Introduction
The effect of scientific knowledge, particularly modern science, provides a mechanism that impacts the evolution of societies through military competition and economic development. The deliberate rejection of technology and a rationalized society has been suggested by any number of groups in modern times. For Fukuyama, it is simply unrealistic to expect people, once they have experienced the consumerism of a technological society, to turn back the clock of economic development. The Mechanism provided by scientific knowledge produces an irreversible directionality to human history, and Fukuyama’s point is that economically this leads to and culminates in modern capitalism.
The centralized, state-planned economies of the communist bloc ultimately failed to keep up with the productive power of Western capitalist economies once the latter moved from the age of heavy manufacture into the ‘information age. Today’s ‘post-industrial world thrives on innovation, which requires freedom of thought and individual initiative. Also, ‘the complexity of modern economies proved to be simply beyond the capacities of centralized bureaucracies to manage’, whilst control over prices and the allocation of goods prohibited communist economies ‘from participating in the international division of labour’.
Review of Fukuyama’s arguments
Fukuyama suggests that ‘it was in the highly complex and dynamic “post-industrial” economic world that Marxism-Leninism as an economic system met it’s Waterloo’, and he observes that ‘by the end of the 1980s China, the Soviet Union, and the countries of Eastern Europe can be seen as having succumbed to the economic logic of advanced industrialization.
Countries such as South Korea, Singapore, and Malaysia ‘demonstrated that late modernizers were actually advantaged relative to more established industrial powers, and were regions such as Latin America have not grown so fast, this is because of complex cultural factors, combined with the fact that ‘capitalism has never worked in Latin America and other parts of the Third World because it has never been seriously tried. Fukuyama admits that ‘the logic of a progressive modern natural science predisposes human societies towards capitalism only to the extent that men can see their own economic self-interest clearly’, but he claims that the empirical experience of regions such as Asia and Eastern Europe should contribute towards ‘a very strong predisposition for all human societies’ to participate in the economic liberalism of globalization.
But not only is the ‘mechanism’ of modern science irreversible in its economic effects, progressively bringing countries towards a capitalist economic system. For Fukuyama, it also culminates in capitalism. Conceding that the Mechanism is a kind of Marxist interpretation of history because based on ‘the desire of “man the species-being” to produce and consume a highly elastic desire not limited to so-called ‘natural needs, but ‘whose own horizon of possibilities is constantly being pushed back nevertheless ‘the kind of society that permits people to produce and consume the largest quantity of products on the equal basis is not a communist one, but a capitalist society. And it would appear that Fukuyama, having rejected the historical alternatives to capitalism, cannot conceive of any other economic system which could better fulfil man’s economic drives. As such, then, capitalism is the end-story of the irreversible directionality which the progress of science produces in terms of economic systems.
Fukuyama asks whether this same ‘mechanism’ also determines that, politically, societies should culminate as liberal democracies. His answer is no. Although many have argued a necessary correlation between liberal democracy and the high degree of economic development afforded by capitalism, he disputes this. Whilst agreeing that there are many empirical examples of such correlations both today and from history, he does not find the generalities derived from these cases convincing, for example, that ‘only democracy is capable of mediating the complex web of conflicting interests that are created by a modern economy; or that dictatorial regimes ‘naturally evolve into democracies because unable to hold in check the struggles between the elite groups they spawn; or that ‘successful industrialization produces middle-class societies, and that middle-class societies demand political participation and equality of rights.
None of these arguments explains why there should be a universal evolution in the direction of liberal democracy, and look even more unconvincing when one recognizes that ‘there is considerable evidence to indicate that market-oriented authoritarian modernizers do better economically than their democratic counterparts.
For these reasons, Fukuyama concludes that ‘the Mechanism underlying our directional history’, although leading to capitalist economies, does not necessarily lead to political democracy, but ‘leads equally well to a bureaucratic-authoritarian future as to a liberal one.
