The Times They Are a-Changin'—Or Are They?

By: Melih Salli

American Progress (1872) by John Gast. Image via Wikimedia Commons.

On his 1963 album The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, Dylan offered a lyric that felt like consolation during an era defined by the Vietnam War, racial segregation, and the looming threat of nuclear annihilation: "Don't speak too soon, for the wheel's still in spin." To our later generation, those words remain an undeniable reality. Today, we are rained upon by tools of prosperity and innovation that previous generations could never have imagined. Every waking hour introduces another ultimate innovation that dictates new societal norms, dragging along new ideologies to help us make sense of them. Yet, beneath this churn, our human nature has not change. We are carried across these innovations like a sailboat; while the hull may be battered, ruptured, and worn down by the conditions of the water, the core of the boat remains exactly what it was when it launched.

Over the course of rapid modernization, the essence of who we are has stayed the same. The common desires, fears, and emotions found in every human being have not been eradicated. Whether someone lives in an isolated tribe or a modern metropolis, their emotional and biological baselines are entirely static. So, if our nature remains unchanged, why do we approach the world so drastically differently? The answer lies in our philosophical interpretations. While we haven't changed, our environment has produced rapid, unexpected developments that we were never trained to handle. Like animals in a forest blindly fleeing a sudden, rapidly expanding wildfire, humans are swept up by technological shifts that overwhelm our societies. But unlike animals, we possess moral agency. We have the ability to grant meaning to chaos. Our interpretations are simply an effort to keep our heads above water and remain as close to our nature as possible. All our new ideologies and philosophical trends are not signs of enlightenment—they are desperate coping mechanisms to treat the alienation.

But does this imply that before the frantic drive for modern efficiency took hold of our humanity, we were simple, peaceful creatures? Were we just doing rituals around the fire every day, getting along, and making love while fragile wine bottles and cured meats bore witness? The reality is far less utopian,  much to the sadness of those who hold a purely hopeful view of humanity’s past. To understand this, we must look at the contrasting visions of two foundational philosophers: Thomas Hobbes and Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Thomas Hobbes, a 17th-century pre-Enlightenment thinker, was a fierce apologist for the royal crown. During the bloody chaos of the English Civil War, while his "Cavalier" brethren held the flag for the absolute strength of the monarch, Hobbes lived in a self-imposed exile in Paris. There, he spent his time writing what would become a foundational handbook of political realism: Leviathan.

Frontispiece of Thomas Hobbes's Leviathan (1651). Image via Wikimedia Commons.

Hobbes believed that the only reason we form alliances—or, to put it simply, become members of a state—is because our pre-modern ancestors lived through what he called the "state of nature." He defined this as a state of relentless cruelty, where humans were driven by a savage compulsion to preserve themselves. It was a world so violent that constructing even the slightest companionship with fellow travelers on this grisly voyage called life seemed impossible. While this may look like a chaotic sum of individual fears, it was certainly not a reality the collective wanted to endure indefinitely. The relentless unrest of the state of nature brought forth the idea of the Sovereign—an entity that determines the rule of law to eliminate conflict and hostility. This relationship is built on a simple trade-off: humans surrender their boundless, dangerous freedom in exchange for protection from the reckless harm caused by the freedom of others. Hobbes believed this social contract saved us from our own nature and created a system of prosperity and flourishing.

And this is exactly where Jean-Jacques Rousseau enters the picture, ready to turn that entire premise upside down. 

Portrait of Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Image via Wikimedia Commons.

Rousseau was committed to the idea that Hobbes had it completely backward. For him, human beings in their natural state were not driven by a selfish desire to extend their lineage at the expense of others' freedom. Instead, we were solitary, self-sufficient creatures. This self-sufficiency did not convert into a demonic desire to exploit each other; rather, it was driven by a healthy instinct for self-preservation that Rousseau called amour de soi. This simple energy allowed us to fulfill our most basic needs—food, shelter, and warmth—without ever needing to dominate one another or commit to a communal lifestyle.

Nevertheless, as is the theme of this article, growth is both an irresistible and condemning aspect of human populations. For Rousseau’s philosophical framework, this growth is what made everything start to fall apart. As populations expanded, unplanned human interactions began to evolve. Through these forced interactions, a catalyst took place: a split in humanity's hierarchy of needs. For instance, to attain a sexual partner and ensure the continuation of one’s bloodline, humans gained a hyper-awareness of their own attractiveness relative to others. Just like every other aspect of communal habitation, existence became a competition. Daily competitions that we have to participate in on a daily basis, have established the ground for constant comparison with those who have agreed to play these  implicit games. This paved the way for  what Rousseau called amour de propre - an artificial, toxic pride that only exists in relation to others. Suddenly, your self-worth was determined by how you were quantified in the eyes of our peers. This perceived credibility dictated exactly  how far you can advance in your own life. Relying entirely on the perception of the crowd naturally led to disingenuous relationship building. Every interaction evolved to be a calculated, transactional move, a societal game where everyone looked out for their own interest under the guise  of companionship. 

This brings us back to the wildfires of our modern-world. If Rousseau saw the beginnings of amour-propre in our early social interactions,  he would view our current era of hyper-connectivity as the disease fully realized. Today we do not just compare ourselves to our neighbours; we have the entire globe under our fingertips, providing an endless stream of new metrics for our self-worth . Our digital lives are the ultimate architecture of amour-propre - a system where our credibility and attractiveness are quantified through likes and swipes for all to see. 

The dizzying pace of this innovation pushes us further and further from our  static biological baseline, creating immense psychological friction. To survive this strain, we invent. We draft new ideologies, embrace extreme political factions, champion modern lifestyle trends - from digital minimalism to hustle culture- trying to make sense of the chaos. But we must not mistake these trends for human evolution or moral enlightenment. They are simply our coping mechanisms, modern bandages applied to ancient anxiety. We will undoubtedly spend the rest of our history drafting new social contracts to solve our political fractures. We will relentlessly invent new philosophical frameworks to soothe eternal alienations we feel inside the hyper-connected villages we have built. But no matter how advanced the coming mechanisms, none will ever reach the human core. Just as Bob Dylan warned, the wheel’s still in spin. The times will always be changing, but we will always be the exact same sailors, riding out the storm.