Evolution and organization, part 1: Sloppy language and dodgy metaphysics

Image result for the god delusionA few days ago, a scientist friend remarked that he was reading Richard Dawkins’ The God Delusion. What’s more, he was really enjoying it. It really spoke to him, he averred. This awkward conversational moment set me thinking once again about a topic that I’ve been pursuing on and off for the last couple of years: trying to get a hold of the reasons for importing evolutionary thinking into management thinking. It strikes me as odd when a firm can describe its ruthless annual cull of the weaker performers (as identified by colleagues through anonymous feedback mechanisms, which sounds a very fair and reasonable method to me) as ‘purposeful Darwinism’. Not just as odd, but also morally charged and strategically dishonest, as if ruthless pursuit of shareholder interest can be justified by the subliminal message that those under-performers – the weak! – are dull herbivores, contentedly fattening themselves up until something more leonine, in this case the go-getting manager – the strong! – comes along and scoffs them. Mind you, this week in politics has testified, among other, darker things, to the enduring image of the strong-man in the popular imagination.

Image result for the selfish gene
Richard Dawkins, angry and young, in his lab

Richard Dawkins, of course, is at the epicentre of this particular earthquake of popular thinking. But I was struck by my friend’s comment because the God Delusion is a truly bad

Continue reading “Evolution and organization, part 1: Sloppy language and dodgy metaphysics”

Sacrifice and the crypto-theologies of management

Sacrifice and management are not words that one expects to hear in the same sentence. But – as those who read my earlier post will know – I’ve been reading theology in my spare time, so when Marcia Pally invited me to talk on sacrifice and the economic world at an interdisciplinary workshop I was happy to accept. Here’s an expanded version of my Huberlin-logo.svgcontribution to Marcia’s workshop ‘Sacrifice: Biological and theological investigations for economic and military/political praxis’, held at Humbolt University, Berlin, 16-17 June 2016 funded by the Fritz Thyssen Foundation and the Theology Faculty of Humboldt University-Berlin. Many thanks to both funders and to Marcia for her kind invitation. This piece was first published on the Telos website.

“Sacrifice, or at least the discourse of sacrifice, is a recognizable aspect of popular management discourse and management scholarship of the ‘post-bureaucratic’ variety, especially popular in America from the 1980s to the 2000s (Child, 2005; Peters, 1992; Peters & Waterman, 1982). The absence of bureaucratic structures of command necessitates other forms of authority, and notions of sacrifice form part of the symbolic armoury of the post-bureaucratic chief executive – though, of course, post-bureaucracy is itself a symbolic myth more than a practical solution (du Gay, 2000). In this talk I will set out some aspects and suggest, playfully, that there are crypto-theologies at work in management discourse and scholarship; I will finish by connecting these to the sacrifice and excess inherent in neoliberal forms of organisation.

So let me start with two exemplars. The first is American businessman Lee Iacocca, Iacoccacelebrated for his self-sacrifice in saving the struggling automotive giant Chrysler for a salary of $1 a year. Certainly, Chrysler received government bailout – some $1.5bn in loan guarantees and huge military orders of trucks, but Iacocca put the company’s turnaround to his own sacrifice, and its inspirational effects on those around him. The second is Mark Zuckerberg, who has committed to give away 99% of his holding in Facebook stock – worth $45bn dollars, in his lifetime. What is interesting from the perspective of sacrifice is his decision to do so through the legal form of a limited liability corporation, and I’ll return to this point later on.

Both of these are very high profiles of management sacrifice; both are accompanied by other, less newsworthy, everyday sacrifices – the jobs lost in Chrysler’s reorganization, or Facebook’s value built on the unpaid contributions of millions (billions?) of users (Scholtz, 2013). This kind of discourse speaks to a very specific notion of sacrifice – one that is calculative, strategic, and self-aware. It is part of the armoury of the charismatic or transformational leaders vaunted in management literatures: typical findings include that self-sacrifice leads to the attribution of charisma, the establishment of legitimacy the encouragement of follower reciprocity, an increase in organizational commitment and team efficiency and a decrease in perceived autocracy (Śliwa, Spoelstra, Sørensen, & Land, 2013).Continue reading “Sacrifice and the crypto-theologies of management”

The stranger, the wager and the ethics of office

I recently travelled down to the School of Management at the University of Leicester to give a talk titled ‘The stranger, the wager and the ethics of office’. With a bombast designed to obscure my lack of confidence on the topic, the abstract staked my skin in my own wager that arch post-modernist Richard Kearney and Max Weber, high priest of rationality, could somehow be made to speak to one another. In the event, though, I played it cool and confessed the project to be very much work in progress. My good colleagues at Leicester listened helpfully and offered many interesting comments questions. After glass or two of local beer and a fantastic Leicester curry to finish the evening, I returned home full of ideas and enthusiasm. Academia isn’t always such a tough job.

Here’s a lightly polished version of my notes for the talk.

‘Many thanks for inviting me here today to share some thoughts and ideas with you. The project remains at a very early-stage, but perhaps there are the makings of an interesting paper. You will have to tell me what you think.

Max Weber

As some of you may know, my research is inspired by Michel Callon and the performativity/market studies program, with a particular interest in market-type arrangements as organisational devices and all their attendant consequences. By consequences, I mean the moral dimensions of market-type arrangements and their effects upon personhood. You may wonder what leads a scholar of management to this particular topic. But I wasn’t always in a management school. Misspent undergraduate years as a theologian left me with abiding interest in the nature of good personhood, and a conviction that neither good nor personhood can be abstracted from context or described by universal, rational rules. You can see, I hope, how a management scholar with a background such as mine can arrive at the conclusion that organisation and personhood are irrevocably linked.

There are three unexplained phrases in the title – the stranger, the wager, and the ethics of office. I’ll work through them all, and by the end of the talk you’ll have a sense of what I’m up to, I hope. Let’s start with the ethics of office, which of course comes from the work of Max Weber, particularly as represented by du Gay (2000, 2008).

Yikes, you might say! How can Weber possibly sit with Callon’s actor network constructivism? In fact, it sits more comfortably than you might think: Callon explicitly casts his work in the Weberian tradition, for Weber the anthropologist is interested in the ethical possibilities of action open to persons placed into various life spheres, where the ethical character of individuals is determined by institutional constraints. (du Gay helps us distinguish between the anthropologically inclined Weber, and the Weber of rationalist theory whose formalist-substantivist distinction has been used to front various kinds of critical political economy, doing Weber something of a disservice in the process).

