This is the beginning of a series of explorations into what I’m calling “mechanical thinking.” By that, I mean the use of metaphors from the machine realm to describe people, things, and concepts that are organic in nature. Words are metaphors, even and especially the concrete ones. The tree outside the window is not the sound you make when you read the word “tree,” nor is it the marks on the page. It is an identification of one thing with something it is not—a sound—in order to convey meaning. Metaphors work very well for this purpose. But every metaphor breaks down at some point (notice the mechanical metaphor in that sentence).
The stream is a sequined gown spilling from the mountain. That metaphor captures vividly the way the light catches the changing facets of water and reflects them back at the eye, and the folds of the flow as they resemble those of a dress swishing yet maintaining a certain form. However, it doesn’t capture the wetness of the water, the coldness, or the refreshing drink. Few of us would try to wear a stream as a garment, and we don’t suspect that some lady left it behind last night. Metaphors capture a certain essence, while ignoring other factors.
If we are conscious of our use of metaphors, this is fine, and at its best, its poetry. Sometimes, though, metaphors become unthinking habits. We repeat them with authority. They become identified with what they describe, rather than…a garment that can be put on or taken off depending on the occasion.
Is it possible that when metaphors become standard usage, we lose track of which part of the metaphor applies to the thing we describe? That isn’t to say with practice, people would perceive a stream as a gown. Clearly, that isn’t true. But would other features of gowns, other ways of relating to them, creep into the way we interact with mountain streams?
I might caution against perceiving water, a flowing and changing medium, as a dress, which is static and solid. Every part of a dress belongs to the owner, and I would worry we might think that a lake is a definite thing that can be owned in all its parts by a human—except that we already do. But I digress.
First Church of the Machine
Our culture has a fascination with the machine that borders on holy reverence. The Industrial Age has given us electricity, fast travel by land, sea, air, and space, computers, complex tools, life-saving techniques, consistency, comfort, and many other gifts. You could argue that the machine has earned its place as the ultimate model of description.
Efficiency and productivity have become virtues. A football teams runs like a well-oiled machine. We take input, process information, download things into our brains, call them up from memory, and output final products. You might fire up, shift gears, kick it into overdrive, or run out of gas. If someone can’t make sense of something, it doesn’t compute. We grease the works, throw a wrench in the plan, sabotage our chances.
Maybe these are harmless enough. Machines are simple compared to living beings. These metaphors allow us to make pointed comparisons in ways that most folks can understand.
Then what’s the problem? I noticed it in my own thought, and the way I direct my activities. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t make use of mechanical metaphors in my thinking and speech. Sometimes, they’re appropriate. But others, they exact a heavy toll on something that is living and breathing, and cannot play by the same rules that govern machines—in fact, suffers from such treatment.
To see why this might be the case, take a look at this list. It points out the contrasting features of mechanical vs. organic systems.
| Mechanical | Organic |
| Made by man of inorganic things | Made through organic processes of organic stuff |
| Someone understands every part and purpose of the system, purpose part of the design | no one understands in its totality, purpose obscure, doesn’t exist, or can evolve |
| Parts easily replaced by near-perfect duplicates | People, as in a business, cannot be replaced one for one |
| Damage must be fixed by outside agent | Self-healing; some damaged parts regenerate, others do not, sometimes accommodation is made around damage |
| Input type and sources controlled, top-down | Sensory input constant, uncontrolled, observance never ceases, bottom-up |
| Some do not learn, others Learning 1 (Bateson) | Learning 2+ (Bateson) |
| Follow precise rules to victory or death | Follow shifting, unspecified rule sets that change with context |
| Fragile or robust (hate failure) | Antifragile |
| No reward seeking or avoidance | Reward seeking and avoidance |
| Algorithmic | Intuitive |
There are important features of each kind of system that are not interchangeable. These aren’t superficial. They have to do with the basic structure and function of the system (note the frequent use of mechanical metaphors throughout this essay even when debating their worth—they’re hard to resist!).
The questions I hope to raise with this series have to do with the appropriateness of mechanical metaphors, and their effects on our thinking when we use them unconsciously. Doubtless, there are valuable lessons in the operation of machines, and I don’t see them as evil. But do we use them to push ourselves too hard, to demand ways of living that are harmful to life? Are they trotted out to justify abuses of not only other people, but the natural world? And heck, just for fun, are there ways we could use them effectively that we’re missing out on?
Stay tuned.