A review of From Russia with Code: Programming Migrations in Post-Soviet Times, Mario Biagioli and Vincent Antonin Lépinay eds., Duke University Press, 2019.
From Russia with Code is the product of a three-year research effort by an international team of scholars connected to the European University at Saint Petersburg (EUSP). It benefited from the patronage of two important figures: Bruno Latour, who pioneered science and technology studies (STS) in France and oversaw the creation of a Medialab at Sciences Po in Paris; and Oleg Kharkhodin, a Russian political scientist with a PhD from the University of California at Berkeley who served as EUSP’s rector during most of the duration of the study. Based on more than three hundred in-depth interviews conducted from 2013 through 2015, the research project also benefited from a rare window of opportunity offered by political conditions prevalent back then. Supported by a consortium of Western research institutions, it was partially funded by a grant from the Ministry of Education and Science of the Russian Federation for the study of high-skill brain migration. It could build on the solid foundation of EUSP, a private graduate institute whose academic independence is secured by an endowment fund that is one of the biggest in the country. The brain drain of IT specialists was obviously a matter of concern for Russian authorities, as surveys showed that in 2014 the emigration of Russian scientists and entrepreneurs was by a wide margin the highest since 1999. The movement was amplified after 2014 by Russia’s decision to annex the Crimean Peninsula and, in 2022, by its all-in war of aggression against Ukraine. Conditions for fieldwork-based studies and international research projects in Russia would certainly be different today. The book’s chapter on civic hackers illustrates how fast the ground has moved in the past ten years: most of the civic tech projects it describes were affiliated with the foundation created by Alexey Navalny, a Russian opposition leader who was detained in 2021 and died in a high-security prison in February 2024.
Preventing the brain drain
The research questions framing the project demonstrate how social science can contribute to policy discussions while translating practical issues into scholarly interrogations. The concerns of the Russian authorities that sponsored the project are well reflected in the topics covered and the questions addressed. How can Russia prevent or reverse the brain drain that was perceived as a direct threat to the nation’s sovereignty? How to avoid dependence on Western imports and cultivate world leaders in an industry dominated by the GAFA? Is import substitution in the IT sector a viable strategy, or should the country rely on foreign direct investment and integration into global value chains? Could Russia create its own version of Silicon Valley by encouraging the clustering of industries in special economic zones and technoparks? These questions are reframed and displaced through the lenses of disciplinary studies mobilized by the members of the research team: STS, transition to market theory, economic geography, innovation policy studies, corporate management, migration studies, and so on. But mostly, From Russia with Code helps answer the questions that readers familiar with IT all know too well: why are Russian programmers so talented and prized by the market? What explains their unique combination of skills, and how to integrate these skills into a foreign business setting? Is it true that their technical prowess is offset by a lack of managerial skills and poor entrepreneurial spirit? The list of famous Russian IT developers include Andrei Chernov, one of the founders of the Russian Internet and the creator of the KOI8-R character encoding; Andrey Ershov, whose research on the mathematical nature of compilation was recognized with the prestigious Krylov Prize; Mikhail Donskoy, a leading developer of Kaissa, the first computer chess champion; Alexey Pajitnov, inventor of Tetris; and Yevgeny Kaspersky, founder of cybersecurity and anti-virus provider Kaspersky Lab. Russia is one of the few countries that is not dominated by Google, Facebook, and WhatsApp, but that has developed its own search engine (Yandex), social network (VKontakte) and message app (Telegram). As a last question that lurks into readers’ minds: what are Russian hackers really up to, and should we be afraid of their cyberattack capabilities?