The crucial point is that for Weber, and Callon too, good character means being able to live up to the ethical standards embedded in one’s office. This idea of specific, ethical practices, irreducible to common principles, ‘appears quite foreign to those for whom a common or universal form of moral judgement is held to reside in the figure and capacities of the self-reflective person’ (du Gay 2008, 131). Weber can be seen as a late practitioner of an earlier tradition – the ethical tradition of office – where office-holders are personae, bundles of instituted rights and duties.

But there remains a problem: if ethics are embedded in particular offices, rather than the person of the moral agent, how can we talk of business ethics at all. How can we attempt to establish normative commonalities that might transcend, for example, the office of the arms dealer, or bond trader? To put that another way, how can we stop ourselves from falling into anything-goes relativism, where the sole merit attached to a job is the discharge of the technical requirements of that role?Continue reading “The stranger, the wager and the ethics of office”

Cost-benefits and twitter follows: eleven weeks of good stuff, week 2

So far so good. It’s Sunday morning, the second week of January and I’m sitting down to write the second installment of my 11 weeks (or thereabouts) of good stuff. Each week I’ll take a section from the manifesto published in A Richer Life, and post it on this blog with some additional commentary.

As I review the not-very-inspiring viewer statistics for last week’s effort, here’s a supremely appropriate second extract:

And kick our cost- benefit habit. Efficiency is not the only virtue. A society needs justice, and empathy, with all the obligations that go alongside them. It’s too easy, faced with a difficult political decision, to emphasize benefits over costs and take refuge in ‘trustworthy’ numbers and scientific calculations. But when we examine those numbers, they turn out to be politics in disguise. We need conversation and debate over what is best, and best for whom, not what is cheapest; to open up the black boxes of measurements and metrics so that we can see what these metrics really are, and what they do. Cost-benefit thinking is corrosive in our own lives too. If we act only in anticipation of a return, we will all be the poorer, while a society where all contribute will be a far richer place. So go to that team meeting, even though it really isn’t part of your job. Take your friend/spouse/children to the play/film/concert, even though you’ll hate it; they’ll have fun and you may well find that’s enough.

The world has changed a great deal since the summer of 2014 when I wrote those words. The horrors of last year – Charlie Hebdo, our awakening to the ‘existential threat’ posed by Daesh, the attacks in Paris, and most of all, the refugee crisis in the Mediterranean and Europe – have forced a sudden maturing of political discourse. While economics still has plenty to say on the topic of migration – largely positive, as it happens – it is just one of many competing voices: the Christian left, for example, represented by Giles Fraser here, or the Archbishop of Canterbury’s careful association of British patriotism with welcome: ‘In today’s world, hospitality and love are our most formidable weapons against hatred and extremism’. Equally, there is an understandable fear, driven by the shadow of attacks that weren’t, and the ugly violence that manifested itself in Cologne on New Year’s Eve.

Closer to home, just look at the change in political discourse over flood defences. At the beginning of 2014 the coalition government demanded a great hike – a 60% increase in benefits – for every pound spent on flood defences. Following this winter’s deluge, we see the environment agency advocating a holistic approach to flood prevention, and stating ‘people will always come first’.

In fact, in such a climate, there is something appealing about the cool voice of reason provided by economic analysis – a dispassionate assessment of the long-term costs and benefits of any action. But it’s clear for now that there are bigger questions at stake.

We must be careful to distinguish between efficiency as a means of distinguishing between solutions to rival problems, and competing solutions to the same problem. In the latter instance, cost benefit has a lot to say. The problem comes in the assumption of transferability. An absurd example will illustrate the point: let’s say the cost benefit payoff of dealing with floods is better than that of dealing with refugees. There is an economic argument to say that we should sort out the floods first, whatever the human costs. That may sound crazy, but in debates over global warming, for example, it’s more or less what many economists have said. When an eminent American economist says that it’s unethical to invest in climate change prevention projects of uncertain return, one can’t help seeing a politics that privileges the haves of the developed world over the have-nots of those countries like Bangladesh.

But my book isn’t really about policy. I’m concerned about the corrosive effect that cost benefit calculations have on us as people – as persons. I argue that individually self-interested action, often driven by cost-benefit analysis, is collectively impoverishing. Private vice is not, despite what contemporary neo-Smithians like to say, a recipe for public virtue. Not at all.

Cost-benefit reasoning is a mode of thinking that we slip into very naturally, so naturally in fact that thinkers such as Daniel Dennet have argued it to be the only truly natural way of thinking. We are all its victims. Indeed, as I drag myself to my shed on a Sunday morning to write these words I can’t help noticing that the views of last week’s endeavour could be numbered on fingers and toes. Why on earth should I bother?

When I’ve finished the blog, I’ll announce it on twitter. I’m fascinated by the economics of twitter, and particularly the cost-benefits of following others. Being a twitter dilettante (a twittertante? A dilettwit?) I just drop in now and then to see what’s going on, catch up on the news and so forth. My friend and fellow twitterante @cfhelgesson captures the mood of this social media existence nicely when describes his news feed as being like rain: when he’s thirsty he can cup his hands and take what he wants, and when he’s not it simply passes by.

A diletwit like me can only cope with following a couple of hundred accounts, beyond which there is a ‘diminishing marginal return’ on each additional follow. (CF, more industrious than I, follows over 700. I will ask him how he does it.) Thus I am operating a clear-cost benefit algorithm for managing my twitter follows; the costs in terms of missed tweets and time required imposed by following one more person outweigh the potential benefits in terms of hilarity, news, political acumen, feline cuteness and so forth. It’s one in, one out, pretty much.

How then do people rack up 10,000 follows? Surely the cost of keeping up with each of these additional follows will greatly outweigh any infinitesimal marginal benefit? Unless, of course, the game is different; if a user is only interested in building up his or her own following, then the economics suddenly work out very well. There is no cost in any additional follow because one has no intention of paying any attention to anything they do, nor is there a cost for any additional follower. But if one sees value in a huge following the marginal return on each follower is increasingly large. The whole economy is suddenly upside down. (The same applies, oddly, to the business of being super rich. When one is wealthy enough to start buying yachts, football clubs and politicians, each extra dollar becomes worth a whole lot more than the last one.)

If one follows total strangers in the expectation that some of them will follow you back, then following huge numbers is an efficient and instrumental means of generating value, and ‘building an online platform’ as the marketers like to say. I was followed last week by ‘a self-taught photographer and photoshop artist located in Los Angeles’ who tweets gorgeous head shots and theatrical bon-mots to an audience of 11,000, but follows 9,999. Including me. Enough said.

Presumably, not everyone follows back, and that 9,999 number requires careful curation. 30,000 follows to 10,000 followers might look bad; better to keep it level. So every time I encounter a twitter profile following a four figure number, or more, and a matching level of followers I think ‘Aha!’

