Author Archive

Endel Tulving “Chronestesia”

October 5, 2017 Leave a comment

Tulving, Endel 2002. Chronestesia: Conscious Awareness of Subjective Time. In: Stuss, Donald T.; Knight, Robert T. (eds). Principles of Frontal Lobe Function. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 311-325

chronestesia, which is tentatively defined as a form of consciousness that allows individuals to think about the subjective time in which they live and that makes it possible for them to “mentally travel” in such time. (311)

Noetic consciousness is evolutionarily older and the more “primitive” of the two, and is the default mode of the semantic memory system. Noetic awareness accompanies an individual’s memory-based interaction with aspects of its environment in the present. When individuals think about the “facts of the world,” they are noetically aware of what they are thinking, as well as aware of such awareness. Noetic consciousness also provides individuals with access to their own past, but the mode of such access is one of “knowing”, not “remembering” (Gardiner, 1988; Rajaram, 1993). Autonoetic consciousness has a more recent origin in evolution and is more advanced than noetic, because in addition to allowing people to know what happened in the past it also allows them to re-experience past experiences. Autonoetic awareness accompanies retrieval of information about one’s personal past as well as projection of one’s thoughts into the future. When individuals remember the past, they are autonoetically aware of what they did or thought at an earlier time, and they are also aware of such awareness. (313)

Although both autonoesis and chronestesia imply awareness of self in time, the emphasis on self versus time is different in the two concepts: in autonoesis the emphasis is on awareness of self, albeit in subjective, whereas in chronesthesia the emphasis is on awareness of subjective time, albeit in relation to self. (315)


Thomas Lemke “Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri on ‘Postmodern Biopolitcs'”

September 29, 2017 Leave a comment

Lemke, Thomas 2017. Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri on ‘Postmodern Biopolitics’. In: Prozorov, Sergei; Rentea, Simona (eds.). The Routledge Handbook of Biopolitics. London and New York: Routledge, 112-122.

[…] Hardt and Negri draw on Foucault’s concept of biopolitics, but they submit it to an important revision. They argue that the creation of wealth in society ‘tends ever more toward what we will call biopolitical production, the production of social life itself, in which the economic, the political, and the cultural increasingly overlap and invest one another’ (Hardt and Negri 2000, xiii). In this perspective, economic value is not linked to the production of material objects but to the production of social relations and forms of life. The authors describe biopower as ‘the real subsumption of society under capital’ (Hardt and Negri 2000, 255). (114)

Following Deleuze, Hardt and Negri conceive of biopolitics as a form of ‘control that extends throughout the depths of the consciousnesses and bodies of the population – and at the same time across the entirety of social relations’ (2000, 24). It directs itself at social life as a whole, but also includes the existence of individuals in the most intimate details of their everyday lives. (114)

[…] ‘biopolitics production for Hardt and Negri also denotes a new relationship between nature and culture. It signifies a ‘civilization of nature’ (Hardt and Negri 2000, 187), nature here meaning everything previously external to the production process. Life itself becomes an object of technological intervention, and nature ‘has become capital, or at least has become subject to capital’ (Hardt and Negri 2000, 32). (115)

Instead of simply exploiting nature, the discussion in the era of ‘sustainable’ or ‘environmental capitalism’ is about translating the biological and genetic diversity of nature into economic growth and opening it up to the development of profitable products and forms of life. (115)

When economics and politics, nature and culture converge, then there is no longer an external standpoint of life or truth that might be opposed to Empire. Empire creates the world into which it unfolds. (115)

The paradox of biopower, according to Hardt and Negri’s reading, comes from the fact that the same tendencies and forces that secure the maintenance and preservation of the system of rule are at the same time the ones that weaken and may overthrow it. It is precisely the universality and totality of this systematic nexus that makes it fragile and vulnerable: ‘Since in the imperial realm of biopower production and life tend to coincide, class struggle has the potential to erupt across all the fields of life’ (Hardt and Negri 2000, 403). (117)

