One of the most common arguments in debates about environmental crisis is: “it’s the rising population, stupid.” There are just too many human beings, using up too much stuff, leaving too little space for everyone else. The next step is often to gesture towards some kind of population control, or just to leave the issue hanging.

Whatever you think of that position, I’ve been struck lately by the increasing prominence of its diametric opposite. This holds that the problem we face – or will soon face, anyway – is that there are actually too few of us. Consider this opinion piece from the New York Times back in September (only the latest in a series of pieces the NYT has published on the topic, often with much the same message. Here’s one from 2021, and another from 2022). The real problem, it suggests, is that the human population will not only peak in 2085, but that it will then decline, perhaps precipitously. Within a couple of hundred years, there might be only be 2 billion of us left. The claim is not, note, that population will fall in one country or other – we’re familiar with that idea. The claim is that the global population is set to decline, perhaps precipitously.

The key question is: why would this matter? There are several reasons for thinking it wouldn’t, actually. Liberals will say that if people freely decide not to reproduce, that’s their business. Some population ethicists might retort that no-one is wronged by not being brought into existence. And then, of course, there’s the biggie: fewer people would mean much more space for every other living thing. We have crowded out (or killed) so many of our fellow creatures. In a post-Anthropocene world, wildlife could recover some of its past glories. Which is why some think a smaller population would be a good thing for multiple reasons.

Why, then, think we should worry about declining numbers of people? Well, what reasons does the NYT piece provide? The argument could be a lot more direct. But the key suggestion seems to be that larger populations generate more innovation, and hence more (per capita) economic growth. That, of course, will hardly persuade people who think more growth is something we can ill afford on a limited planet. We’re also, obviously, owed an account of why less growth would necessarily mean lower levels of well-being (FN). But it seems the idea is simply that fewer people means fewer Mozarts, fewer Marie Curies, fewer Henry Fords.

If that is the argument, it brings us close the position of prominent longtermists (though the author does not make the link). Some longtermists have wondered, after all, whether most animals might not be better off dead anyway. By contrast the more human beings there are, the greater the chance that we eventually colonise the stars and become Ultra-High-Well-being Cyborgs. Perhaps today’s twenty-something in a rented flat and a precarious job – and wondering whether she could ever afford to raise children – just needs to think of that cyborg composing twenty symphonies before its synthetic lunch, and get breeding.

Somehow, I don’t think that’s likely to cut the mustard. But I am curious about the emergence of this trope, which bemoans the declining population long before it happens. It seems distinct from arguments decrying the declining birth rate in some continents rather than others (the favoured topic of ‘great replacement’ conspiracy-mongers). But I am curious what its political or intellectual origins are, and what, if anything, might be said in favour of it. Why, then, would it matter if there were far fewer of us?

I’ve been working a bit on inflation and the highly problematic concept of the ‘cost of living’ (shorter JQ: what matters is the purchasing power of wages, not the cost of some basket of goods). As part of this, I’ve been looking at how particular prices have changed over time, focusing on basics like bread and milk.

One striking thing that I found out is that, until quite late in the 20th century, the standard loaf of bread used to calculate consumer price indexes in Australia weighed 4 pounds (nearly 2kg). That’s about as much as three standard loaves of sliced bread. Asking around, this turns out to be the largest of the standard sizes specified in legislation like the Western Australian Bread Act which was only repealed in 2004, AFAICT.

Going back a century or so further, the Speenhamland system of poor relief in England specified the weekly nutrition requirements of a labouring man as a ‘gallon loaf” of bread, made from a gallon (about 5 litres) of flour, and weighing 8.8 pounds (4kg). Bread was pretty much all that poor people got to eat, so the amount seems plausible.

But why one huge loaf rather than, say seven modern-size loaves? And turning that question around, why are our current loaves so much smaller?

I haven’t been able to find anything about this. Looking for images of these gallon loaves is difficult, because of the popularity of ‘loaf tanks’ made in the shape of bread loaves and with a capacity measured in (US) gallons.

Whenever I see a development like this, I think about shrinkflation, the process of reducing the size of a product as a surreptitious way of increasing the unit price. But shrinkflation is ultimately a cyclical process. When the standard size has been shrunk as far as it will go, it is replaced by a new ‘jumbo’ or ‘economy’ size, the same as the original standard size.

So, my best guess is that it is all to do with that proverbially marvellous invention, sliced bread. Sliced bread requires a standard size, and small is easier to handle. Also (guessing here), sliced bread may not keep as well, so we buy smaller loaves more frequently.

I’ve had some useful responses from Bluesky and Mastodon on this (I shudder to think how XTwitter would respond if I were still there), and now I’m throwing it over to my newsletter and blog readers. Any info would be appreciated.

In a recent post about unfair epistemic authority, Macarena Marey suggests that

In political philosophy, the centre is composed of the Anglophone world and three European countries…

One can think of “the center” in terms of people or of topics. Although Marey’s post is clearly about philosophers not philosophies, and I agree with her, one can also address the issue of “the centre” about philosophies.

For my part, I wonder the opposite: how come political philosophy is not Euro-centric? If Anglophone and European philosophers dominate the field, as indeed they do, why doesn’t European politics dominate political philosophy, too?

My point is not that European politics should dominate political philosophy, but that it is surprising that it does not. First, because philosophers often sought solutions to the political problems of their time (think of Montesquieu or Locke on the separation of powers; of Paine and Burke debating human rights during the French Revolution  etc.). Second, because the European Union is a political innovation on many respects; had a philosopher presented the project (“imagine enemies at war pooling their resources”), it would have been dismissed as utopian. Finally, because EU is a complex organization which deals with enough topics that it is hard not to find yours. Topical, innovative, and complex – but not of interest for European hegemonic philosophers: is this not puzzling?

