The necessary conquest of the superfluous, to make sense of all that remains

The concept of utility lies at the heart of much of Western economic and social development, and therefore of the entire world. Between the late 18th century and the mid-19th century, first Jeremy Bentham, then John Stuart Mill and others formalised, within the philosophical concept of utilitarianism, the possibility of peaceful coexistence amongst people through the pursuit of the greatest good and the least harm for the greatest number, via a system of substantial individual freedom. Utility – that is, that which can bring about an increase in individual well-being, and almost always that of the community as a whole – became a ‘secular’, anti-ideological concept, free from fanaticism, through which to pursue growth that was as individual and free as it was shared by the entire community.

There seems to be no more peaceful and less tyrannical way of leading and managing human societies than to base them on the principle of utility. As for how this concept has also, and in parallel, gone hand in hand with the development of the capitalist economic system, it scarcely requires further explanation. The word ‘utility’ encapsulates both its social meaning and its individual and economic meaning. What is sometimes overlooked is that utilitarianism was also an extraordinary form of humanism and humanitarianism. In fact, it arose not so much from the idea of ‘maximising pleasure’ (utilitarianism is not hedonism!) but of minimising suffering by seeking to create the conditions for everyone to pursue happiness (or at least to suffer as little as possible).

Over time, utilitarianism has not only become the central driving force of the Western economic system, but has also become a significant aspect of public morality. Contrary to what one might think, the idea of ‘minimising suffering’ – so central to our ‘protective’ society, our society that aspires to be ‘pain-free’ and trauma-free – stems precisely from this perspective. After all, with the disappearance of the great ‘ideologies of salvation’ – whether religious, secular or political – which viewed suffering as a necessary transition towards a greater ‘Good’, there can inevitably be nothing left for everyone and for each individual but the pursuit of minimising suffering.

However, every human being knows in their heart – it is quite obvious – that life cannot be reduced to utility. Indeed, sometimes it is worth doing something that goes against utilitarianism in order to seek what each of us might consider a ‘greater good’, even if it is non-utilitarian, even if it results in a utilitarian misallocation of resources and capital. In short, as is quite obvious, utility cannot be the final word on human existence. Otherwise, machines in general – and AI in particular – will surely be better able than we are to show us ‘the path to utility’. Human existence would thus be reduced to nothing more than utility managed by algorithms that tell us how to maximise our lives according to criteria of the ‘good life’ established by a system that knows better than we do how to manage our own existential resources. Yet since the utilitarian perspective remains, after all, important and valid, the question is not one of doing away with it, but rather, let us say, of saving it somewhat from itself, from its relentless proceduralism.

To achieve this, the most effective approach is to remember just how necessary “the useless” is, and perhaps read La conquista dell’inutile – a title that is in itself highly programmatic – namely, the delirious production diary of the film Fitzcarraldo, written by the director Werner Herzog himself. A senseless yet grandiose epic spanning almost three years, beginning in the late 1970s, in which the German director plunges deep into the Amazon rainforest to tell the story of a delusional, penniless music-lover who became a rubber trader in the early 20th century, whose sole dream is to make enough money to build an opera house in Iquitos, a Peruvian Amazonian village, and bring the great tenor Enrico Caruso there to perform. To achieve this, amongst other things, he must undertake a titanic feat: hauling a colossal merchant ship over a hill using only muscle power and ropes, so as to open up a new trade route that will make him incredibly wealthy. Of course, the venture descends into chaos for both Fitzcarraldo and Herzog, yet both narratives—the one on screen and the real-life production—ultimately culminate in an aesthetic triumph.

Herzog’s diary reveals a desire to throw himself into an adventure that could cost him his life. Indeed, it seems that this adventure is worthwhile only because it could cost him his life amidst snakes, rats, bats, hostile indigenous people, and appalling sanitary and environmental conditions. Yet it becomes clear that what matters, what he seeks to achieve – that ‘uselessness’ he pursues in his physical and creative adventure – is, in reality, what is most essential. It is that which transcends everyday life, inevitably governed by utility. This ‘surplus’, represented by the useless, is, however, what actually constitutes the driving force behind an entire existence. The possibility of a work of art, or a gesture, or an absolute moment (a ship to be carried over a hill, Enrico Caruso singing in the Amazon rainforest), which provides the true meaning to everything else, to all that remains—that is, to the useful.

In short, one could say that without the useless, the useful loses its meaning. For the useful would then be nothing more than a mere procedure that AI will be able to carry out ever more effectively than any human being, and in which the human being could be nothing more than its functionary. In this sense, only the useless can save us.