The authors draw on the notion of a pre-capitalist form of common property: ‘the common wealth of the material world – the air, the water, the fruits of the soil, and all nature’s bounty – which in classic European political texts is often claimed to be the inheritance of humanity as a whole, to be shared together’ (Hardt and Negri 2009, viii), but they also refer to the notion of commons to designate forms of contemporary social production and modes of interaction. By rearticulating the ancient tradition with recent transformations in the social powers of knowledge, affects, and communication that escape private ownership or public authority, the authors seek to define a new concept of the commons that transcends the ‘false alternatives’ (ix) between private–public and capitalist–socialist. For Hardt and Negri the commons represents a radical alternative to capitalism and socialism, which, beyond their apparent political differences, share a common feature as they both negate and exploit the common. (117)

While Hardt and Negri demonstrate the impossibility of an ‘external position’ in relation to Empire, their reference to life breaks with the principle of immanence. ‘Life’ in this instance is not, as it is with Foucault (1970), configured as a material-discursive assemblage or as an element of a historical knowledge; rather, it functions as an original and transhistorical force. The ontoogical conception of biopolitics proposed by Hardt and Negri is so comprehensive that it remains unclear in what way it might be circumscribed and how it relates to other forms of political and social action. The theoretical merger of the concept of biopolitical production and the idea of a control society results in ‘biopolitics’ becoming a kind of catch-all category that no longer captures the historicity and specifics of political technologies. (119)

Hardt and Negri’s ontologization of biopolitics results in yet another problem. It enables them to present a well-considered dramaturgy that consistently counterposes two principles: the vital, autonomous, and creative multitude struggles against the unproductive, parasitical, and destructive Empire. The authors’ diagnosis of the rule of Empire corresponds with a glorification of the multitude. (119)

Hardt and Negri do not limit themselves to tracing the historical emergence of the multitude as a new political figure. They tend to anchor the new revolutionary subject ontologically. Negri discusses, for example, ‘biodesire’, which is contrasted with biopower: “The desire for life, the strength and wealth of desire, are the only things that we can oppose to power, which needs to place limitations upon biodesire” (Negri 2005, 65). There is a danger that the ontological rendering of biopolitics, quite contrary to the intentions of the authors, has the effect of depoliticizing their work, when they conceive of the multitude per se as an egalitarian and progressive force that is invested with a radical-democratic goal. Instead of contributing to social mobilization, this way of thinking could create the impression that political struggles are nothing other than incarnations of abstract ontological principles that almost automatically proceed without the engagement, intention, or affect of concrete actors. (120)

Lily E. Kay “Who Wrote the Book of Life?”

September 28, 2017 Leave a comment

Kay, Lily E. 2000. Who Wrote the Book of Life? A History of the Genetic Code. Stanford: Stanford University Press.

  1. The Genetic Code: Imaginaries and Practices

Information theorists, cryptologists, linguists, and life scientists criticized the difficulties (some would say inappropriateness) of these borrowings in molecular biology, arguing that the genome’s information content cannot be assessed since the key parameters (e.g., signal, noise, message channel) cannot be properly quantified. DNA is not a natural language: it lacks phonemic features, semantics, punctuation marks, and intersymbol restrictions. So unlike any language, “letter” frequency analyses of amino acids yield only random statistical distributions. Furthermore, no natural language consists solely of three-letter words. Finally, if it were purely a formal language, then it would possess syntax only but no semantics. Thus the informational representations of the genome do not stand up under rigorous scrutiny. From linguistic and crypt-analytic standpoints, the genetic code is not a code: it is simply a table of correlations, though not nearly as systematic or predictive as the periodic table, for example, because of contingencies, degeneracies, and ambiguities in the structure of the so-called genetic code. These culturally animated imaginaries, nevertheless, have persisted, making it now seem inconceivable that genes did not always transfer information, or that the relation between DNA and protein could be something other than a code. Yet, there were (and probably could be) other ways of knowing. These particular representations were historically specific and culturally contingent. The genetic code is a “period piece,” a manifestation of the emergence of the information age. (2)