I’m sure anyone with any level of sophistication regarding social media figured this out long ago – but on the other hand, if they did, why does the following trick still works at all? (Maybe it doesn’t – maybe there is, across twitter, a diminishing marginal return on following for followers. That would be truly ironic.)

I instinctively dislike this game. There are two ways of approaching twitter. The first is as a community, where one can share jokes and articles, strange gifs and pictures of cats and all the other things that make the Internet go round. The emphasis, though, is on share, because sharing implies receiving and participating as well as giving. It involves a certain degree of empathy in as much as one expects that people may be interested in whatever it is that one has chosen to tweet. It involves treating people as worth something in them themselves.

The second is to treat twitter as a gigantic tool for self-aggrandizement: building an online profile, getting famous, driving business, ultimately cashing in. It involves asking people to pay attention to you – to spend their time, their efforts on you – without any sense that you will pay attention in return. That additional follow, your ten thousandth, is a trick, a con. It is a message sent to someone saying ‘Hey, you’re interesting…’ that means no such thing.

Of course, if cost benefit is your only measure of moral purpose, then such a game is completely legitimate. It’s a cheap and easy way to hoover up followers, and you’d be a fool not to. That’s why cost benefit alone is such a damaging moral standard, because it mandates instrumental and collectively impoverishing courses of action. The twitter following game is a synecdoche for a much bigger discussion: we need ways of talking and thinking that transcend cost benefit in our own private lives as much as our public sphere. If everyone behaved according to the rules of the twitter following game in real life, we really would have some problems.

All of which brings me back to the business of writing this blog. If I were driven by cost benefit alone I would have sat in the warm and read the paper, pausing only to follow a few more hundred total strangers. I certainly wouldn’t have spent a precious Sunday morning hunched in the shed, peering at the screen, tapping out words while my toes go steadily numb.

I’d like it to be read, of course. I’d like the number of readers to exceed the number of my fingers and toes (so if you like it, please pass it on!). But that’s not why I wrote it. I did so because I said that I would, and I have a promise to keep to myself as much as to the invisible Internet. I did so because I know some people –CF, perhaps – will read it, and I hope they will like it. Perhaps it will raise a smile here and there.

And finally, I did so because I consume blogs too, many of them very good, and I want to be a genuine part of that community of writers and thinkers. I don’t expect this blog will make me rich and famous, and I’m not building an online platform; I simply believe that the world is a better place for the collective effort of writing decent prose and sticking it online. Because lots of us think that, it is.

Eleven weeks of good stuff

It’s New Year. The time of December parties, Christmas celebrations, of self-indulgence and sofa-slouching is over. The Hogmanay hangover is easing its vile claws from your frontal lobes. It’s time, as diet gurus and health fads tell us, for the New You; for a booze-free January, a gym subscription, and resolutions that must not be broken in the first few days.

In the spirit of all those thirty-day programmes, I am offering my own contribution to our self-improvement. Eleven weeks of good stuff, or thereabouts.

The epilogue to my book, A Richer Life, contains a Manifesto – suggestions for ways in which we might improve our political discourse, our polity, and our personal lives. Introducing it, I wrote:

‘We are all economists now. Every day we think in terms of cost and benefits, and follow the measure of our own self-interest. In the shops, in politics, even in love, we expect value for money and efficiency, high returns for low risk. Economic reasoning is withering our social and political institutions, and the strategic, instrumental self-advancement that it advocates is corroding our personal relationships.

How can we be different? How should we think, talk and act; what tools should we use and institutions should we build to be better persons? What must we do to live a richer life?

Here are my suggestions. Some are big ideas, and others are things we can each do today. Together, they call for nothing less than an inversion of contemporary political economy: for an economics that is grassroots, not top-down, for trade that is embedded in relationship, and for a world where the claims of capital and property and are not allowed to ride roughshod over the dignity and worth of individuals.’

There are eleven suggestions. Not for any particular literary or aesthetic reason, but simply because I stopped when I had done. Once a week, for the next eleven weeks, I’m going to post each one on my website with some elaboration and comment. I hope they will make you think, and even better, talk. Maybe even act. If you like them, pass them on, tell your friends. If you don’t – fair enough, but I hope you stopped to think why. (If you didn’t, I suggest you listen to Tim Minchin on the virtue of being hard on your opinions).

So here’s point number one.

  1. Let’s cure our obsession with price. We must find a way of speaking about priceless things – the environment, biodiversity, culture, care, relationships, quality of life – that does not depend on price. Putting a price on nature, for example, makes it interchangeable and consumable, an outcome that is neither needed nor intended. Something is priceless, as the philosopher Roger Scruton points out, because we discover its value only through experience and interaction and therefore there is nothing for which it can be meaningfully exchanged. The virtues of a loving relationship are worked out and manifested as we go through life: they defy foreknowledge and transcend price. We must cultivate a political discourse dignified and intelligent enough to recognise the limits of our knowledge and accept the worth of things around us.

Price is often shorthand for knowledge. According to mainstream economic theory, it is the price mechanism that translates our rich and varied preferences into a single currency through which needs can be met. But the logic of the market often takes another step and claims that price is the only way of knowing about something. Virtues which cannot be expressed in price cannot be virtues at all. To say that something is priceless – a work of art, for example – often just means that it is very, very expensive.

Price is all knowing, and that omniscience means that we must be able to see into the future. Possible benefits must be factored into present price, just as the future revenue streams from a new piece of machinery in a factory are factored into its upfront cost. This is how the discourses of contemporary life encourage us to think about the choices we make. A purchase, a leisure activity, a new fitness regime, a new job, a boyfriend or girlfriend – all of these are to be planned as investments and understood in terms of their payoffs.

But Scruton, himself a defender of markets, hits the mark when he says that pricelessness means exactly the reverse: that for whatever reason, we cannot know or understand what these future values may be. The only way to find out is by doing, sometimes putting ourselves at risk in the process. The tendency to price is a tendency to control, a will to power over the uncertainty and chaos that adds depth – delight and despair – to our lives. Who would wish to live like a factory machine?

Accepting the limits of our ability to price things involves a certain humility and requires us to develop other ways of speaking and thinking. There is an argument that putting a price on nature gives it a seat at the table, allowing it to be factored into calculations and decisions. That argument is really an indictment of our own lack of imagination: we have to find other ways of allowing the priceless to speak.

There’s a subtle politics at work in our obsession with price. Prices are numbers and we tend to think of numbers as objective and scientific. But all kinds of mechanisms may be at work in the construction of those numbers. In my book, I talk about the practicalities of finding prices for things that can’t be bought and sold – landscapes and bodily organs, for example – and show how tendentious and political many of these mechanisms are. They are often unfair, too. Once we get into the land of calculation, the person with the biggest calculator always wins; the supermarket’s calculative power and customer data is a hugely powerful tool in shaping our choices. A neoliberal free market enthusiast will argue that the market is the biggest calculator of all. It is, indeed, but not one that is necessarily fair – ability and willingness to pay are not the same thing at all.

