Can robots die? This is the fundamental question that grounds and informs the basis of this book. Logically and presumably, a robot, or any ânon-humanâ, cannot die, because it was never considered alive in the biological sense of the term to begin with. Seemingly, only that which organically lived can legitimately die: humans, animals, insects and other living organisms. Both biology and mortality determine a sense of being.
Death is assumed to be a universal phenomenon. Yet evidently, relationships between humans and animals, humans and other living organisms and humans and technology favour a particular hierarchy in which the human death is prioritised and valued. So what, then, of non-humans, those which increasingly populate society: the robots, replicants and other examples of artificial intelligence ? Are these non-humans capable, in any way, of undergoing a certain demise, however non-biological? What validates a humanâs or non-humanâs claim to die? How do we understand natural death with respect to artificial intelligence ? Certainly, biology has factored greatly in the phenomenon of both life and death , with biological and scientific theory determining, to a large extent, the validity of oneâs existence and claim to life.
But in Future Robots (2014), Domenico Parisi argues against the manner in which science has claimed sovereignty over both the human and the machine in this respect. While psychology developed what it claimed to be a science of the mind, Parisi argues that âscience does not need only objective and quantitative data. It also needs theories that explain the data. The problem with psychology is that while its empirical methods are those of science, its theoretical vocabulary is still a philosophical vocabularyâ (2014: 4). This is why, he argues, a psychology of human behaviour is only a âhalf-scienceâ (3).
But science has become the benchmark from which all phenomena are measured, which has led not to greater security and faith in objectivity, but a decline in imagination. As Adorno and Horkheimer famously noted in Dialectic of Enlightenment (1944), the enlightenment sought to liberate society by way of scientific objectivity, succeeding only in imprisoning people in unquestionable rationality, devoid of imagination, creativity and possibility. They write: âOn their way towards modern science human beings have discarded meaning. The concept is replaced by the formula, the cause by rules and probabilityâ (2002: 3). They also observe that âscience itself has no awareness of itself; it is merely a tool. Enlightenment, however, is the philosophy which equates truth with the scientific systemâ (66). This âbourgeois philosophyâ , in their estimation, produced a system in which âfreedom in their world tended towards organised anarchyâ, in which âpure reason became unreason, a procedure as immune to errors as it was devoid of contentâ (71).
Daniel Dennett , too, emphasises the imagination in conjunction with scientific theory in his work Consciousness Explained (1991). For Dennett, the discoveries of neuroscience are not enough (1993: 16), and the imagination becomes crucial in exploring ways in which machines could live (which explains the tremendous sway and importance of popular cultureâs role in constantly re-examining the robotâs existence). In this respect, within this book I adopt a relativistic approach, primarily relying upon analogical thinking to examine the status of the human in a world increasingly transfixed by the gradual emergence of artificial intelligence , and what such an emergence challenges about assumed notions of existence and, ultimately, of death.
Indeed, as culture and technology increasingly converge with the advent of humanoid robots, one must reconsider the boundaries of existence and death where artificial life is concerned. In previous years, popular culture has been primarily concerned with the question of life regarding artificial intelligence . This book, however, focuses on the question of death regarding robots and other non-humans, since death and mortality, greatly influence notions of humanity and being.
But to examine what it means to die, one must first re-examine what it means to be alive, or what constitutes an âauthenticâ human, before considering what it means to experience an âauthenticâ death. Discussions regarding death and robotics almost uniformly frame this curious dynamic negatively, positioning robots as adversaries and the cause of many human deaths . With the first death of a human as a result of a robot occurring in 1979, and the most recent occurring in 2015, discussions surrounding the ambiguous nature of responsibility in robotics and machinery have proliferated, with the question of robot accountability being situated at the forefront of media discourse.
However, rarely, if ever, does critical discussion navigate the ethical considerations and potential of a ârobot deathâ, as it appears fundamentally contradictory. How can that which never fulfilled the parameters of living existence be deemed validly dead? How can artificial life undergo or experience a natural death? And if we permit such an idea, what implications does this pose for biological humanity as we understand it?
Despite such apparent contradictions, however, discussion regarding the mortal capacity of a robot has increasingly graced media reportage; in January 2017, it was reported that monkeys featured in a documentary on BBCâs Spy in the Wild were mourning over the âdeathâ of a baby monkey robot,1 which had been used to spy on them. During filming, the robot was accidentally crushed. Media commentary had reported that the robot had âdiedâ, based on the fact that the other, living monkeys, were mourning it. As well as this, reportage on the robots that had been sent into Fukushima in 2016 noted that the robots had âdiedâ due to radiation poisoning that had caused their systems to malfunction and shut down.
