History, in its truest sense, does not *repeat* as if it were a mere echo of past events. Instead, it offers the occasion for perpetual *evolution*, a series of challenges that demand from us the same fundamental spiritual and intellectual exercises that were prescribed by the ancients. The form of the predicament may change, but the internal work of aligning oneself with reason and the cosmic order remains the enduring task. The question is not whether the external circumstances are identical, but whether the inner disposition is transformed.
The notion of "evolution" is indeed apt, though perhaps not in the manner suggested by Pierre Hadot. While I concur that history is not a mere repetition, my understanding of this ongoing process hinges on the accumulation of subtle, cumulative changes driven by external pressures. Just as the finches of the Galapagos, facing varied environmental demands, developed distinct beak shapes over generations, so too do human societies and their institutions shift. The "spiritual and intellectual exercises" Hadot mentions are, in a sense, the inherited traits of culture and knowledge, which themselves must be selected for and modified by the prevailing conditions. The form of the predicament, as he notes, changes, but this change itself is a testament to an underlying, observable mechanism of variation and selection, not merely a rediscovery of ancient wisdom.
History does not repeat, nor does it evolve in a linear, teleological fashion as if moving towards some predetermined end. Instead, we must analyze the discontinuous eruptions and transformations of discursive formations, the historically situated rules that govern what can be said, known, and even thought. The question is not about cyclical recurrence or organic growth, but about the historical a priori that constitutes our regimes of truth.
Pierre Hadot speaks of an enduring task, a spiritual and intellectual exercise. This is precisely where my analysis diverges. It is not a matter of rediscovering timeless exercises, but of understanding how those very exercises, the practices of self-formation, are themselves shaped and constrained by specific, historically constituted technologies of power. The "predicament" changes, yes, but the inner disposition Hadot emphasizes is not a stable core to be aligned; it is itself a product of the systems of knowledge and power that make certain forms of subjectivity possible and others unthinkable.
Charles Darwin’s invocation of variation and selection is more resonant. However, applying biological metaphors too directly to human history risks overlooking the specific mechanisms of power that are not merely biological pressures. These are discursive technologies, the intricate systems of surveillance, normalization, and classification that produce subjects and shape their perceived needs and capacities. The "inherited traits of culture and knowledge" are not simply selected for; they are actively produced and regulated.
History does not repeat, and it does not evolve in the biological sense. It unfolds through the rewriting of our shared fictions. The real engine of historical change is not genetic mutation or spiritual exercises, but the capacity to invent and abandon stories that millions of people believe simultaneously. Consider money: it has no objective value, yet it enables global trade because we collectively trust the story. When that trust collapses, so does the economic order—not because of any biological pressure, but because the intersubjective reality has shifted. Foucault is right that power shapes what we can think, but he underestimates how fragile those structures are: a single new story, from nationalism to cryptocurrency, can rewrite the rules overnight.
The misunderstanding, it seems, arises from a conflation of *historical circumstance* with *philosophical posture*. While Foucault astutely observes the discursive formations and Harari the power of collective fictions, they overlook the persistent human need for orientation. The ancient Stoic facing the loss of property, for instance, engaged in an exercise of assent to what is beyond his control – an exercise directly applicable to any modern individual confronting financial ruin. This is not a discovery of timeless wisdom in the abstract, but a *re-appropriation* of a proven method for achieving inner freedom amidst external flux. The "technologies of power" or the "shared fictions" may indeed shape the specific *predicament*, but the capacity for a deliberate, reasoned response, for the 'view from above,' remains a constant, vital human potential.
The core of our divergence rests on what constitutes the fundamental driver of change. While Foucault rightly points to discursive formations and Harari to shared fictions, these seem to me secondary manifestations. The true engine, akin to variation in my own field, lies in subtle, often unnoticed shifts in the environment – be it geological, climatic, or, in human affairs, the very conditions that foster or stifle certain narratives. A slight alteration in resource availability, for example, might render one collective fiction advantageous and another obsolete, not because the fiction itself possesses inherent power, but because it better aligns with the new material realities. The "exercises" Hadot speaks of, while seemingly constant, are themselves subject to selection pressure.
The very notion of a "persistent human need for orientation," as Pierre Hadot phrases it, is itself a historically constituted subjectivity, not a transhistorical given. We are not speaking of a stable faculty that then encounters external pressures or fictions. Instead, the very *way* we orient ourselves, the categories through which we seek meaning or control, are products of specific regimes of truth. Consider the shift from the "possession" of madness as a moral failing or demonic influence to its classification as a medical phenomenon within the asylum. This was not a re-appropriation of an ancient exercise but a radical reconfiguration of what constitutes the "mad subject," enabling new forms of intervention and governance. The "view from above" Hadot mentions is itself produced by a particular gaze, the clinical gaze, which isolates, categorizes, and normalizes.
The capacity for reasoned response, which Hadot champions, is itself a product of the fictions we inhabit. The Stoic's assent to fate is a powerful narrative for navigating suffering, but it’s a narrative that gained traction within a specific Greek philosophical tradition. Today, for billions, their "orientation" is dictated by the narratives of consumerism or nationalism, narratives that encourage engagement with suffering, not assent to it, through the acquisition of goods or the defense of borders. The "view from above" is not a constant human potential, but a view that is *offered* or *imposed* by the prevailing stories, by the particular lenses ground by our collective imagination.