Fukuyama’s rejecting of any necessary connection between capitalist economics and liberal-democratic politics. He goes further, saying that in historical development, ‘there are other aspects of human motivation that have nothing to do with economics’ and that ‘democracy is almost never chosen for economic reasons. Not only this, but even if the ‘mechanism’ of modern natural science and its necessary link to capitalism were proposed as the sole motor of historical change, this would only apply since the seventeenth-century Scientific Revolution. Also, there have been ‘discontinuities’ apparently contradicting, or at least interrupting, the meaningful flow of history, which any satisfactory universal theory of history should also be able to accommodate.
Fukuyama declares the need to find a second and deeper ‘Mechanism’ on which to ground a truly Universal History and claims to find it in Hegel. ‘For Hegel, the primary motor of human history is not modern natural science or the ever-expanding horizon of desire that powers it, but rather a totally non-economic drive, the struggle for recognition. This ‘motor’ not only allows us to account for the apparent ‘discontinuities’ in history occasioned by wars of religion and nationalism, but its Hegelian derivation also encourages us to view historical development as emerging from contradictions which are resolved by successively higher socio-political structures – i.e., what both Hegel and Marx called ‘dialectics’. This is important for Fukuyama since if history reaches a point where there are no longer any fundamental ‘contradictions’, then History is ended.
In explaining why not, Fukuyama cites his enormous respect for the ideas of the mid-twentieth-century French-Russian philosopher, Alexandre Kojève, who built upon Hegel’s ideas about ‘the struggle for recognition, and concluded that ‘the modern liberal democratic world is free of contradictions, and that therefore we have reached the end of history because life in the universal and homogenous state is completely satisfying to its citizens’. From this, it is fair to say that Fukuyama’s book is both an update and an elaboration of Kojève’s thesis, itself derived from the latter’s reading of Hegel.
To further complicate the provenance of Fukuyama’s central philosophical theme, he also claims to find the same essential idea about ‘the struggle for recognition in Plato’s characterization of that ‘spirited’ part of the soul, different from both its reasoning and its desiring part.
In another context, this somewhat complex sourcing of Fukuyama’s key philosophical idea could occasion sustained critical comment, for it is by no means certain he has understood Hegel correctly, and his appeal to Plato could be seen as a forced argument. Fukuyama turns to the ideas of the Prussian philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, who influenced many. Nietzsche voiced his contempt for ‘bourgeois’ society and its rationalistic liberal-democratic ideals, and this prompts Fukuyama to interpret him as, in effect, raising the question: ‘Is recognition that can be universalized worth having in the first place? Going back to Hegel’s ‘bloody battle for recognition’, initially won by the master, history has evolved to where the slave is now victorious, the ideology of equality forming the heart of ‘the slave ideology’.
Fukuyama introduces a qualification to his concept of thymos, which is to play a crucial role in his philosophy of history. Having so far presented thymos ‘as the source of noble virtues’, he urges that ‘there is a dark side to the desire for recognition as well, that has led many philosophers to believe that thymos is the fundamental source of human evil’. This is the desire in some people not to be regarded as equal to others but as superior. This passion (for it can become such) exhibits itself as much ‘in the tyrant who invades and enslaves a neighbouring people so that they will recognize his authority, and Fukuyama terms it ‘megalothymia’. He thus finds a new term for the benign form of thymos, where one simply demands equal respect – namely, ‘isothymia’. But it is indeed in political life ‘that megalothymia is a highly problematic passion’, for it has spawned ‘the tyrannical ambition of a Caesar or a Stalin’, and Fukuyama interprets much Western political thought as trying to address the dangers it poses to societies.