Though remarkable compelling and productive as analogies, “information,” “language,” “code,” message,” “text,” have been taken as ontologies. The consequences are far-reaching, for the limits of these analogies also challenge the mastery of the genomic “Book of Life,” the technological and commercial goals of its “reading” and “editing.” (3)

Genetic information signified an emergent form of biopower: the material control of life would be now supplemented by the promise of controlling its form and logos, its information (the DNA sequence, or the “word”). (3)

In the postwar world order, the material, the discursive, and social practices of molecular biology were transformed. Information theory, cybernetics, systems analyses, electronic computers, and simulation technologies fundamentally altered the representations of animate and inanimate phenomena. These new communication sciences began to reorient molecular biology (as they did, to various degrees, other life and social sciences) even before it underwent a paradigm shift (1953) from protein- to DNA-based explanations of heredity. It is within this information discourse that the genetic code was constituted as a latter-day Book of Life. The disciplinary terrain and representational space of molecular biology changed, as well, partly through the growing participation of physical scientists. Worldwide, its institutional structures were reconfigured within cold-war organizations, military patronage, and the unprecedented commitment of government resources for scientific research. In short, from the 1950s on, the diachronic resonances of the Book of Life as transcendent writing were amplified by the synchronic articulations of DNA as a programmed text, and information became the animating Primum Mobile. The genetic code became the site of life’s command and control. (5)

Technical manipulations – namely, cryptanalysis, information theory and mathematical theories of coding, Monte Carlo simulations, statistical analyses, and symbolic logic – composed this “paper and pencil” approach to genetic decoding. Through these studies, which proceeded at a relatively leisurely pace, the genome was textualized, as researchers transported the information discourse, its tropes and semiotics, into molecular biology, reconfiguring its representational space. As with other contemporary forms of knowledge production, the genetic code, as an icon of biological command and control, can be also viewed as part of the cultural experience of the cold war. (9)

Despite their mathematical prowess, access to the most recent findings about genetic mechanisms of viruses and bacteria, and command of cutting-edge computer analyses and simulation technologies, leading scientists failed to break the code. This is because from linguistic and cryptanalytic standpoints, the genetic code is not a code; it is, rather, a powerful metaphor for the correlations between nucleic and amino acids. However, despite the acknowledged pitfalls in applying information theory, linguistics, and cryptanalysis to molecular biology in the 1950s, these informational and scriptural representations of heredity set roots and proliferated. (11)

The notion of “code” carried multiple historical allusions and contemporary referents, eliciting imagery of transcendent knowledge, Mosaic tablets, positivists’ ideals of nature’s laws, secret writings, period intrigues with espionage and cryptology, ideas from linguistics, information theory, and cybernetics. At times it was a language, or a tape storing information; at other times it was viewed as a DNA code, RNA code, or the protein code, though it also referred to the correlation between nucleic acids and proteins. A code is, by definition, a relation, or a set of rules of transformation from plaintext to cryptogram; always operating on defined linguistics entities (e.g., words, sentences). It is neither a thing nor a language. This diversity of meanings could be confusing, but for the scientists involved the referents were clear by context and practice. Used loosely, tautologically, and inconsistently, the code was caught in a web of signifiers. This multiplicity of significations, definitional slippages, shifting meanings, and aporias ultimately served to destabilize the validity and predictive power of the genomic writings. (14)

Recounting the “Breaking of the Code” in his book, The Language of Life (1966), geneticist and Nobel laureate George Beadle reflected: “What has happened in genetics during the past decade has been the discovery of a Rosetta stone. The unknown language was the molecular one of DNA. Science can now translate at least a few messages written in DNAese into the chemical language of blood and bone and nerves and muscle. One might also say that the deciphering of the DNA code has revealed our possession of a language much older than hieroglyphics, a language as old as life itself, a language that is the most living language of all – even if its letters are invisible and its words are buried deep in the cells of our bodies.” (17)

