction. They sought to sweep away superstition and ignorance and to challenge traditions that lingered on with no support other than long familiarity. A particular aim of the era was to push religious rites and practices out of the public sphere and into private life, and it did so even as the era’s leading intellects took for granted their embeddedness in a transcendent moral order mostly derived from Protestant Christianity.

In retrospect, the Enlightenment’s intellectual tools wielded too much power as they permeated the public realm. The era’s guiding insistence that all beliefs rest on facts and reason, used as a critical tool, proved forceful enough to chip away the sound along with the unsound, particularly when it came to public morality. As philosopher David Hume could see, no combination of reason and sense-derived factual information seemed able to supply a solid grounding for moral standards once the old order was fractured. With revealed religion called into question, morality needed to find a new, more sentiment-based foundation. This deficiency could remain concealed so long as the prevailing Christian moral order retained its power by inertia. But other pressures soon pushed against that customary moral order—particularly strident calls for individual liberty—and reason alone could not adequately defend it. Once disconnected from experience and inherited values, reason by itself couldn’t draw a reliable line between the moral and the immoral. Morality needed to secure a new, more defensible grounding, intellectual or otherwise, especially if it was to protect against the new forms of domination and exploitation.

Many troublesome ills have come from this cult of objectivity, even as an insistence on it has also yielded vast benefits.

•  There is the too-easy sense within it that we can solve problems simply by gathering more facts and using reason-based science and technology, without questioning our values or becoming better people.

•  There is the related tendency to turn to science and scientists to pass authoritative judgment on allegations of grave problems when this kind of assessment inherently requires the use of normative standards—standards of goodness and morality—which science as such does not possess and cannot generate.

•  There is the inability to know what to do when the facts run out, as they so often do when it comes to nature and our dealings with it. How do we deal with our enduring ignorance? Religion long provided answers, and they are still at hand.

•  And there is the tendency to assume that, with morals mostly matters of personal choice, the ideal state should merely keep the peace among people, leaving individuals free to pursue their separate visions of good living (a problem much exacerbated at larger scales by clashes of cultures that do not share overarching conceptions of the good or the right).

It is telling that the Enlightenment era did not challenge and corrode all public moral values. It left alone, and indeed exalted, what Thomas Jefferson famously called the self-evident truths of individual rights. This embrace of individual rights, soon to spread widely, was intellectually curious given that claims of rights were, in reality, no better grounded in facts and reason than any other moral precepts (senses of duty, good character, and virtue). Jefferson may have said as much when he termed them self-evident (by which he meant, according to historian Carl Becker, self-evident to some but not others). In truth Jefferson had no authorities to cite for his claims or any supporting proof based on evidence and logic. He spoke from intuition, common sense, and Christian tradition, from sources that eluded the physical senses.

Philosopher Jeremy Bentham soon pointed out the logical flaw at work. Rights-claims were mere nonsense, the empiricist Bentham blasted. Yet the popularity of rights and rights-rhetoric would only spread and gain momentum, Bentham (and conservatives such as Thomas Carlyle) notwithstanding. Proponents of the new rights and expanded liberty also had little trouble pushing aside John Stuart Mill when in the mid-nineteenth century he explained how individual rights were legitimate only when they derived from and helped promote the common good: Rights were the contingent products of social consensus, Mill stated, not timeless individual entitlements, and they needed to prove their social worth. Other writers disagreed (German idealists in particular), but by the age of Mill the argument meant little. Individual rights had acquired a secure cultural status.

The origins of rights and rights-talk are important to revisit in any effort to make sense, morally and intellectually, of our oldest task. Much of our moral thinking and talking is now based on individual rights. Further, they wrap around and help legitimate a worldview in which humans are supreme and in which they are best understood and treated as autonomous individuals, not as members of social and natural communities. When we fail to appreciate the social origins and contingency of individual rights we give them special moral status, and do so even as they fail to provide, standing alone, a sturdy moral frame for making sense of interdependencies and the common good.

The limits of liberty and equality. This second category of cultural elements connects, as noted, to the third category, having to do with our individualism and our particular enthusiasm for liberty and equality. Our long, slow recognition of human rights has brought many benefits, of that there is no doubt, with more work still awaiting. Before the era of human rights there was the Renaissance-era emphasis on man-as-the-measure, a humanistic awakening that similarly unleashed vast creativity. Yet, as in the case of our emphasis on objectivity—on sticking too much to facts and reason—our individualism can be and has been taken too far. Excessive individualism weakens senses of collective identity and collective fate, particularly individualism encased in broadly defined rights. It weakens the recognition that communities as such are legitimate sources of social values and expectations. It fuels calls for morally neutral states—a fictitious and misguided ideal—and for ever-looser limits on individual choice. Today’s libertarian thought is a form of fundamentalist dogma suited only for the selfish and short-sighted, with politically far-left versions only marginally better than those on the far right.

As explored in chapter 4, liberty deserves special emphasis among competing public values only when it is defined in its fullness, only when the concept covers not just negative individual liberty (the individual’s freedom from restraint) but also positive and collective forms of liberty, particularly the liberty of people in combination to take responsible charge of their shared fates. Even as to negative individual liberty, it has over time come to focus (as it did not in the past) on freedom from state-imposed limitations, even as so many constraints on individual life now stem from market-based private power