Fukuyama recognizes the resonance of this viewpoint for today, complaining that the dominance of isothymia has gone so far as to become corrupted into the empty belief that everyone should be equally esteemed, whatever they do. In short, we live in a radical relativist morality that refuses to make qualitative judgments where they should, in fact, be made. For Fukuyama, ‘to truly esteem oneself means that one must be capable of feeling shame or self-disgust when one does not live up to a certain standard’, and the same preparedness to face up to moral decisions applies when esteeming others. For example, ‘in the end, the mother will know if she has neglected her child, the father will know if he has gone back to drinking’. Relatedly, if the dominant ethic of isothymia involves the urge to be recognized as equal to everyone else by everyone else, then is such purely formal recognition worth having? Rather, it matters who is esteeming one because ‘the satisfaction one derives from recognition depends, in large measure, on the quality of the person doing the esteeming’. But in liberal democracy, one is esteemed simply in virtue of one’s citizenship rather than for particular, concrete qualities which proffer the opportunity for meaningful moral evaluation. In short, it is to a degree a phony ‘recognition’ of being human.
Fukuyama recognizes that the overall gist of these defects in liberal democracy has been agreed by many since Nietzsche, and he himself shares their concern that this ‘last man’ will cease to exist as ‘”Man properly so-called” because he will have ceased to work and struggle’. No longer needing to fight wars of recognition or combat injustice, and materially secure, ‘the last men’ will return to ‘become animals again, as they were before the bloody battle that began history’.
Fukuyama rejects Nietzsche’s openly intolerant, aristocratic, and cruel morality, ‘we can readily accept many of Nietzsche’s acute psychological observations. Above all, if megalothymia is altogether purged from life, ‘human beings will rebel’ because, apart from anything else, they will become bored. ‘They will want to have ideals by which to live and die; they will want to risk their lives in the war despite the universal peace promised by the worldwide triumph of liberal democracy. And for Fukuyama, ‘This is the “contradiction” that liberal democracy has not yet solved’. In short, although ‘the end of history’ is conceivably threatened by an excess of isothymia (from the Left), this is most unlikely. Rather, Fukuyama ‘intuits’ it is far more at risk from an excess of megaloythmia, precisely because of liberal democracy’s tendency to wish to suppress it. It follows that unless liberal democracy can achieve a balance satisfying both aspects of thymos (i.e., isothymia and megalothymia), it will disappear under strain – and with it, ‘the end of history as an intelligible theory. Thus, Fukuyama urges that ‘liberal democracy needs megalothymia and will never survive on the basis of universal and equal recognition alone’.
Fukuyama puts it, ‘the strongest communities are bound together by certain moral laws that define wrong and right for its members, thereby excluding those who do not share these loyalties. But rather than tolerate such different standards, the tendency in modern democracy is to assert ‘their essential equality and therefore oppose the kind of exclusivity engendered by strong and cohesive communities. Here, again, Fukuyama notes the stronger sense of community found in Asian countries, derived not from mere self-interest (as in liberal theory) but from religion or some other ‘irrational’ (thymotic) cultural feature. And such is the importance he attaches to community involvement as an outlet for the megalothymotic instincts of man; he goes so far as to suggest that individuals in modern liberal societies should be prepared to ‘give back certain of their rights to communities, and accept the return of certain historical forms of intolerance’, otherwise ‘no fundamental strengthening of community life will be possible’.
But if the diminution of community involvement is a tendency, we should recall Fukuyama’s claim that war between liberal democracies is virtually outlawed – and yet war is the clearest context in which human beings can demonstrate (for good or evil) those sterling qualities of honour and self-sacrifice called forth by their thymotic natures. Bolder spirits than Fukuyama have thus glorified war as providing ‘the ultimate crucible of citizenship’ in which people are prepared to risk their very lives to assert the values of their society, and he clearly has some (theoretical) sympathy with this view. Indeed, he interprets Hegel as suggesting that ‘a liberal democracy that could fight a short and decisive war every generation or so to defend its own liberty and independence would be far healthier and more satisfied than one that experienced nothing but continuous peace’.