The standard diagnosis on Russia’s IT capacity is framed by transition theory and posits that “Russians historically have been good at invention but poor at innovation.” Russian computer scientists built successful academic careers outside their homeland, and many global technological giants such as Apple, Google, Intel, Microsoft, or Amazon retain Russian programers as valuable talents. Yet Russian IT entrepreneurs are scarce either in Russia or abroad, and outstanding success stories are the exception rather than the rule. It took one generation to produce a Sergey Brin, co-founder of Google, who arrived in the United States at the age of six where his Russian Jewish parents typically pursued a teaching and research career instead of turning to the corporate world. The virtuosity of Russian software programmers is often explained by their high-level training in mathematics and pure science. The Soviet Union maintained a top-class scientific apparatus, from the fizmat model high schools specializing in math and physics to the dense network of research institutes, science cities, and elite academic institutions like the Academy of Sciences. This strong institutional basis translated into a high number of Nobel prizes and science olympiad laureates. Russian IT developers are praised for their deep interest and immersion in research, an inventive turn of mind, the ability to think independently and offer innovative solutions, and their intuitive grasp of complex problems. But they are also lambasted for their lack of management and entrepreneurial skills. Management was something to which Soviet scientists and science students had virtually no exposure. Even now, business culture is still perceived by many in the community as a superfluous and even disingenuous element. According to the standard view, Russian tech specialists are often interested mainly in new and technically exciting projects, to the point where they disregard the interest of their clients. They tend to think that if an idea is good technically, it will automatically translate into commercial success. They are criticized for a lack of business acumen, poor business etiquette, a certain intolerance for risk, a limited sense of the global market, and disinterest in management issues, which they see as “bullshit.”
Lack of management skills
The studies assembled in From Russia with Code both validate and complicate this diagnosis. Russian IT specialist are certainly heirs to a tradition that values the plan over the market, pure science over applied technology, and developing elegant responses to abstract questions over providing practical solutions to specific problems. Technical skills can be acquired using brute force and a sound foundation in basic science; management culture is taking much longer to cultivate and is more reliant on “soft skills.” The history of computer science in the Soviet Union lies at the root of the differences in programming cultures between East and West. As long as informatics remained a basic science akin to applied mathematics, Soviet scientists remained at the forefront of the discipline. Although cybernetics was initially perceived as an American “reactionary pseudoscience,” it quickly became part of a vision of a socialist information society. As in the United States, early computers were intended for scientific and military calculations. A universally programmable electronic computer known as MESM was created in 1950 by a team of scientists directed by Sergey Lebedev at the Kiev Institute of Electrotechnology. Electrical engineering and programming was one of the few careers in the Soviet Union that was relatively open to Jews and to women: hence their large numbers in these professions. The engineering education was fairly broad, with heavy emphasis on mathematics and physics, but without much foundation in computers: according to one former student, “learning to program without computers was akin to learning to swim without water.” Hardware limitations forced Soviet programmers to write programs in machine code until the early 1970s. By that time, the Soviet government decided to abandon development of original computer designs and encouraged cloning of existing Western systems. A program to expand computer literacy in Soviet schools was one of the first initiatives announced by Mikhail Gorbachev after he came to power in 1985. A network of afterschool education centers carrying programming classes for children led to a wide popularity of Basic and other programming languages.
A half century’s worth of Soviet experience with computing did not just disappear overnight with the end of the Soviet Union. Russians continued to play by the old rules they had internalized in the Soviet economy. The technical skills that Russian software programmers are internationally appreciated for and identified with are skills they have developed through the very specific Russian (and formerly Soviet) educational system. A case study of Yandex, the company behind Russia’s main search engine and the fourth-largest in the world, illustrates how coding socializes IT workers and creates communities of practice aligned with corporate objectives. Computer codes are written in languages that need to be executed by machines, thus leaving no space for semantic ambiguities. At the same time, and for the same reason, there is a specific sociality to code to the extent that lines of code also encapsulate relationships of collaboration, training, and skill transfer. At Yandex, young recruits are encouraged to immerse themselves in the source code of the company and to spot errors or typos for debugging. This way they learn the conventions of the community, all of which are inscribed in the codebase. Face-to-face interactions and oral communication are limited, as developers work from different office buildings and spend most of their time facing their computer screen, writing code or discussing through chatboxes. Yandex has a tradition of writing code without including comments in natural language: the code should be able to “speak for itself” by being accurate, simple, and “clean.” The very first thing every new employee has to learn is how to make code readable and to improve its utility for human readers. As in other programming communities, there is a difference in style between the “mathematicians” who prefer high-level languages such as Python and the “engineers” who favor low-level languages like C++. But projects at Yandex often mix the two approaches, while the corpus they create remains open to criticism and correction. All employees have access to the full codebase of the company and are free to comment on ongoing projects, upholding long-held principles of communal help that hark back to an idealized Soviet past.