The language in such reporting is particularly significant, as the robots are said to have âdiedâ, rather than having been destroyed, or shut down. These are the first instances of robots being discussed in the media in actual biological terms; they had actually âdiedâ, suggesting, then, that attitudes towards the mortal capacity of robots is changing, however moderately.
Society has long discussed the extent to which a robot may be considered human, and questioned whether or not such a being is capable of achieving sentience; the 2016 release of the television series Westworld âbased on the 1973 film of the same nameâis testament to the continued curiosity in robots and their potential for consciousness . The interest in the topic of robots attaining consciousness stems from its implications for humanity as a whole; if a robot may be permitted the title of âhumanâ, then previously stable definitions of humanity become obsolete or, at the very least, unstable, which threatens the very fabric of our existence on ontological terms. This prompts certain questions about why we would ever want to ascribe or permit âlifeâ for non-human machines.
Timothy Morton discusses the need to develop solidarity with non-humans in his work Humankind (2017), saying that âdifficulties of solidarity between humansâ are in fact ârepressing and suppressing possibilities of solidarity with non-humansâ (15). For Morton, âHuman worlds are not different in value from non-human onesâ (14). He also posits that ânon-sentient non-human life forms (as far as we know) and non-life (and also by implication the non-sentient and non-living parts of humans) also have worldsâ (14). These worlds, however ambiguous or esoteric they may be, are in some way existent.
Of course, as Thomas Nagel famously noted in his paper âWhat is it like to be a Bat?â (1974), certain kinds of experiences of being are beyond the capacity and grasp of human consciousness and understanding. This means that we cannot know what it is to be a bat, no matter how sophisticated our technology becomes or how our own internal consciousness may change. A human cannot think outside of their own cultural existence, outside of culture. We may imagine what it is to be a bat, but can never experience what it is to be a bat. Likewise, while we cannot imagine what it is for a robot to live, this does not negate or invalidate the notion that a machine has its own world of value. While Nagel argues that âan organism has conscious mental states if and only if there is something that it is like to be that organismâsomething that it is like for the organism to be itselfâ, Mortonâs argument suggests that a robot may have a way of feeling like a robot, and therefore may validate the notion of machine consciousness .
But while we have become fascinated by the question of what might make a robot a living being capable of its own experience, we have neglected the role that death plays in such circumstances. Since death is understood as one of the most important factors determining the validity of humanity, it seems necessary to examine whether the robot and other machines can achieve the very element that determines the human life, and what this means for humanity if it ever could be achieved. Beyond the humanâs mere appearance or behaviour, death fundamentally determines the validity of life, as seen in The Bicentennial Man , in which the robot, Andrew Martin, is not deemed human because he is immortal. As Anders and Krell note, âin this story, the cost of being recognized as human is mortalityâ (2013).
Death, of course, is instinctively understood as a biological phenomenon, just like consciousness. But this work will discuss the notion that death may exceed biology and also be technological in nature, or at least the idea of death may expand to the technological realm. By reframing either the parameters of humanity or the parameters of death, the robot death may come to be embraced as a significant phenomenon in contemporary, post-human culture.
Throughout this work, books and films from across science fiction and popular culture will be used to discuss and speculate on the nature of a robotâs or other non-humanâs mortal capacity. Popular culture is useful, moreover imperative, in serving as a speculative tool to examine the ethical potential of artificial intelligence . While robots and other humanoids in everyday life have not yet achieved the kind of consciousness or personality familiar to popular works such as Isaac Asimovâs I, Robot or Westworld (and possibly never will), their existence serves to enlighten us on the topic and parameters of humanity. We may better understand the nature of humanity by looking at that which seeks to be human, specifically through the lens of death, the ultimate factor in determining humanity.
The actual word ârobotâ was first coined in 1920 by Czech writer Karel Äapek (though a letter from Äapek to his brother, Josef, suggests that his brother actually invented the word). The word appeared in Äapekâs science fiction play Rossumâs Universal Robots (R.U.R.). In the play, man-made roboti, or robots, who resemble human beings, are manufactured at a factory and are expected to work for humans, before a robot rebellion occurs that wipes out the human race.
The term ârobotâ originates from the Czech word ârobotaâ, meaning âslaveâ or âserf labourâ, and denotes a form of hard work. Thus the very term robot has its origins in labour, a persevering trope in society that, ironically, has led to a corresponding anxiety regarding work opportunities for humans in a culture dominated by robotic labour.2 But as Andrew Charlton and Jim Chalmers point out, automation is not new, and human jobs have been ...