Leaving aside the tempting observation that this is precisely what does seem to have happened in certain ‘liberal democracies’ since the Cold War, and seems likely to continue to – and also leaving aside Fukuyama’s own earlier implication that many opportunities remain for (‘post-historical) liberal democracies to go to war so long as the ‘historical’ world still exists – his focus here is on that hypothetical ‘end of history’ prefigured by his theory. Here, ‘the world has become “filled up” with liberal democracies, such that there exists no tyranny and oppression worthy of the name against which to struggle’. And in such a context, Fukuyama claims that ‘if men cannot struggle on behalf of a just cause, they will struggle for the sake of struggle’, and this would mean ‘they will struggle against the peace and prosperity, and democracy’ of the ‘post-historical world.
Fukuyama concludes by likening the historical process to a wagon train whose wagons are stretched out along the journey, some getting stuck for a while, others temporarily losing direction, but where the great majority will eventually arrive ‘in town’ – i.e., in that ‘post-historical world heralded by ‘the recent worldwide liberal revolution’. If enough do so arrive, then ‘any reasonable person would be forced to agree that there had been only one journey and one destination’, and for all the reasons he has given this is clearly what Fukuy, ama believes will be the case. However, as befits any theory, until the evidence is clear it ‘must remain provisional,lly inconclusive’, and he therefore (somewhat perfumed,story) concedes that ‘it is doubtful if we are at that point where sufficient have arrived – nor, even if we do get to that point, whether our ‘last men’, ‘having looked around a bit at.
The above survey of Fukuyama’s estimation of the present world’s propensity for becoming fully ‘the end of the history’ concludes our exposition of his overall speculative philosophy of history, during which I have mostly refrained from criticism. This task now beckons, but because Fukuyama’s book has occasioned critical interest from so many angles, I will restrict attention to those points relating more specifically to the grand theme of the speculative philosophy of history and how Fukuyama has approached it.
There are three perspectives from which to comment on his philosophy – the strictly academic, his empirical judgments, and his philosophical basis – and although it is the last which should principally concern us, the former two invite some brief comments.
On strictly academic grounds, we have already queried the provenance of some of Fukuyama’s appeals to previous philosophers’ ideas, and our exposition has revealed further respects in which his book can be criticized for involving both misreading and non-readings of previous thinkers who had much to say, often of an alternative if not contrary nature, on the very themes he deals with. Yet two things can be said in his defence. First, as urged earlier, what is ultimately important are the ideas he advances rather than their academic backing. That they might be improved, or changed, by such backing is open to question – yet that they deserve respect as they stand is amply evidenced by the interest they have generated. And second, it is clear that Fukuyama’s thinking has not stood still since The End of History and the Last Man. On the contrary, in his Our Post-human Future, he has turned his attention to the implications of bio-engineering for ‘human nature’, in which he speculates upon its potential for producing a ‘recommencement of history’. So recent is this book that your ‘guide’ cannot incorporate it here, but it will clearly be interesting to see whether it evidences changes in Fukuyama’s fundamental ‘end of history’ theory.
On a more general note we can perhaps best get an overall philosophical perspective on Fukuyama’s theory by, initially, comparing his thinking on ‘the meaning of history’ with those ideas of the young Marx. Somewhat akin to Fukuyama, Marx put forward the notion that human history is driven, progressively and imminently by human activity, towards a consummation which is such because it finally satisfies ‘human nature’. Man’s work in the world throughout history has been to ‘humanize’ nature and to ‘naturalize’ man, such that he is released from natural need, and from being ‘alienated’ from his true free nature. In both respects he becomes ‘free’, and ‘pre-history’ ends, heralding the beginning of ‘human’ history’. We know that, unlike in Fukuyama, Marx’s ‘human’ history would be based on the money-less communal ownership and control of economic resources, combined with an unspecified stateless radical ‘democracy’ – but beyond that not much more, partly because the whole point of ‘human’ history for Marx is that people, at last free from economic and political constraints, would be able to ‘make’ their own history – i.e., as social individuals, free to explore and fulfill their diverse potential. What human beings would do with their freedom is thus (with some logic) left open, and thus exactly what that ‘human nature’ is, which awaits to be realized, remains a problem (at least in reading the early Marx). In short, he does not tell us what ‘the meaning of life’ is – rather, he tells us the precondition of being able to realize it, namely, ‘freedom’.