Smart cities and technoparks
A key concern of policymakers is to create conditions by which IT industry can flourish. Interventions to promote public-private partnerships and foster cooperation between institutions and actors occur at different scales, from macro to micro: special economic zones, regional corridors, smart cities, creative hubs, technoparks, startup incubators, rentable work-space, and so on. Russia can build upon a model of science promotion that has concentrated resources in isolated science cities and non-teaching research institutions such as the Academy of Sciences. It has been successful at generating scientific breakthrough and achieving technological milestones in fields such as space exploration or the nuclear arms race. However, it has failed consistently in translating scientific discovery into technological innovation and market success. Commercialization was never a priority in the planned economy. In the IT sector, where innovation was increasingly driven by the market, the Soviet Union soon lost its advance in basic science and cybernetics and was reduced to licensing or copying Western technologies. Emerging from the ruins of the Soviet Union, the Russian state had its own particular vision of IT development. It was aiming at not simply imitating the West, but at keeping innovation within state control through authoritarian policy decisions and administrative guidance. But instead of supporting existing science cities and research institutions, the state decided to build a new technological apparatus separate from the Soviet one and inspired by the Silicon Valley model. As a result, Russia got the worst of both worlds: increased competition and the profit motive brought many IT professionals to exit the country in search of more remunerative opportunities, while domestically industrial policy gestured toward Silicon Valley but continued to follow the template of the old Soviet science apparatus. Created with great fanfare by then President Dmitry Medvedev, the Skolkovo “Innovative City” is almost impossible to find on a map and very difficult to go to from Moscow. At the time oof the book’s writing, it was criticized for “inefficiency, corruption, high rents, a complicated architectural plan, and a failing program for the support of startup companies.” Technoparks have been established in many other Russian cities to host both IT startups and larger technology companies. But local authorities are competing against each other through incentives and subsidies programs, while thousands of IT specialists have left the country and are likely never to return. Meanwhile, grassroots initiatives and homegrown developments were annihilated by the state’s attempt to regain control over peripheral regions. In the Russian Far East, a thriving ecosystem built around the online trading of used Japanese cars was suppressed by one stroke of a pen when the Russian state decided to impose a hefty levy over imported cars of more than five years. Other experiments such as Kazan’s self-branding as “the capital of the Russian IT industry” have met with more support from the centralizing state whose priorities are aligned with the interests of local politicians in Tatarstan. However, at present the city plan remains more a layout than a fully functional smart city, and the reader cannot escape the feeling of being led through a Potemkin village by an overtly enthusiastic research guide. It is easy to adopt the jargon of IT success and talk the talk of startup promotion. To walk the walk is another matter.
Russia’s soviet heritage continues to linger in the present. But the Western capitalist model exemplified by Silicon Valley doesn’t represent the sole alternative. Not all Western countries share the same approach to running IT business. Elements of the socialist model, such as an orientation towards social justice, have influenced policies and mindset in Scandinavia, where Russian expatriates appreciate the communalist ethos and the family-friendly environment. Other Russian migrants who have relocated to Boston or to Israel place high value on a corporate capitalist model of large organizations which are both risk-adverse and profit-oriented. As the last article in the book concludes, “the entrepreneurial capitalism of Silicon Valley is not the only game in town.” There are circumstances when a ”socialist” technological model or a “corporate” capitalist model are more applicable than the purely “entrepreneurial” model of IT startups and venture capital. From a Russian perspective, it makes sense to cultivate the tradition of high technical skills and complex problem-solving that constitute Russia’s soviet heritage. Business models that originate ion the academic community are quite distinct from the capitalist motive or profit generation. Even in the West, open source programming and the free software movement have led to sustainable ventures and now undergird a vast portion of today’s internet. Moreover, the lack of entrepreneurial spirit by Russian IT specialists may be due to institutional factors: the lax attitude toward intellectual property, the absence of trust among young professionals, the relative isolation of Russia from global trade patterns, the absence of venture capital and related services to scale up enterprising businesses, the shadow of the criminal economy, etc. According to the authors, the brain drain narrative also needs to be complicated. Experiences of work migration by IT professionals from India or China have demonstrated that the “brain drain” is not an unfixable curse and can instead be viewed as “brain circulation,” with people looking for better conditions regardless of the country. Here again, the profit motive is not the only driver of individual decisions. Student and young researcher mobility is increasingly part of the academic curriculum, and the choice of destination is often motivated by existing collaborative networks or diasporic connexions. Scholars get a first taste of academic life abroad by spending a few months as a postdoctoral student or a guest lecturer before considering more long-term migration options. The same process of migrating step-by-step can also be found in a corporate environment where the decision to relocate is preceded by offshoring contracts and temporary missions. The story of Russian Jewish IT practitioners migrating to Boston during the Soviet period dispels the myth of the “tech maverick” and shows that migrants often have to re-train and upgrade their skills sets before they can find employment in US companies. The concept of brain drain assumes a kind of inherent and fixed value to the “brains” that leave their homeland and settle abroad. In practice however, migration often leads to occupational downgrading, deprofessionalization and de-skilling, as highly educated graduates lacking connexions and job-search skills become employed in low-skilled work or, at best, “upper-middle tech” in big US corporations. The failure to produce technological entrepreneurs among Russian immigrants should not be read as a result of their inability to operate in a capitalist economy or as a lack of entrepreneurial skills. Considering the limited options offered to migrants in a new environment, settling in for a mid-level corporate position in a large corporation instead of starting a new high-risk venture seems like a reasonable option.