These discursive practices were not ex post facto rhetorical veneers on sober scientific facts, nor were they constructed primarily to appeal to wider audiences: Monod, Jacob, and many other molecular biologists had deployed cybernetic models, informational tropes, linguistic and communication representations of nucleic acids and protein synthesis in their experimental and interpretive framework since the 1950s. (17-18)

The information discourse is used here as a historically and culturally situated system of representations, which in the 1950s became configured together and increasingly intuitive and commonsensical, and as an emergent form of biopower, where material control was supplemented by the control of genetic information. (19)

But information theorists used “information” (and the communication idioms associated with it) metaphorically, subverting its sense of meaningful communication. Contrary to its generic use, “information” in the mathematical theory of communication implied that information had to be thought of in a manner entirely divorced from content and subject matter. As Warren Weaver, director of the Rockefeller Foundation’s Natural Science Division, explained, “The word “information” in this theory is used in a special sense that must not be confused with its ordinary usage. In particular, information must not be confused with meaning.” (20)

Information theory, therefore, cannot serve to legitimate the DNA text or the Book of Life as a source of biological meaning. Even if it were possible to determine mathematically (in bits) the information content of a genomic message or a “sentence” in the Book of Life, this would not yield any semantics, not unless its context (genomic, cellular, organismic, environmental) could be properly specified. (21)

When applied metaphorically to biological phenomena, “information” becomes even more problematic: it seems actually to restore its first sense as intelligence and meaning, but as such it violates the precepts of information theory, which supposedly and initially legitimized the biological applications. It thus becomes a metaphor of a metaphor, a catachresis, and a signifier without a referent. (24)

What remained in the wake of these aborted attempts to apply information theory to molecular biology was not a blank slate, but the information discourse: the system of representation – information, messages, texts, codes, cybernetic systems, programs, instructions, alphabets, words – that first emerged in the late 1940s. From information theorists’ standpoint, it was merely a rhetorical shell; its technical content emptied out. But as such, information in molecular biology served as a potent metaphor for the century-old ideas of chemical and biological specificity and as a (re)validation of molecular nature as text (the Book of Life of the computer age). (26)

Thus these discursive practices of information and language were neither external to the researchers’ analyses nor merely exegetical. Rather, they became constitutive of the reasoning and modes of signification of researchers by supplying productive models, analogies, and interpretive frameworks; though this borrowing was by no means a simple transfer but more of a two-way reworking. As Georges Canguilhem observed, “A model only becomes fertile by its own impoverishment. It must lose some of its own specific singularity to enter with the corresponding object into a new generalization.” (26)

“Once ‘information’ has passed into protein it cannot get out again,” he proclaimed in the notorious “Central Dogma” (1958). In a single masterly stroke, Crick encapsulated the imperative logic of the genetic code and the ideology and experimental mandate of the new biology: genetic information, qua DNA, was both the origin and universal agent of all life (proteins) – the Aristotelian prime mover – according to Delbrück. By that time biochemist Marshall Nirenberg had already begun tracking that genetic information by envisioning protein synthesis as “the code of life.” (30)

But aside from the paradoxes associated with a stochastic concept of information devoid of semantics there was also the problem of linguistic signification devoid of agency. Geneticist Philippe L’Héritier pointed out in 1967 that, “Being a symbolic language, human language presupposes an interlocutor and a comprehending brain but in genetic language we have nothing but information transfer between molecules [and even then ‘information transfer’ is just a metaphor]”; an objection later echoed by Florkin. (34)

Writing, from this vantage point, is the on the side of techne. It is the process of signification – ordering, naming, isolating, measuring, describing – by which knowledge of entities and phenomena become manifest; writing could be seen as a technology of representation, be it the surface of the earth, cells, or DNA. From this Derridean vantage point it is the writing itself (qua production of representation) that writes; it comes to possess a kind of agency. For once committed to describing and manipulating biological entities through the information discourse and its scriptural technologies, the scientists became part of the representational space within which techno-epistemic events of molecular biology take place. The actors’ freedom of movement, from experimental design to data interpretation and presentation, is always already mediated through that discursive/material space. (36)