Price is a mode of speech available only to those who are able to pay. By taking price as the sole measure of value, we exclude and disenfranchise those who can least afford to be excluded.

Three good reasons to cure our obsession with price.

A well-known brand of cosmetics advertises itself with the slogan ‘because you’re worth it’. These words serve to focus the action of valuing – of worth and deeming worthy – on ourselves, while reducing everything and everyone else to commodities exchangeable in pursuit of our own satisfaction. These For a New Year’s resolution we could try the reverse – ‘because they’re worth it’ – as a justification for any kind of action.

Now that is a slogan I’d like to hear in public life.

The problem with economics, again

A very happy New Year to all – to celebrate, here’s something from the archives. I wrote this for the LSE Politics and Policy blog in the spring of 2014, just after my book had been published. It circulated for a while, and popped up again at the end of the year as one of the blog’s ten most interesting reads from 2014. I’ve seen it on twitter a couple of times since. It hasn’t gone out of date: the year of horrors that was 2015 threw up so many issues about which economics would have something to say, notably the crises over European debt and migration. With typical humility and understatement I chose the title ‘The problem with economics’. So, without further ado, here it is once again:

‘In my recent book, I Spend Therefore I Am, I claim that economics is itself one of the biggest problems we face today. By economics, I don’t just mean something that happens in universities, but a way of thinking based on and institutionalizing certain assumptions: that we are driven primarily by self-interest, organised by competition, and governed by the calculation of future returns over costs. I argue that the logic of the market has even become embedded in our daily, personal interactions. And I suggest that, as the real challenges for our future – such as the distribution of wealth, global welfare and climate change – cannot be usefully discussed, let alone settled, in those terms, economics itself is in need of some attention.

Judging by some of the reviews, I have ruffled a few feathers. I have been accused, even by the more benevolent, of doing economics a disservice, setting it up as a straw man to be knocked down. In one sense this is true. In the UK, at least, university departments of economics are heterodox, interesting places, housing scholars of all hues: Marxist economists, development economists, and labour economists who work happily alongside behavioural economists and financial econometricians. I freely admit this but it’s what happens outside universities that matters, and the diaspora of one particular kind of economic thought, that represented in economic textbooks, PPE degrees, and the business case justification, is almost universal.

Universal it may be, but fit for purpose it is not. It crowds out other values and leads conversation into a cul-de-sac of squabbles over calculation. In February, a major healthcare institute hit the headlines with the suggestion that statins (anti-cholesterol drugs) should be prescribed to the majority of men over 50 and women over 60, on the grounds that it is more cost-effective to flood the nation with drugs than deal with a tsunami of heart-related health care issues. This may be true but it obscures some more pressing questions: should we eat less, eat better, spend more time out of the office, and be subjected to less stress? Is there something fundamentally wrong with the organization of our society of which heart disease is just a side-effect?

The economist’s answer is that we just need better (read more complex) models. But ceding authority to models rob us of the ability to talk about what we should do, or even to recognize that the best we can do is far from good enough. If we object to contested and complex models sitting as unelected legislators in our parliament, then more sophisticated models will simply worsen the situation: more sophistication equals less transparency and less opportunity for the lay-citizen to contest the models’ judgement.

This kind of economics is ever present in our public discourse. It appears when we ask what we should do about higher education or the flooding in the South West. Government officials charged with looking after culture are obsessed by the Treasury’s Green Book and preoccupied by the thought of market failure. The way that we talk tells us what counts and what does not and helps us assign value to certain things. But talk alone is not enough to ensure the dominance of economics in our public and private lives. For that we need economic things: models, tools and organizational architectures. It’s not a metaphorical ploy to suggest that economic artefacts are active legislators in the world around us. The complexities of arriving at a decision in the modern world force us to share the burden of calculation with devices, which become, in the words of the French sociologist Michel Callon, ‘prostheses’ for economic action. These things do. They act in the world and our agency is shared out amongst them.

So, for example, when one adopts the methods of the Green Book, or switches on an investment bank trading screen, one takes up calculative tools in which certain economic assumptions are embedded. The discounted cash flow, central to business case analysis, produces in the world a very particular set of effects with its roots in economic theory – the diminishing value of money (and sometimes persons) in the future. Philosophers may be less than happy with its assumptions (how can one discount a life?) but every day in offices and trading rooms around the globe, the discounted cash flow really does make the world into a place where the future is worth less than the present.

Often, economic devices are naturalised such that we often don’t notice their effects. Let me offer another example. My colleague Shiona Chillas and I have spent some time investigating the mechanics of online dating sites. We have been able to trace the progress of particular economic ideas and methodologies into the construction of dating algorithms and interfaces. When a user enters the site, they form a temporary partnership with the machinery and act in a certain way, to maximise return on their own value. Our findings align neatly with the substantial body of research on the tactics of users on the sites: they become economic, they shop, they maximise dynamic preferences. Some sites analyse previous searches and show you matches according to your ‘revealed preference’. The machine knows you better than you know yourself, so long as you choose a partner as you might a pair of trousers. Under these conditions, it’s impossible to maintain the fiction that a user’s choices are not shaped by the site’s mechanics, when the machinery does so much of the work. Nor is it much of a defence to claim that the school disco was also instrumental. It may have been, but the cybernetic rationality of online dating is something else altogether. We don’t know for sure how much of this cyborg dater spills into the world around us, but I suggest that the prognosis is not benign.

Many will agree that our economized public discourse is lacking. But examples like online dating, healthcare, and the grimy world of Punternet (an online review site for sex workers, promising that better information will lead to ‘less stressful, more enjoyable and mutually respectful visits’) encourage me to push the argument a little bit further. Economic rationality is powerful, and in its thoroughgoing solipsism it drives out other virtues: if we must only care about ourselves, how can we possibly care about others? When we reduce our interpersonal relations to calculations of cost and benefit, disciplined by competition and mediated by the manifold devices of economics in the world – the same discipline that we must focus upon ourselves – then we run the risk of losing something far more precious: our humanity.’

Happy New Year to you all. I hope 2016 brings us all good things.