The shadow of cyber criminality
In addition to the three models identified by the authors—socialist, entrepreneurial, or corporate—, there is a fourth model that they don’t consider in their essays: the criminal one. Much late-Soviet entrepreneurial activity emerged as an antidote to the country’s collapsing economy, and the idea of “dishonest speculation” was seen as the predominant form of engaging In business activities. From semi-legal market practices to criminal activities, there was only a fine line that many young professionals equipped with IT skills were ready to cross. The same skills that made fizmat school graduates valuable on the IT job market could also be turned toward quick gains in the shadow economy. During Russia’s market transition, the grey zone between legitimate, semi-legal, and illegal activity led to surprising developments, such as a publicly organized conference of avowed criminals that took place at Hotel Odessa in May 2002. The First Worldwide Carders Conference was convened by the administrators of CarderPlanet, a website on the dark web that specialized in mediating between vendors and purchasers of stolen credit card data. In the early age of e-commerce, when American banks and card issuers lagged behind in the chip-and-PIN technology which their European counterparts had developed, “carding” or credit card fraud became a very lucrative activity. Russian fizmat kids with access to a computer and an Internet connexion turned into early-day hackers and cybercriminals. CarderPlanet became the breeding ground of a whole generation who turned to cybercrime for lack of better opportunities in the context of a crumbling economy and a disintegrating state. Later on, these hackers turned to ransomware as the preferred mode of attack and to bitcoin as the privileged means of payment. Russian cybercriminality cannot be understood without appreciating its relationship to Russian national security interests. Early on the FSB, Russia’s secret service, made it clear that any criminal operation against domestic state interests was clearly off-limits and would be met with strong retaliation. Later on, criminal gangs were mobilized into cyber attacks against newly independent states such as Estonia or Georgia. Members of cyber gangs were also recruited into notorious state-backed hacking teams such as APT28 or Unit 26165. Cybercriminals hide behind anonymity services, encrypted communications, middlemen, puppet accounts, and pseudonyms. This makes it challenging for law enforcement agencies, let alone social scientists, to track them or describe their practices. A few facts highlighted by From Russia with Code might however be relevant here. Like conventional Russian software developers, Russian cybercriminals and hackers are likely to value technical prowess and coding virtuosity above all else. For them, code is a political instrument that has the power to challenge geopolitical power relations and capitalist business interests. Code also serves to create groups and communal identities of like-minded professionals, like the software-writing teams at Yandex. Studying their coding style and particular signature may help intelligence agencies to attribute cyberattacks to known actors in Russia, thereby responding to the challenge of attribution in cyber warfare. Like the professionals described in the book, Russian cybercriminals’ relation to the motherland is likely to be transactional. They are also geographically mobile, and need to venture abroad to close some illicit transactions, which gives Western law-enforcement agencies an opportunity to locate them and bring them behind bars. Most participants in the 2002 CarderPlanet Conference have been identified, tracked down, arrested, and condemned by justice.