Thus, if the genome stands for the origins of human life, then the Word – the DNA sequence – has brought molecular biologists as close to the act of creation as could be experienced, invoking supernatural, Faustian powers. This scriptural and material mastery was articulated by James Watson in the mandate for the Human Genome Project: “For the genetic dice will continue to inflict cruel fates on all too many individuals and their families who do not deserve this damnation. Decency demands that someone must rescue them from genetic hells. If we don’t play God, who will?” (37)

Gregory Claeys “The “Survival of the Fittest” and the Origins of Social Darwinism”

September 21, 2017 Leave a comment

Claeys, Gregory 2000. The “Survival of the Fittest” and the Origins of Social Darwinism. Journal of the History of Ideas, 61(2): 223–240.

The work which provoked Charles Darwin was T.R. Malthus’s Essay on Population (1798), which he later claimed first suggested to him the idea that “on the whole the best fitted live.” This idea Darwin would popularize through the notion of the “struggle for existence,” a phrase which he famously claimed to use as a “metaphor” but which meant simply “the doctrine of Malthus applied with manifold force to the whole animal and vegetable kingdoms.” (223)

[…] we know of course that Darwin was not the inventor of the term, “the survival of the fittest”. That honor belongs to Herbert Spencer, today best known as a founder of sociology, but the greatest polymath – and to Darwin, as well as Wallace, the greatest philosopher – of his day. Spencer coined the term in 1852 in an article on population theory, while suggesting that intraspecific struggle – largely provoked by the pressure of population growth – resulted in “progress”, with the survival of plant and animal species being dependent on their fertility. (227)

The most recent study of the subject, Mike Hawkins’s Social Darwinism and European and American Thought 1860-1945, isolates four main assumptions as composing the Social Darwinist world-view: First, biological laws govern the whole of organic nature, including humans; second, the pressure of population growth on resources generates a struggle for existence among organisms; third, physical and mental traits confer an advantage on their possessors in this struggle, or in sexual competition, which advantages can, through inheritance, spread through the population; and last, the cumulative effects of selection and inheritance over time account for the emergence of new species and the elimination of others. (228)

What unites the various forms of Social Darwinism is not a specific political stance but the application of the idea of evolution to a higher social type on the basis of social competition between “fit” and “unfit” groups and individuals, whose “fitness” or “value” to society can be defined in a number of ways. (229)

In Malthus, Original Sin, in the form of sexual desire, thus returns with a vengeance, pushing population growth relentlessly onwards unless “positive checks” like war and misery curtail it. […] Society is not fashioned by rational, creative designs but always operates within constraints imposed by the lower, animal passions. (230)

[Malthus, Essay, 1803 edition]: “A man who is born into a world already possessed, if he cannot get subsistence from his parents on whom he has a just demand, and if the society do not want his labour, has no claim of right to the smallest portion of food, and, in fact, has no business to be where he is. At nature’s mighty feast there is no vacant cover for him. She tells him to be gone, and will quickly execute her own orders, if he does not work upon the compassion of some of her guests. If these guests get up and make room for him, other intruders immediately appear demanding the same favour. The report of a provision for all that come, fills the hall with numerous claimants. The order and harmony of the feast is disturbed, the plenty that before reigned is changed into scarcity; and the happiness of the guests is destroyed by the spectacle of misery and dependence in every part of the hall. (230)

Malthus viewed society in terms of an organic metaphor in which similar laws governed both animal and human worlds. He strongly distinguished between people who benefitted society (as defined in terms of productivity) and those who did not, and he defined rights as derived solely from productivity, competition-as-natural-selection dictated the survival of the “fittest”, and the starvation of the less successful, unless other factors intervened. We do not, of course, have a theory of inherited characteristics in which this “fitness” is transmitted, but we do very nearly have the symbolic imagery, so suitable to an age that prized usefulness above all else, in which such a concept functioned not as science, but as social theory. (232)