Why we love algorithms

I was lucky enough to be invited by my colleagues at Linköping University – Francis Lee and Lotta Björklund Larsen – to discuss algorithms and the algorithmic, at Smådalarö Gård (see right) in the Swedish archipelago. Yes, I know, a tough job, especially the evenings, with sauna, beer, and the icy Baltic.DSC_0039

I’ve done some work on algorithms in recent years, notably the study of transplant allocation published in the new book Value Practices in the Life Sciences (Oxford University Press: 2015) and a paper with my colleague Shona Chillas, on online dating. But in this workshop we were asked to bring some issues that we consider important, in order to open up further discussions about researching algorithms. I took the opportunity to share some ideas that I have been thinking about for a while, even if they’re still in a relatively incomplete form.

Here’s a filled out version of my notes for a talk on ʻWhy we love algorithms’ (including the examples which I left out for reasons of time – and still ran over the allotted 10 minutes!) My thanks to everyone involved in the workshop for comments and feedback, and I’ve incorprated some of that below. Here we go:

ʻI would like to start with some provocations – the things I find interesting or challenging about algorithms – then flesh out with some examples, and finally talk through some possibilities for thinking about these problems.

Here are some other things that trouble me about algorithms:

  1. First of all, that people get incredibly excited about algorithms. We hear all kinds of wild claims made about what algorithms and the algorithmic offer, some of which are convincing, and some of which are downright terrifying. Journalists and managers seem particularly susceptible. But,
  2. most of us don’t actually understand how algorithms work. In fact, it turns out that the programmers themselves often don’t know how algorithms work: the purpose of machine learning is to let the computer teach itself, a much quicker process than coding by hand. Nonetheless,
  3. the expectations of knowledge placed upon algorithms are remarkable. For example, when comparing the market for my flight here I had a genuine expectation that every single permutation and possibility has been considered. I’m not expecting some satisficing ʻgood enough’, but the whole deal. In addition to this omniscience, we place great reliance on
  4. the additional social and organizational expectations that are repeatedly woven into algorithmic processes.

In other words, we expect rather a lot of algos. Let me offer some examples, to make these points a bit clearer.

Cyber currencies like bitcoin promise a techno-libertarian utopia, freedom, anonymity, sound money, expansion of financial services to the global unbanked and an algorithmic, transparent public ledger with the potential to end all other kinds of public record, and put lawyers and all sorts of other middlemen out of a job.

The matching algorithms for transplant organs that I describe in Value Practices in the Life Sciences make numerous promises: we trust them to offer the best match – in terms of scientific outcomes – of all patients in the database, and to promise fairness and equality of access for all patients. We expect them to be transparent while retaining the ability to pursue certain political demands in terms of managing resources and coping with waiting lists. Note, by the way, that in doing so they simultaneously offer different and conflicting demands to different publics.

Online dating algorithms promise at the very least an optimising match of habits and preferences, and at most a match of characteristics so perfect that you can spend the rest of your days with this individual. More pithily, they promise love. It’s true, when I have chatted to users, that they react with a certain scepticism, dismissing such grand claims and placing emphasis on fun and meeting new people. But equally the willingness of users to go on dates in the first place, and their repeated disappointment when yet another potential partner turns out to be a scoundrel and a hound shows, that they can’t help trusting the algorithm in the first place.

You’ll notice my repeated use of the word promise, as well as themes such as optimism and expectation. I even mentioned trust. Is it possible to trust an algorithm?

Katherine Hawley is a philosopher who worries about such things for a living. She has developed a theory of trust based on the ability to offer commitments. This, she argues, is what distinguishes trust from reliance: we rely upon our car to start and we may be irritated and inconvenienced when it doesn’t, but we are not let down, or betrayed, in the way we would be by a breach of trust. Unlike our friend who promised to be there on time, the car makes no commitment to us.

This sense of reliance may be built up by repeated practice. My car always starts, and so I can rely on it to do so, even on frosty mornings. Any student of economic exchange knows that trust can be worked into economic transactions by the offering of commitments on the part of, for example, a manufacturer: my new Mercedes (if only!) can be trusted to start, because it is a Mercedes.

It seems to me that our expectations of algorithms go way beyond reliance: we trust online algorithms on sight. We trust algorithmic devices as part of complex sociotechnical arrangements which also incorporate branding, reputation, intellectual capital and so forth. We trust the organ allocation algorithm because of the institution of the NHS and because we can see, should we choose to, that it has been built by qualified medical experts. We trust the dating website in the same way that we trust many other manufacturers and vendors of services: because they have spent large sums of money on adverts, warranting the credibility of the algorithm. So perhaps we can explore the way that warranties are worked into algorithms by individuals, firms and organizations.

More interesting still is the possibility that in an age of machine learning and artificial intelligence the algorithm is able to make commitments on its own account. If the programmer can’t understand what’s in the box because the machine has taught itself, perhaps the machine itself should be responsible for its outputs. Who is accountable for the algorithm’s actions, and by what standards should it be judged? Donald MacKenzie pointed out that many of the disputes over fairness in high frequency trading stem from the transposition of a human moral order – the queue – into the algorithmic world. Should algos play by our rules? We didn’t decide.

That’s a big idea to think about , I know, but not much stranger in the end than some of the examples presented at the workshop: Nick Seaver spoke about his doctoral fieldwork. He’s been watching a programmer build a machine able to teach itself the difference between obscure sub-genres of heavy metal. (Nick’s quick quiz: Here’s Swedish djent legend Meshuggah and here’s metalcore trailblazer Earth Crisis. Can you tell the difference? Me neither, but the machine can. Imagine what Pierre Bourdieu would have said to that!)

However, there is one snag in this argument. Reliability and trust are predicated on performance. As Hawley makes clear, repeated breaches will cause us to stop trusting. If on the algorithm’s advice, I arrive at the mathcore gig in a deathgrind[i] T, well, how can I ever trust it again? But we still seem to trust the machine despite our every day experience of algorithms not doing what they promise: matching us with scoundrels, over and over again.

I wonder if we are mistaken in thinking about algorithms in terms of the formal rational, bureaucratic tradition. Perhaps we should be thinking in a different direction. I suggest that we are enchanted and delighted by algorithms. We are in love with them. Bitcoin seems to me the exemplar: politics, mysticism, utopian visions, all sorts of things, are woven into the blockchain. Caricaturing Weber, bureaucracy is boring but it works. Algorithms are not boring, but they don’t necessarily work either; they are temperamental, high maintenance, spiteful and problematic. They have personalities. They require tending, nurturing and attention.

There is another intellectual tradition that might make sense of the algorithm better. It runs something like this: Smith and the Scottish Enlightenment – a secular appropriation of providential conceptions of natural order, where the market is the mirror of nature and therefore the divine. Townsend, Malthus, Darwin – life on Earth as driven by some form of search and selection mechanism, optimising under constraints of scarcity. The process was cast as a specifically individual, economic problem by Herbert Spencer, who coined the phrase ‘survival of the fittest’. From Spencer we can move to Hayek, with his catallaxy, a spontaneous order driven by what is starting to look like algorithmic processes. Then contemporary philosopher Daniel Dennett takes the final leap, recasting evolution as algorithmic process and life on Earth as the ultimate algorithmic computer.