For Fukuyama also, history reaches a consummation where it at last satisfies ‘human nature’. As Fukuyama argued in his text, it is therefore crucial to know what that essential ‘human nature’ is, or, put another way, what ‘the meaning of life’ is. He derives his answer to this from his reading of Plato, who (he suggests) divided the human ‘soul’ into three parts, each of which needs to be satisfied to fulfill human nature: desire, reason, and thymos. For Fukuyama ‘desire’ principally means man’s economic needs, ‘reason’ means the capacity to understand and manipulate the environment (natural and social) to achieve one’s ends, and thymos means the urge for respect both from oneself and from others as a human being rather than an animal. And the ‘end of history’ equates with the satisfaction of these three components of human nature.
Now, it could be argued that this neo-Platonic triad offers a clearer picture than does Marx of what that human nature is which history eventually fulfils – and in that sense, what the ‘meaning of life’ is under the ideal circumstances of the ‘post-historical world’. In short, it implies ‘what we should be doing with our lives’, or, put another way, what kind of world we should aspire to build or to maintain.
Conclusion
Fukuyama’s philosophy of history comprises a triad – desire, reason, respect – arguably this otherwise suggestive framework is diminished by the apparently purely utilitarian significance Fukuyama attaches to ‘reason’ (which for operative purposes he virtually equates with modern natural science). Some other philosophers (e.g., Aristotle, Spinoza, Hegel) see matters differently, for whilst they recognize the instrumental utility of ‘reason’ in helping us achieve objectives (i.e., its practical side), they also recognize the capacity to ‘reason’ about things solely to understand them. (Readers may recognize this from my earlier reference to its ‘theoretical’ side.) This is not to say that Fukuyama does not recognize this aspect of ‘reason’. Yet (as he also does with the arts) he appears to treat intellectual activity ‘for its own sake’ not as self-sufficient but as emanating from thymos – i.e., as expressions of the desire to be esteemed, or even, as in megalothymia, the desire to excel.
The contrast I have in mind with Fukuyama’s perspective can best be exemplified by a dictum penned by the sixteenth-century French thinker, Bodin, who wrote: ‘those things least in order of dignity come first in order of necessity’. He went on to explain that there are three aspects to life. First, we must secure our material well-being – i.e., the economic life. This accords with Fukuyama’s ‘desire’. But, said Bodin, the economic life is ‘ordained to’ the moral life, by which he meant there is a higher dimension to life than the merely economic namely, that entire forum focused on human relations. This, I suggest, is fairly akin to Fukuyama’s thymotic dimension to life. But then Bodin went on to say that the ‘moral’ life is in its turn ‘ordained to’ the ‘intellectual’ life, i.e., ‘the contemplation of the noblest subjects human, natural, and divine’ by which he meant that there is a higher dimension than the moral life, namely, intellectual, ‘contemplative’, activity what I have called ‘understanding for the sake of it’. And the moral life is subservient to it, its role being to provide the conditions under which ‘the intellective and contemplative virtues’ can be exercised.
Perhaps characteristically for a philosopher, Bodin claimed that this third dimension to life is the highest – the most in ‘dignity’! But the point for us is that Bodin is far from alone in singling out that aspect of ‘reason’ – the effort to understand ‘for the sake of it’ rather than in order to achieve some practical objective – as a human quality so distinctive and separate from other aspects of ‘human nature’ that it cannot be subsumed under them, nor be confused with them, but should stand proud as the ultimate telos or ‘final end’ of human society.
Fukuyama does not award such significance to ‘the intellectual life’, whereas others might prefer Bodin’s version of what human life is ultimately about. But if so, then apart from the fact that history would clearly not have ‘ended’, how or even if such a philosophy might affect an attempt to ‘make sense of’ history is another story
Works Cited
Francis Fukuyama, The End of History and the Last Man, London, Penguin Books, 1992