Political economy provided a technical vocabulary and a model for showing how Malthusian ideas of struggle could be understood in terms of social class and economic competition. It is no exaggeration to assert, moreover, that the triumphal conquests of the new science effected a near-seismic shift in perceptions about nations and the international order as well as classes and individuals within nations. (234)

I have contended so far that Darwin’s metaphorical application of the “survival of the fittest” to society was in fact virtually a commonplace by 1859. Malthusianism and political economy in particular created a world-view in which the first three of these components were prominent – mankind being governed by natural laws shared by animals, in a world in which scarce resources were acquired through greater mental and physical effort (or in the case of thrift, abstinence from present pleasures), and in which the most “fit”, “desirable” or “valuable” members of society, the most “useful” or productive, survived or ought to survive. (235)

Yet “Social Darwinism” is not entirely a misnomer. What, then, was novel about, and what remains distinctly “Darwinian” about, Social Darwinism? Four theses suggest themselves.

1) […] what was new in the 1850s (at least at the popular level) was the notion that inherited characteristics, rather than individual and collective moral effort and education, cumulatively played a distinctive role in the character of a people. But this view can of course also be associated with Spencer’s idea of the improvement of type. Malthus had formulated the struggle for existence. Darwin, Wallace, and Spencer added that this struggle improved species as well as generated new species via the hereditary transmission of traits. (236)

2) […] the application of ideas of inherited characteristics to society not only came from sources other than Darwin, but Darwin himself, in the years between the Origin of Species (1859) and the Descent of Man (1871) reformulated his ideas considerably. The Origin was not of course concerned with human, much less social, evolution; nor were its social implications necessarily optimistic. Indeed, as soon as Darwin’s ideas were applied to society, it was widely recognized that if the criterion of “fitness” was fecundity, it was the poorer and most degraded classes, with the largest families, who seemed most likely to dictate the future course of human evolution. By the mid 1860s Darwin was anxious to resist this conclusion. Here he turned for assistance to Wallace’s 1864 research on the tendency of natural selection to promote human intelligence. […] In the mid-1860s Darwin himself became in effect a Social Darwinist, and came increasingly to hope that the optimal outcome of human natural selection would be the triumph of “the intellectual and moral” races over the “lower and more degraded ones.” (236, 237)

3) […] we see that a complex language of race played a pivotal role in this transition. In the Origin Darwin had used the term race very loosely, to denote species in general. Although the language of race in the Descent is overlaid almost exactly on an earlier, familiar language of savagery and civility, which was itself central to the existing justification of imperial expansion, Darwin here presumes that the “civilised races … encroach on and replace” the savage, with the “lower races” being displaced through the accumulation of capital and the growth of the arts. (237)

4) […] what was most distinctive about much (though not all) Social Darwinism was its concern not with “race” as such in the loose sense of a term of general classification but with a new definition of race directly attached to skin color, in which ideas of racial hierarchy and supremacy were wedded to earlier notions of “fitness”. Race was now assumed to be a determinate, independent factor in human evolution. (238)

James G. Lennox “Darwin Was a Teleologist”

August 30, 2017 Leave a comment

Lennox, James G. 1993. Darwin Was a Teleologist. Biology and Philosophy 8: 409-421.

The conclusion that Darwin was not a teleologist follows inexorably from two premises: (i) The only “non-trivial” teleological explanations are those which appeal to divine design or an internal vital force; (ii) Darwinian selection explanations appeal to neither. (410)

Selection explanations are inherently teleological, in the sense that a value consequence (Darwin most often uses the term ‘advantage’) of a trait explains its increase, or presence, in a population. (410)

[…] Darwin essentially re-invented teleology. Encouraged by many close followers to drop the term ‘natural selection’, Darwin steadfastly refused. He saw, better than his followers, that it could not easily be dropped. In the context of viewing variation as the provision of a random set of alternatives, a mechanism for selecting among them is crucial. The concept of selection permits the extension of the teleology of domestic breeding into the natural domain, without the need of conscious design. As in domestic selection, the good served by a variation continues to be causally relevant to its increasing frequency, or continued presence, in a population – but the causal mechanism, and the locus of goodness, shifts. (417)

Kalevi Kull “Adaptive Evolution without Natural Selection”

August 30, 2017 Leave a comment

Kull, Kalevi 2014. Adaptive Evolution without Natural Selection. Biological Journal of the Linnean Society 112(2): 287-294.