This tradition is all about knowledge, and in particular the omniscience of algorithmic processes (forgiving an anachronistic use of the term) compared with the limited knowledge available to individuals. The Hayek and Austrian economic tradition stressed the calculative limits of central planners, compared to those of the market. But now algorithmic economics seems much more confident in its calculative abilities – even to the possibility of calculating all knowledge, Google’s raison d’etre.

I suggest that there’s a slippage of scale here. On the one hand, there’s the actual computational process, small, straightforward; on the other hand, there’s the algorithm as a sublime object, rootless, inchoate, but importantly, omniscient; a placeholder in which all kinds of expectations, problems and politics can be placed, around which communities of practice and discourse can get together. Of course, the two are knotted together in a recursive, performative loop, but there’s space in the dilectic for all manner of hopes and dreams.

Let me push even further. The philosopher Simon May has suggested that love stems from the sense of ‘ontological rootedness’ – that we love those people or things which give us a feeling of place in the world.[ii] Love of the divine is his exemplar: we must strive to love, but in the impossibility of such love being requited, we must be prepared for injustice, cruelty and abandonment.

One other such sublime object in contemporary political thought is the ‘market’: those who love the market – really – are prepared to suffer by the market. I propose that we can understand the algorithm as the heir to the market in contemporary economic thinking, and as the beneficiary of a quasi-theological tradition focusing on omniscience and ontological apartness. And I suggest that this positioning offers a useful means of thinking around the appeal, attraction, even fanaticism, surrounding algorithms and algorithmic arrangements.

[i] I was going to put a link up here, but the first video you tube offered involved lots of footage of a decomposing corpse in a bath. Not what you or I need on a Saturday morning.

[ii] May, Simon. 2011. Love: A History. New Haven and London: Yale University Press.

Reviewing Piketty

I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or not when tasked with reviewing ‘the big book that everyone’s talking about’, as Karen Shook, books editor of Times Higher Education put it. The Thomas Piketty review has turned into a flourishing genre of its own – phrases like magnum opus and a definite acquaintance with nineteenth century French literature are ‘de rigueur’. For a ten-step guide on how to do your own, see this brilliant piece in the Washington Post.

Still, at least it got me to read the book, and my review in THE is available here. I think I deserve a prize for spotting the Aristocats footnote too…

Text and video from RSA talk

Following a couple of requests, I’m publishing the text from my RSA lecture ‘The True Cost of Economics’ (13 February 2014).


RSA Lecture – ‘The True cost of Economics’, Philip Roscoe, 

13 February 2014, 8 John Adam Street, London WC2N 6EZ


[1] It is fitting, in a lecture that goes under the banner of twenty-first century enlightenment, to begin with Adam Smith.

For it was Smith, philosopher, man of letters, economist, and pillar of the eighteenth-century Enlightenment, who breathed life into the idea of self-interest as a motivating force in society. In The Wealth of Nations, published in 1776, he argued that man had a ‘propensity to truck, barter, and exchange’. He told us it was the self-interest of the baker, brewer and butcher that would provide our supper, and that mankind was distinguished from the beasts, not by the gift of stewardship over the earth, nor through being made in God’s image, but in our ability to exchange.

The enlightenment, of course, sought to do away with the dead hand of religion, looking forward to a better society, one driven by progress and illuminated by science. But it was still a religious age, and Smith’s writing is a tribute to unintended consequences and the power of indirect causes. As a God-fearing man writing at a time when Providence was still regularly blamed, or praised, for its interference in the natural order of events, he believed that nature, if left to its own devices, would channel economic activity in the most beneficial manner: ‘By directing that industry’ he wrote  ‘in such a manner as its produce may be of the greatest value, [the businessman] intends only his own gain, and he is in this, as in many other cases, led by an invisible hand to promote an end which was no part of his intention.’

Adam Smith’s name regained prominence in the 1980s as the champion of free markets, the classical economist who first pointed out the ‘invisible hand’ of the market, which became the best, if not the only, justification for notions like the trickle-down effect: the idea that a healthy market will, left to its own devices, self-regulate and turn competing self-interests into wealth for all. Those free market evangelists of the twentieth century took Smith’s name in vain: he is less advocating untrammelled self-interest, than making a theological point about the immanence of divine intention in nature, and therefore in the world. None other than the philosopher Immanuel Kant argued that nature intended mankind to be productive and wealthy, and will ensure that a productive, wealthy world is the best of all places.  For the Enlightenment thinkers it was nature, not scripture, that offered mankind comprehension of the Divine; the laws of heaven were written into the laws of nature, and thus into the wonderful, ineffable operations of the market.

In the nineteenth century, economics took on the shape of mathematics. Inspired by the heat equations of physics, the so-called marginalist revolutionaries argued that the diminishing marginal utility of a good could be calculated arithmetically. So the stage was set for modern economics when, in 1932, Lionel Robbins – head of the economics department the LSE –dreamed of an economics that could offer a single, unified theory of human action. Economics, he wrote, is ‘the science which studies human behaviour as a relationship between ends and scarce means which have alternative uses’. Such ‘ends’ might involve work and leisure, or sustenance and sleep. What matters is that all are purchased with time, and most with labour, and mankind does not have a sufficiency of either.

To my mind, there is something theological about any universal explanation, and Robbins’ economics is no different. We have, as he noted, been turned out of Paradise. It seems that economics is the theology of postlapsarian man: in the work of the formidable contemporary philosopher Daniel Dennett we see cost benefit analysis elevated to ‘a general principle of practical reasoning’ through which evolution operates, as life-forms compare costs and benefits of one action with another. In Dennett’s work, or in the wave of popular books explaining the world around us in terms of cost-benefit trade-offs, economics offers no less than the meaning of life.

By this account we are all entrepreneurs of ourselves. We must understand every aspect of our person as a future revenue stream. When deciding to work, or to rest we weigh up the costs and benefits of each action. Our decision to invest in ourselves, by education or a gym subscription or even cosmetic surgical enhancements – must be based purely on our estimate of the future returns available on that investment; we become a productive machine, valued in the same way as any other business asset. Our decisions, choices and life plans become factors in a perpetual cost–benefit analysis that we must focus upon ourselves.

The 18th century Enlightenment succeeded in throwing off the weight of religion, it is true, but as this rational, calculating agent becomes the centrepiece of policy endeavour and private action it seems to me that we have found ourselves another master.