You doubt. But how would political philosophy look like if it was Euro-centred? Certainly, renewed — by philosophical views tested at the European level or inspired by the European institutions. For example, there would be philosophical analyses of “new” topics such as:

•  Freedom of movement – a founding freedom of the European union over the last 70 years. Surprisingly, there is not a single philosophical treaty on this freedom today (although freedom of speech, of assembly etc. are well represented); all philosophical studies reason as if it were natural to control immigration, as if open borders were an unrealistic utopia – in short, as if the EU did not exist (neither Mercosur‘s or African Union‘s institutions).
• Distributive justice between states or within federal states – a political reality since the 1950s or earlier. But since the 1970s, philosophers have been praising Rawls, Walzer, and others who argue that redistribution between states is not a matter of justice (no reviewer have ever asked them whether the existing European/international redistribution was unjust etc.).
• Justice of extending / fragmenting states and federations of states – today, cosmopolitanism is considered in opposition to nationalism, not to regionalism or federalism; secession/ unions are under-discussed in theories of justice or critical race theory; there are more philosophical studies on just wars than on peace etc.

Many other sources of philosophical renewal are not specific to the European Union but could have been be activated if political philosophy was Euro-centric. For example, international aid has been institutionalized since the WWII (as I have briefly shown here), but prominent philosophers reason about its justice as if it did not exist. Less prominent philosophers should adapt to the existing terms of the debate.

In short, if political philosophy was a little more Euro-centric, its questioning would be renewed and more realistic. If it is not, the problem of political philosophy is not “Euro-centrism” but “centrism” tout court: we tend to organize around a few “prominent philosophers” and their views rather than around originality, pluralism, and truth.

Happy 2024 everyone! May there be no more wars, no more avoidable suffering, and justice for all. That’s a steep wish-list, but then I am one of those who thinks that giving up is not an option, and that [almost] everyone has opportunities to contribute to make us move into that direction.

In that spirit, I made three resolutions for 2024: one for myself, one for a specific very vulnerable person, and one political resolution, for society at large.

I can already hear the cynic laughing: New Year’s resolutions don’t work! Resolutions are for weak people who could have solved their problems long ago if they were a little more decisive. With New Year’s resolutions we only fool ourselves. The cynic pours himself another drink, and has a good laugh at those who make resolutions.

This hip cynicism underestimates the power of rituals in our lives, including the rituals around intentions to make meaningful changes. Yes, the cynic is right that we can make resolutions on any day of the year. The formulation of a resolution often follows a significant personal experience; I’ve met several survivors of cancer who made big changes to their lives. Or we need a long enough period of peace of mind that allows us to reflect, to look in the mirror and ask ourselves what we want to do differently with our lives. But of course this can also be done at any other time of the year, as long as we first have the necessary mental space. There are plenty of people who return from their summer vacation and resolve to exercise more or find another job. But the period around New Year is also a time of some contemplation for many, and thus an excellent time for reflection on what we would like to see different in our lives.

The cynic is also right that we won’t get there by merely formulating good intentions. It takes more to make them succeed. But it only takes a few minutes to find the recipe for success on the Internet: find out how to turn intentions into a habit; don’t make too many resolutions; translate them into small, concrete actions; preferably carry out your resolutions with others or find another way to get someone to encourage you and keep you accountable; and reward yourself for the behavioural change that is needed.

Usually good resolutions are about ourselves. We want to quit smoking, drink less, lose weight, exercise more, work less, get another job, and so on. But we can also make resolutions that are not primarily about ourselves, even though we remain the person in charge.

Another type of resolution is about doing something for a concrete other person who could use our support. We take that child of friends who has special needs under our wing for a day a few times a year so that this child feels special and less lonely, and their parents can have a day to recover from the burdens of care that special needs almost inevitably bring. We commit to visit that lonely neighbour down the street once a week, or at least stop to have a chat when we meet her in the street. We offer the vulnerable boy next door help in finding a suitable job. In some communities and neighborhoods this may perhaps come naturally, but in less close-knit neighbourhoods this is also possible — simply, because someone takes a first step (as the pub-owner in the most recent Ken Loach film The Old Oak vividly illustrates).

The third group of resolutions are about society as a whole. I would think of them as political resolutions, with ‘political’ very broadly defined. We can’t sit back and hope that 2024 will bring us a better country and a better world: we will have to do that ourselves because in so many countries governments have increasingly become part of the problem (contributing to the restoration of decent governments is of course superimportant too; one way to do so is to join a decent political party).

A political resolution can take many forms – and no doubt there is something suitable for everyone. It can be done through volunteering. By vulnerable donations to charities that strive for social justice. By joining a political party that protects democracy and the rule of law, or organizations that stand up for human rights or other issues we still have to fight for every day. By exploring whether activism is for us and giving it a try. By starting a non-fiction bookclub and thus systematically engaging the conversation about political issues, including with people outside our own circle of friends.

My wish for 2024 would be that those who have been politically active fighting for a better world don’t give up, and that more people who so far don’t do much in terms of political contributions would join the active group. We need everyone to contribute in their role as a member of political communities. The great thing is that such political commitments, that help to make the world a little bit better (or less awful) not only can make our lives more meaningful, but also often lead to close friendships. When I was deeply involved in higher education activism (until 2022), this was one of the comments that my fellow activist Remco Breuker made (Remco is a professor of Korean studies in Leiden). Remco was right. And even the resolutions-cynic can’t argue about the importance of friendship in our lives.