[…] to be certain that we do have here an evolutionary mechanism that is nonneo-Darwinian, it is necessary to demonstrate that a phenotypic change can become genetically fixed via random genetic changes and without differential reproduction, i.e. without natural selection, in the strict sense. This is the main point of the current article. (288)

Adaptation means making something suitable for a use, or becoming adjusted to something – ‘a feature for a particular utility’ (Gould, 2002: 1230). Turning a non-suitable situation into a suitable (adaptive) one means solving a certain problem that an organism is facing. Finding a suitable solution in the situation of indeterminacy – this is what an adaptation process does. Thus, we can state that adaptation is primarily a qualitative change or, as a product of this process, a qualitative feature. We call a change adaptive if it solves some problem a living being faces, i.e. if it turns certain incompatibility into a compatibility. (288)

When speaking about adaptation, biologists almost always had in mind one or other concrete functional relationship. These functional relationships, being local and concrete, do not have any common quantitative measure – and they really cannot have such, due to their qualitative relational nature. (288)

Adaptation is a meaningful relation for a living system, which is defined independently from the process of evolution. An adaptation is evolutionary only if it is irreversible, as evolution is defined as an irreversible transformation, in concordance with Dollo’s rule. (288)

natural selection is the differential reproduction of genotypes. ‘Natural selection [. . .] is the differential and nonrandom reproduction of different alternative alleles in a population’ (Grant, 1985: 88); ‘population genetics and modern evolutionary theory equate natural selection with differential reproduction of alternative forms of genes, genotypes, or other reproducible units’ (Grant, 1985: 91). Thus, natural selection is the gradual, non-random process by which genetically inherited traits (alleles) become either more or less common in a population due to non-random differences in the effective reproductive rate of bearers of these genetic traits. (289)

  1. Non-random mutations, genetic change first. This was the view of evolution espoused by T. H. Morgan and some other mutationists. Despite many abandoning this view as a result of the Modern Synthesis of the 1930s, it did not disappear completely. Even more, there exist some recent claims about the existence of this mechanism. For instance, J. A. Shapiro (2011: 143) writes: ‘Cells are built to evolve; they have the ability to alter their hereditary characteristics rapidly through well-described natural genetic engineering [. . .]’.
  2. Non-random mutations, epigenetic change (learning) first. [The term ‘learning’ is appropriate here in the general sense, if to define learning as an adaptive plastic change.] This mechanism can be identified as a Lamarckian theory. J. B. Lamarck himself, of course, could not speak directly about mutations due to the level of knowledge at his time, but this is the way the Lamarckian approach – inheritance of acquired characters – has usually been interpreted in the later biological literature (e.g. as explained by Mayr, 1997 [1976]: 314).
  3. Random mutations, genetic change first. This is the common neo-Darwinian mechanism, the first event being a random genetic change, followed by a new phenotype and natural selection.
  4. Random mutations, epigenetic change (learning) first. According to the semiotic mechanism described, the first event in an evolutionary transformation is a plastic change (change of phenotype), followed by the stochastic genetic changes. This mechanism can be identified with organic selection (as thought of by Baldwin, 1896; Lloyd Morgan, 1896; Osborn, 1897; see
    also Kull, 1993; Hoffmeyer & Kull, 2003; Sánchez & Loredo, 2007), with the addition that differential reproduction may even be unnecessary for this mechanism in its pure form. (292)