[2] Now, none of this would matter, were economics no more than a manner of speaking or mode of analysis. But economic ways of thinking leak into the real world, through the way we talk and through the tools that we use. Often, we simply do not notice that we are being economic. The complexity of our modern world forces us to rely upon a multitude of devices that do the economic work for us. In the supermarket a multitude of competing claims – quality, taste, affect, even the circumstances of production – are rendered down to a simple label, specifying what counts, and what does not. Of course, the voice that shouts loudest from the label is that of cost, and we must trade it off against all other concerns. Dealing with intensive farming, for example, or indentured labour is no longer a matter of moral outrage – thou shalt not buy this– but a fine, graduated consumer choice. Supermarkets offer established hierarchies of labelling where improvements in the quality of husbandry, or of a living wage, are reflected in increasing prices. Consumers are free to establish the cost of their own conscience. In the supermarket, even moral virtue has an economic dynamic.

The last three decades have seen whole sections of our society recast as economic, and their participants as entrepreneurial, rational economic agents. Take higher education. Twenty-something years ago, when I was a student, university fees and maintenance were paid by the government, on the presumption that educated citizens are better citizens. Now, of course, students must borrow to pay fees and to support themselves; the justification being that they, and only they, will reap the benefits and must therefore shoulder the costs.

This dogma of higher education planning is self-evidently false. We all benefit from good teachers, nurses, civil servants, research scientists, chaplains, bureaucrats, administrators, town planners, sports coaches and so forth, all of whom have received a university education and many of whom will be hard pressed to recoup the fees and living costs that they have incurred. And those are the lucky ones who actually secure a job on graduation.

That’s an aside. What matters are the consequences of such a change. These fees are just one part of a broader repackaging of education as a saleable good, a corporate export industry. The argument is clear: making students into consumers will somehow make universities better. It will also, as any leftish critic will point out, open up huge swathes of virgin territory as profit opportunities for service firms and the holders of capital. If students have to pay fees, we are told, a market will spontaneously arise, as universities compete with one another for ‘customers’. Access to higher education will be determined by individuals’ own assessment of their talent and possibilities, expressed in the willingness to borrow and pay their fees; all that matters will be the eventual combinatory effect of intellect and degree quality on the student’s earning power. This degree quality will be signalled by visible indicators, such as school rankings, and (this is important, but not obviously, empirically true) lower-quality institutions will charge lower fees. In other words, the market for higher education will come to resemble one envisaged in the opening pages of an economics textbook.  At the centre of this network sits the rational student consumer, processing information, studying lists and rankings, calculating the trade-off between course cost and predicted salary uplift.

Yet none of this is expected to devalue, or even change, the central task of the university: education. How can that be the case? Look at the moves to be made. First of all, quality must be made visible. Beyond the ubiquitous student experience surveys – and note that ‘student experience’ carries a subtle repositioning of education as some kind of experiential commodity, like a safari or an adventure day in a hot-air balloon – universities are subjected to all kinds of other assessment. If administrators are worrying about branding, architecture and visible facilities, then there is a real danger, especially in institutions where funds are short and institutional positioning is precarious, that these things will draw money from less visible – less immediately accountable – purposes, such as teaching and teaching support. Accreditation by professional bodies, driven by a desire to offer students more workplace-relevant qualifications, places demands on institutions and may reshape their curricula and hiring strategies. Subjected to constant surveillance in research and teaching, faculty will play safe, offering conservative scholarship and low-risk traditional teaching. And who can blame them, with their jobs on the line if they fail to deliver good publications and systematically reach high teaching feedback scores? Where an academic career is reduced to the attainment of ranked publications and nothing more, it is inevitable that those academics prepared to play the game will abandon long-term attachments and circulate in the market, moving from institution to institution in pursuit of higher salaries. The losers, of course, are their students.

Perhaps this is where we need a little enlightenment of our own. How is the good life to be lived? What is the basis of virtue? For Smith and his colleagues, reason trumped superstition and learning triumphed over ignorance. Quite right. But they left much unstated. Indeed, the Enlightenment thinkers inherited a respect for the hierarchy of family, civic institutions and the state. Apologists for Smith argue that self-interest is a broad term that includes the interests of family and local community; certainly it seems the case that Smith’s idea of self-interest is not the narrow, calculative meanness that characterizes twentieth-century economic man. The reverse: Smith believed that sympathy for one’s fellow was the basis of ethical behaviour. In more modern terms we might say that the basis of the good life is relational: that it is achieved in partnership with others. We hear this not just from philosophers, but also from psychologists, from those who study relationships and public health. All agree that more wealth does not equal more happiness, and that isolation and loneliness are as destructive to our well-being as friendship and company are beneficial. Why then the obsession with rational economic choice in our public discourse, when it is distinguished by selfishness and isolation, those very characteristics that are so corrosive to us as persons?

We can already see the consequences in higher education. When students are recast as customers they start acting like customers. But often they do not see that there are different kinds of customers; that buying groceries from the supermarket is a profoundly different transaction from embarking upon a process of education that requires them to participate to the limits of their ability, imagination and emotional reserve. Many students see education as a set of targets, of boxes to tick, of work carried out at a particular level that will result in a qualification of a certain kind, where the student has simply to consume and regurgitate pre-digested chunks of knowledge. Students will choose modules that they perceive as easy, in order to get higher grades, which are worth more in the purely external sense of better employment offers and better salaries. Study becomes about memorizing and reproducing, while the higher-order pedagogic goals of synthesizing, critiquing and evaluating are pushed aside. These are the skills we really need our young people to have, that are more useful and more worthwhile to the students themselves in any context beyond the shortest of short term.

[3] Not all enlightenment thinkers shared Smith and Kant’s vision of doux commerce. In 1786 an Anglican cleric named Joseph Townsend enjoyed a temporary fame when he published his Dissertation on the Poor Laws (subtitled By a well-wisher to mankind) in which he campaigned for the abolition of welfare measures. Invoking notions of natural balance and order, Townsend tells a parable of goats and dogs, set in Robinson Crusoe’s island in the Pacific Ocean. According to Townsend, a handful of goats landed by a Spanish sailor, Juan Fernández, as a self-sustaining supply of food for future visits had come to be a reliable source of sustenance for the English privateers who preyed on Spanish shipping. The Spaniards retaliated and introduced a pair of dogs, greyhounds, which ran wild, multiplied and decimated the goats. The remaining goats learned to stay on the cliffs, out of reach of the dogs, and, according to Townsend, a ‘new kind of balance was established’; the agile, energetic goats and dogs survived while the lazy are left to suffer the natural consequence of their indolence’. Townsend concluded: ‘Hunger will tame the fiercest animals, it will teach decency and civility, obedience and subjection, to the most brutish, the most obstinate and the most perverse.’ Perhaps that is what we see in students: imaginative, enthusiastic, good-hearted, even fierce young people domesticated and tamed by the burden of debt.

