The reason for the several-month unannounced hiatus since my last post is that during that time I was finishing, submitting, and defending my PhD thesis. You’ll be happy to know it went well. Perhaps sometime in the next few months, I’ll write a blog post that summarizes it in detail. For now, however, I want to flag up an interesting intersection between my PhD research and my interest in climate change.
My PhD, for those of you who haven’t read my Simpsons-based introduction to it, is about discursive storylines in socio-technical transitions. In more comprehensible terms, that means that I was looking at the ways people understand old and new technologies, when a new technology is in the process of replacing an old one. I did this using two historical case studies of the transition from a rail-dominated transport system to a road-dominated transport system in the United States and the United Kingdom. So essentially I was using a lot of newspaper, magazine, and political archives to look at how people talked about trains and cars while trains were being replaced by cars.
In doing so, I noticed something interesting: People’s representations of rail and road transportation typically have only a passing relationship with the reality on those transportation systems themselves. Here are a few examples of what I mean:
- In the 1920s, the United Kingdom was faced with a rash of deaths by car accidents. This was horrifying, because that kind of sudden accidental death in a public space was completely foreign at the time. The solution that was most often proposed for this, however, is somewhat counterintuitive from a modern perspective: Both experts and laypeople typically suggested that the answer was to build more roads. This, they argued, would make the road system more efficient and safer, and would virtually eliminate car accidents. Even George Orwell believed this: On page 12 of The Road to Wigan Pier he writes that “The danger of accidents would disappear if we chose to tackle our road-planning problem seriously, as we shall do sooner or later”. What Orwell failed to realize is that building more roads had the effect of encouraging more car travel, which in turn meant more accidents. The basic storyline that roads, not cars, were at fault for car accidents was nevertheless very compelling.
- During the 1930s, the railroads of the United States petitioned the Federal Government to extend Interstate Commerce Commission regulations to the road transportation industry. Interstate Commerce regulations, which were put in place starting in 1887 to curb price-gouging by monopolistic railways, were now giving the railways a major disadvantage against the new, road-based transportation system. The Congressional debates about extending these regulations to the railways, however, revealed that many congresspeople were still very worried about unleashing the railway monopolies to do as they liked, despite the fact that the railways would never again have a monopoly over anything. The view that the railways were inherently monopolistic and not to be trusted, which was by then several decades old, was firmly engrained in the minds of many American lawmakers.
- As the first British motorways were being built in the 1950s and 1960s, they were portrayed as a modernising, civilising force that would ensure safe and efficient transportation into the indefinite future. They even made postcards of the motorways. Here’s a quote from the Daily Mail in 1955, predicting what motorways would look like in the future: “Along the wide, multi-track motorways leading to the sea the holiday traffic surges in orderly streams. Police helicopters and convertaplane patrols of the newly merged Royal Automobile Association hover overhead”. Anybody today who has driven on the M25 would scoff at this, but at this time the view that motorways were a futuristic and exciting change was difficult to challenge.
I have not recounted these anecdotes so that we can scoff at them. Even the most knowledgeable experts can be seen to have indulged in this kind of thinking. The problem, however, is that some problems are simply too big to contemplate rationally. A transportation system is an immensely complicated thing, comprising perhaps more moving parts than anything else humans have ever built. Add to that all the money, laws, and personal motivations associated with it, and you have something that you could not understand thoroughly even if you spent your whole life reading about it; much less if most of your knowledge comes from listening to the news on the radio while driving your car to work.
So because we can’t keep all the relevant facts in our head at any one time, we take a cognitive shortcut. We construct storylines. Marteen Hajer, who developed the concept of storylines to account for environmental politics, describes them as “narratives on social reality through which elements from many different domains are combined and that provide actors with a set of symbolic references that suggest a common understanding” (Hajer 1995, p. 45). We use storylines to fill in the gaps of our limited understanding of complex phenomena. But we don’t all use the same storylines. That’s because we have different assumptions about the world, and different myths that appeal to us. Some people, such as the road boosters in Britain, believe in the inevitability and inherent goodness of technological progress, and so they interpret the facts in a way that can be used to tell that story. Others, such as the American railroads’ detractors, believe in the inherent corruption of big business, and construct storylines with that fact in mind. Similarly, today, people’s predictions about the future tend to line up with science fiction movies: Star Trek, Blade Runner, or Mad Max.
Which brings me to the subject of climate change. It might not be an exaggeration to say that climate change is perhaps the most complex problem that any human mind has ever grappled with. It involves complex interactions between five of the most complex systems we know of: The atmosphere, the hydrosphere, the ecosphere, the geosphere, and what might be called the sociosphere: The halo of human action that surrounds our planet. Each of these systems is difficult enough to model on its own. Keeping track of the interactions between all five of them is virtually impossible.
That’s not to say that we haven’t made progress. Climate science has proved convincingly that fossil fuel emissions are taking us to a very bad place. But figuring out exactly what is going to happen becomes very thorny, especially once you add human societies, the source of the carbon emissions, into the mix. So instead we tell stories. There are a lot of storylines that have emerged in response to climate change, each of which speaks to much older cultural myths. Here are just a few of them:
The Icarus Storyline: Humankind is flying too close to the sun and is about to come crashing back down to the ocean. We aren’t going to solve the problem, and we’re doomed.
The Apollo Storyline: Humankind is infinite in its creativity and ability to solve problems. We will, through some combination of renewable energy and geoengineering, fix climate change.
The Socialist Storyline: We cannot solve climate change so long as we are wedded to an outdated capitalist economic system. We need to throw out the bankers, and then we will have an economy that does not destroy the Earth.
I’m sure you can probably think of a few more. The point I want to make here is that each one of these storylines can be told in a way that is convincing, both in terms of its internal consistency, and its correspondence with observed facts about the world. They all start from largely the same basic information, and fill in the gaps with compelling narratives.
What this suggests is that none of these storylines is likely to be true in its entirety. History is rarely so clean-cut and binary as these storylines make it out to be. (And this is not the first time in history that climate change has been an important problem). It’s complicated, contingent, and it can almost never be expressed in terms of whether a given problem (such as the Mongols, the Black Death, or colonialism), is “solved” or not. Actions have consequences both foreseen and unforeseen, and both positive and negative. And nobody can predict the future.
This is not to say that we shouldn’t be worried about climate change. We should be extremely worried about climate change. But let’s acknowledge our own limitations. Nobody knows what’s going to happen. The best we can do is tell each other stories about it. Surely that fact is both scary and motivating enough all by itself for us to go out and do something about it.