(Type III, as above) Evolution is of primary importance. Everything in life is a result of evolution and is based on evolution. (This can be illustrated by Dobzhansky’s dictum: Nothing in biology makes sense except in the light of evolution.) The dominant way of explaining how living systems work is through history, i.e. diachronically.
(Type IV) Evolution is of secondary importance. Evolution is not necessary for life to function. Life simply cannot avoid evolution; evolution is rather a side-effect of living processes. (We may use a paraphrase of the dictum above: Nothing in biology makes sense except in the light of sign relations, or meanings and functioning.) The primary way to explain the workings of living systems is via the meanings, i.e. synchronically. (293)

Michel Foucault “Labour, Life, Language”

August 29, 2017 Leave a comment

Foucault, Michel 2002. The Order of Things. An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. London; New York: Routledge.

  1. Labour, Life, Language

Thus, European culture is inventing for itself a depth in which what matters is no longer identities, distinctive characters, permanent tables with all their possible paths and routes, but great hidden forces developed on the basis of their primitive and inaccessible nucleus, origin, causality, and history. From now on things will be represented only from the depths of this density withdrawn into itself, perhaps blurred and darkened by obscurity, but bound tightly to themselves, assembled or divided, inescapably grouped by the vigour that is hidden down below, in those depths. Visible forms, their connections, the blank spaces that isolate them and surround their outlines – all these will now be presented to our gaze only in an already composed state, already articulated in that nether darkness that is fomenting them with time. (274)


When we consider the organ in relation to its function, we see, therefore, the emergence of ‘resemblances’ where there is no ‘identical’ element; a resemblance that is constituted by the transition of the function into evident invisibility. It matters little, after all, that gills and lungs may have a few variables of form, magnitude, or number in common: they resemble one another because they are two varieties of that non-existent, abstract, unreal, unassignable organ, absent from all describable species, yet present in the animal kingdom in its entirety, which serves for respiration in general. (288)

When the Same and the Other both belong to a single space, there natural history; something like biology becomes possible when this unity of level begins to break up, and when differences stand out against the background of an identity that is deeper and, as it were, more serious than that unity. (288-289)

Animal species differ at their peripheries, and resemble each other at their centres; they are connected by the inaccessible, and separated by the apparent. Their generality lies in that which is essential to their life; their singularity in that which is most accessory to it. […] for multiplicity is apparent and unity is hidden. In short, living species ‘escape’ from the teeming profusion of individuals and species; they can be classified only because they are alive and on the basis of what they conceal. (291)

It is true that the Classical space, as we have seen, did not exclude the possibility of development, but that development did no more than provide a means of traversing the discreetly preordained table of possible variations. The breaking up of that space made it possible to reveal a historicity proper to life itself: that of its maintenance in its conditions of existence. Cuvier’s ‘fixism’, as the analysis of such a maintenance, was the earliest mode of reflecting upon that historicity, when it first emerged in Western knowledge. Historicity, then, has now been introduced into nature – or rather into the realm of living beings; but it exists there as much more than a probable form of succession; it constitutes a sort of fundamental mode of being. (300)

The plant held sway on the frontiers of movement and immobility, of the sentient and the non-sentient; whereas the animal maintains its existence on the frontiers of life and death. Death besieges it on all sides; furthermore, it threatens it also from within, for only the organism can die, and it is from the depth of their lives that death overtakes living beings. Hence, no doubt, the ambiguous values assumed by animality towards the end of the eighteenth century: the animal appears as the bearer of that death to which it is, at the same time, subjected; it contains a perpetual devouring of life by life. It belongs to nature only at the price of containing within itself a nucleus of anti-nature. Transferring its most secret essence from the vegetable to the animal kingdom, life has left the tabulated space of order and become wild once more. The same movement that dooms it to death reveals it as murderous. It kills because it lives. Nature can no longer be good. (302)

In relation to life, beings are no more than transitory figures, and the being that they maintain, during the brief period of their existence, is no more than their presumption, their will to survive. And so, for knowledge, the being of things is an illusion, a veil that must be torn aside in order to reveal the mute and invisible violence that is devouring them in the darkness. (303)