Townsend and his ilk prevailed over the believers in sweet commerce. The nineteenth-century economy emerged through the abolition of assistance for the poor, the construction of robust property rights over land and capital, together with the technological and organizational innovations of the Industrial Revolution – machines, fearsome engines, factories and dark Satanic mills. It relied upon the displacement and near starvation of an entire agrarian population, transforming a rural peasantry into a source of industrial labour. Now that all goods and products are organized for sale and purchase only through the market a new creature of enlightenment is born: homo oeconomics, driven by self-interest, abstracted from bonds of family, church and state, endlessly seeking efficiency in the face of universal scarcity bought about by the market-based exchangeability of all things.

This economic man or woman, is no universal phenomenon, but, in the words of prominent anthropologist George Dalton, a succinct expression of institutional fact. We encounter it in specific situations, mediated and constructed by the material devices that it must use to navigate the complexities of our modern world – what the French sociologist Michel Callon calls the prostheses of economic action. The student choosing carefully on the basis of course rankings, satisfaction scores and projected salary is one such. The hospital administrator choosing between treatments on the basis of their ability to deliver quality adjusted life years per pound spent, is another. It’s valentines day tomorrow, so you will be pleased to hear that economic agency even reaches affairs of the heart, in the online dater, the ‘cyborg dater’ – the instrumentally rational, maximising amalgam of lonely heart and online database.

Let me give you a particular example. Many online dating sites allow users to search for potential partners using a mechanism that will be familiar to anyone who has ever used the Internet to search for a second-hand car or a house. These interfaces offer a detailed menu of choices, allowing users to select partner attributes such as age, height, type of figure, hair length, hair colour, interests, marital status, ethnic origin, religion, education, children, and where you stand on drinking and smoking. I am not, by the way, betraying any prejudices when I list hair length and colour before education – that’s how they appear on the screen, and, I suspect, a suggestion of their perceived importance. At the top of the screen, a counter lists the availability of matches. It tumbles downwards as you design your perfect partner online, until eventually, you must trade off desired characteristics and scarcity.

Perhaps I’m taking this too seriously. Perhaps it’s all a bit of a laugh.  But how does a user behave when presented with such an interface? There is no alternative but to try to maximize one’s preferences in searching for a potential partner. We seek the best that we can get from the available supply, making decisions as to the relative merits of available attributes. For the moment, I don’t want to go into the complexities of online matching or even open up the discussion of whether or not we are actually able to choose partners online. The important thing is to recognize that a kind of economic behaviour has been brought into being through the use of a technical interface. The user, in combination with the dating website, has become the individual economic agent, the instrumentally rational, maximizing actor of economic theory. A cyborg dater.

This is where enlightenment has brought us: from the sweet commerce and peaceful visions of Smith, through the unsympathetic competition of Townsend and Bentham, and the universal economics of the twentieth century, to the triumph of a certain kind of profit seeking rationality in all areas of our world, and even in our own hearts. We have become economic men and women, and our society is governed and organized by the maxims of self interest and competition. That, I suggest, is the true cost of economics.

[4] We do indeed need a new enlightenment. One that recognises that the good life is lived in relationship, through giving, through caring and empathy. We need to guard ourselves against the casual solipsism of economic language, or the habitual uses of the economic prostheses that structure our daily interactions. We need to get offline, out of the office; to recognize that even waste and inefficiency may play their part in a life lived to the full. In the case of romance, not every relationship has to be perfect, nor does every partner have to be just right for you, right now. Risks, dead ends and failures contribute much to who we are. Arduous though it may seem, the fact that the process of finding a partner is not straightforward, and that some effort may be required on both sides, may itself be enlightening. Indeed, the whole dance might even be fun.

We need to learn to question economic justifications when we are handed them in policy, at work or at home: asking who benefits, and whether more efficient means fairer, more responsible, more just. We need to sustain those institutions based on altruism and challenge those driven by profit. We should learn to find time, to mess around, to do things for others or simply for their own sake. We need to rediscover amazement: to step over our world-weary, cynical selves, and to be childlike once more.

You may by now be wondering why a scholar of organization is speaking in whimsical terms about happiness and the goods of life. Should he not step aside, and leave such matters to the experts: philosophers, priests, and columnists for the daily Mail? Yet it seems to me that much of our access to the good life is contingent on how we organize. We can organize for misery, that is for sure – the engines and mills of the industrial revolution make that much clear – but we can organize for good things too – creativity, empowerment, equality and participation.

Moreover, there is an iterative relationship between self and society. Our social arrangements change our persons, and our understanding of ourselves feeds back into our social arrangements. A society filled by economic men and women becomes ever more economic; within it homo oeconomicus proliferates. When the problems we face – be they climate change or the distribution of prosperity closer to home – are exactly those requiring collective action, and of necessity some degree of sacrifice, the economic agent becomes a major barrier to action.

In Isak Dinesen’s short story, Babette, former chef at the finest restaurant in Paris and exiled revolutionary communard, finds herself housekeeper at the residence of two sisters in Norway. These women live a simple life; they are the daughters of a dour, Lutheran cleric who had formed a small ascetic community on the coast. Babette tells them nothing of her past.

After many years she wins the prize in a Paris lottery, and 10,000 francs arrives. She asks the favour of her employers, that she might be allowed to prepare and provide one single meal in honour of the Dean’s anniversary, and they agree, worried though they are about the sinful excesses of Parisian cuisine. After weeks of preparations, the night comes, and Babette produces a feast that has consumed her entire prize. Only one guest, the general who has lived and travelled the world, recognizes the exquisite food. Babette is an artist, and the general is her audience; through being allowed, just once, to show true excellence, to do her utmost, she is complete.

The food transfigures the guests. Even though they do not know what they are eating, tongues are loosened, old, bitter differences are made up, and childhood sweethearts reconciled. The tipsy elders stagger home through the snow, their sins washed white as wool. They had, Dinesen writes, been given ‘one hour of the millennium’. One hour of Paradise: when has economics ever achieved such transformation?

Perhaps we should abandon economics altogether. We should not economize on love, care, or even art. Altruism and civic virtue, love and care grow through exercise, and are not scarce resources to be economized. Even waste may play its part: the spectacular excess of Babette’s feast bestows an hour of bliss upon a community, healing and mending. A life lived well, to the full, will be replete with dead ends, about turns, experiments and chances, far richer than a neat parade of rational, calculative choices. I would contend that economics has little place in our personal lives: let them be bounteous, generous and overflowing, and be richer for it.

Thank you very much.