The relations between science and fiction have nowhere been any closer than on the planet Mars. The genre of science fiction literally began with imagining life on Mars; and some of its most popular entries nowadays are stories of how humans could settle on the red planet and make it more like the Earth. Planetary science originally took Mars as its object and tried to project onto Mars what scientists knew about the climate and geology on Earth. Now this interest for Martian affairs is coming back to Earth, as scientists are applying knowledge derived from studying Mars to the study of the Earth’s planetary dynamics. Mars’ image as a dying planet has been invoked to support competing, even antithetical views, of the fate of our world and its inhabitants: a glorious future of interplanetary expansion and space conquest, or a bleak fate of environmental devastation and human extinction. Science has not completely closed the issue on whether life has ever existed on Mars; but visions of extraterrestrial civilizations and space invaders have been superseded by narratives centered on mankind and its cosmic manifest destiny. This intimate relationship between science and fiction under the sign of Mars is now more than one century old, but shows no sign of abating. What is it in Mars that inflames people’s imagination from one generation to the next? Why has Mars attracted more interest than our closest satellite, the Moon, or than more distant planets in the solar system such as Venus or Saturn? Are there commonalities between the way our ancestors envisioned channels built by Martian civilizations and more recent visions of making Mars suitable for human sojourn? Will the detailed inventory of the Martian terrain brought back by satellite images and camera-equipped rovers put an end to our interest for the red planet, or will it rekindle a new space age with the colonization of Mars as its overarching goal? And how can our visions of planetary expansion avoid the pitfalls of colonial metaphors and Earth-based anthropocentrism?
Is there a pathway that goes “from information theory to French Theory”? Straying away from the familiar itineraries of intellectual history, Bernard Dionysius Geoghegan invites us to take a path less trodden: a detour that allows the reader to revisit famous milestones in the development of cybernetics and digital media, and to connect them to scholarly debates stemming from fields of study as distant as structural anthropology, family therapy, and literary semiology. Detours and shortcuts are deviations from linear progression, reminding the traveler that there is no one best way to reach a point of destination. Similarly, there are several ways to read this book. One is to start from the beginning, and proceed until the end, from the birth of communication science during the Progressive Era in the United States to the heydays of French seminars in sciences humaines in the Quartier latin before mai 68. Another way is to start from the conclusion, “Coding Today”, and to read the whole book in reverse order as a genealogy of the cultural analytics used today by big data specialists and modern codifiers of culture. A third approach would be to start from the fifth and last chapter on “Cybernetics and French Theory” and to see how casting cultural objects in terms of codes, structures, and signifiers relates to previous methodologies of treating communication as information, signals, and patterns. The common point of these three approaches to reading Code is to emphasize the crossing of boundaries: disciplinary boundaries between technical sciences and the humanities; political demarcations between social engineering and cultural critique; and transatlantic borders between North America and France. The gallery of scientists and intellectuals that the book summons is reflective of this broad sweep: Norbert Wiener, Warren Weaver, Margaret Mead, Gregory Bateson, Claude Lévi-Strauss, Roman Jakobson, Jacques Lacan, Roland Barthes, and Luce Irigaray are seldom assembled in a single essay; yet this is the challenge that Code raises, inviting us to hold together disciplines and methodologies that are usually kept separate.
Susan M. Squier believes drawings, cartoons, and comic strips should play a role in science and in medicine. Not only in the waiting room of the medical doctor or during the pauses scientists take from work, but straight into the curriculum of science students and in the prescriptions given to ailing patients. She even has a word for it: graphic medicine, or the application of the cartoonist’s art to problems of health and disease. Her point is not only that laughing or smiling while reading a comic book may have beneficial effects on the patient’s morale and health. Works of graphic medicine can enable greater understanding of medical procedures, and can even generate new research questions and clinical approaches. Cartoons can help treat cancer; they might even contribute to cancer research. Pretending otherwise is to adhere to a reductionist view of science that excludes some people, especially women and the artistically inclined, from the laboratory. In order to make science more inclusive, scientists should espouse “explanatory pluralism” and remain open to nonverbal forms of communication, including drawings and pictures. Comics and cartoons are a legitimate source of knowledge production and information sharing, allowing for an embodied and personal experience to be made social. They are providing new ways to look at things, enabling new modes of intervention, and putting research content in visual form. In comics, body posture and gesture occupy a position of primacy over text, and graphic medicine therefore facilitates an encounter with the whole patient instead of focusing on abstract parameters such as illness or diagnosis. Studies are already suggesting that medical students taught to make their own comics become more empathetic caregivers as doctors. Health-care workers, patients, family members, and caregivers should be encouraged to create their own comics and to circulate them as a form of people-centered mode of knowledge creation.
When I heard Lisa Messeri had written an ethnography about space research, my first reaction was: what’s an anthropologist like her doing in a place like this? How can one study outer space with the tools and methods of social science? What is the distinct contribution of the anthropologist in a field dominated by rocket scientists and big bang theoreticians? What can the cosmos teach us about ourselves that is not grounded in hard science and space observatory data? To be sure, there is no anthropos to study in outer space, and other worlds are beyond the grasp of the ethnographer. The sociology of other planets remains a big question mark. So far, you cannot make participatory observation in space stations or conduct fieldwork on Mars. We may hire anthropologists, linguists, semioticians, and indeed all the help we can get when we encounter extraterrestrial civilizations and extraplanetary forms of life; but so far these close encounters of the third type remain the stuff of science-fiction novels and blockbuster movies. But on second thought, an anthropologist in outer space is not completely out of place. Anthropologists have always accompanied explorers and discoverers to the frontiers of human knowledge. They helped us understand alien cultures and foreign civilizations to make them less distant, and drew lessons from their immersion into other worlds for our own society. Anthropologists make the strange and the alien look familiar, and the “view from afar” that they advocate also makes our own planet look alien and unfamiliar. They also help us make sense of science’s results and methods, and have been a trusted if somewhat critical companion of scientific research and laboratory life. Science and technology studies (STS in the jargon) have taught us that natural scientists—contrary to a common prejudice—are never simply depicting or describing reality out there “just as it is”: their research is always characterized by a specific style and colored by the “scientific imagination.”
Capacity building is the holy grail of development cooperation. It refers to the process by which individuals and organizations as well as nations obtain, improve, and retain the skills, knowledge, tools, equipment, and other resources needed to achieve development. Like a scaffolding, official development assistance is only a temporary fixture; it pursues the goal of making itself irrelevant. The partner country, it insists, needs to be placed in the driver’s seat and implement its domestically-designed policies on its own terms. Once capacity is built and the development infrastructure is in place, technical assistance is no longer needed. National programs, funded by fiscal resources and private capital, can pursue the task of development and pick up from where foreign experts and ODA projects left off. And yet, in most cases, building capacity proves elusive. The landscape of development cooperation is filled with failed projects, broken-down equipment, useless consultant reports, and empty promises. Developing countries are playing catch-up with an ever receding target. As local experts master skills and technologies are transferred, new technologies emerge and disrupt existing practices. Creative destruction wreaks havoc fixed capacity and accumulated capital. Development can even be destructive and nefarious. The ground on which the book opens, the commune of Ngagne Diaw near Senegal’s capital city Dakar, is made toxic by the poisonous effluents of used lead-acid car batteries that inhabitants process to recycle heavy metals and scrape a living. Other locations in rural areas are contaminated with stockpiles of pesticides that have leaked into soil and water ecosystems.
In 1980, smallpox, also known as variola, became the only human infectious disease ever to be completely eradicated. Smallpox had plagued humanity since times immemorial. It is believed to have appeared around 10,000 BC, at the time of the first agricultural settlements. Stains of smallpox were found in Egyptian mummies, in ancient Chinese tombs, and among the Roman legions. Long before germ theory was developed and bacteria or viruses could be observed, humanity was already familiar with ways to prevent the disease and to produce a remedy. The technique of variolation, or exposing patients to the disease so that they develop immunity, was already known to the Chinese in the fifteenth century and to India, the Ottoman Empire, and Europe in the eighteenth century. In 1796, Edward Jenner developed the first vaccine by noticing that milkmaids who had gotten cowpox never contracted smallpox. Calves or children produced the cowpox lymph that was then inoculated to patients to vaccinate them from smallpox. Vaccination became widely accepted and gradually replaced the practice of variolation. By the end of the nineteenth century, Europeans vaccinated most of their children and they brought the technique to the colonies, where it was nonetheless slow to take hold. In 1959, the World Health Organization initiated a plan to rid the world of smallpox. The concept of global health emerged from that enterprise and, as a result of these efforts, the World Health Assembly declared smallpox eradicated in 1980 and recommended that all countries cease routine smallpox vaccination.
There is a renewed interest in the United States for art-and-technology projects. Tech firms have money to spend on the arts to buttress their image of cool modernity; universities want to break the barriers between science and the humanities; and artists are looking for material opportunities to explore new modes of working. Recent initiatives mixing art, science, and technology include
Infrahumanisms directs a multidisciplinary gaze on what it means to be human or less-than-human in twentieth century America. The author, who teaches American Studies at Wesleyan University, combines the approaches of historiography, animal studies, science studies, gender studies, ethnic studies, and other strands of cultural studies, to build new analytical tools and to apply them to a range of issues that have marked the United States’ recent history: children and primates caught in a process of bioexpansionism from the 1900s to the 1930s; extraterrestriality or the pursuit of posthuman life in outer space from the 1940s to the 1970s; and the interiority of cross-species contagion and hybridity from the 1980s to the 2010s. Judged by historiography’s standards, the book lacks the recourse to previously unexploited archives and new textual documents that most historians consider as essential for original contributions to their field. The empirical base of Infrahumanisms is composed of published books and articles, secondary analyses drawn from various disciplines, and theories offered by various authors. There are no interviews or testimonies drawn from oral history or direct observations from ethnographic fieldwork, no unearthing of new documents or unexploited archives, and no attempt to quantify or to measure statistical correlations. This piece of scholarship is firmly grounded in the qualitative methodologies and humanistic viewpoints that define American Studies on US campuses. The only novel approach proposed by the book is to use a range of photographies and visual sources as primary material and to complement textual commentary with the tools of visual analysis borrowed from media studies. But what Infrahumanisms lacks in methodological originality is more than compensated by its theoretical deftness. Megan Glick innovates in the research questions that she applies to her sample of empirical data and in the theory that she builds out of her constant back-and-forth between facts and abstraction. She does conceptual work as other social scientists do fieldwork, and offers experience-near concepts or mid-range theorizing as a way to contribute to the expansion of her research field. In particular, her use of animal studies is very novel: just like minority studies gave birth to white studies within the framework of ethnic studies, or feminism led to masculinism in the field of gender analysis, Megan Glick complements animal studies with the cultural analysis of humans as a species. Exit the old humanities that once defined American studies or literary criticism; welcome to the post-humanities of human studies that patrol the liminalities and borderings of the human species.
When Russia broke away from socialism, reformers implemented a set of economic policies known as “shock therapy” that included privatization, marketization, price liberalization, and shrinking of social expenditures. In retrospect, critics claim there was “too much shock, too little therapy”: the economy spiraled down into a deep recession, currency devaluations sent prices up, and inequalities exploded. Huge fortunes were built over the privatization of state assets while the vast majority of the population experienced economic hardships and moral disarray. The indicators of social well-being went into alert mode: the psychological shock and mental distress that was caused by Russia’s transition to market economy was evidenced in higher rates of suicide, alcoholism, early death, and divorce, as well as precarious living conditions. People learned to adapt to freedom and the market the hard way: some took refuge in an idealized vision of the Soviet past, while for others traditional values of Russian nationalism and Orthodox christianity substituted for a lack of moral compass. The society as a whole experienced post-traumatic stress disorder. But contrary to the claim that economic shock therapy was “all shock and no therapy”, on the psychological front at least, therapy came in large supply. During the 1990s and 2000s, there was a boom in psychotherapeutic practices in postsocialist Russia, with an overwhelming presence of psychology in talk shows, media columns, education services, family counseling, self-help books, and personal-growth seminars. Shell-shocked Russians turned to mind training and counseling as a way to adapt to their new market environment. Political and economic transformations were accompanied by a transformation of the self: in order to deal with “biopoliticus interruptus”, homo sovieticus gave way to a psychologized homo economicus. Long repressed, discourses of the self flourished in talk therapies and speech groups in which, under condition of anonymity and privacy, individuals could say things about themselves that they wouldn’t have confessed even to their close friends or relatives. Russia became a talk show nation: the forms of psychological talk cultivated by TV hosts came to define the way Russians saw themselves as they sought guidance on how to adapt to their new environment.
The Duke Reader 