The Perils of Progress: Why Conservatism's Humble Wisdom Trumps Utopian Folly, By James Reed and Paul Walker
This is an age where "change" is hailed as an unqualified good and "progress" is the rallying cry of every reformer with a plan, it's worth pausing to consider the quiet wisdom of conservatism. Not the cartoonish version peddled by critics — stodgy resistance to all novelty — but the philosophical bedrock that underpins it: a profound recognition of human limits. Australian philosopher David Stove (1927-1994) captured this essence in his underappreciated essay "Why You Should Be a Conservative," where he dissects how well-intentioned interventions often spiral into catastrophe. As Stove illustrates with his litany of examples — a disease cured leading to overpopulation, contraception dismantling cultures, welfare incentives breeding dependency — our actions rarely unfold as predicted. This isn't mere pessimism; it's a hard-earned lesson from history. From a conservative vantage, the road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions, and progressive policies, with their hubristic faith in human engineering, are prime culprits in paving it wider.
At the heart of this defense lies epistemology: our knowledge is finite, fragmented, and fallible. Conservatives, drawing from thinkers like Edmund Burke and Friedrich Hayek, emphasise that society is a complex web of traditions, institutions, and tacit knowledge evolved over generations. Burke, in his reflections on the French Revolution, warned against the "metaphysic propositions" of radicals who sought to redesign society from scratch, ignoring the organic wisdom embedded in customs. Hayek later formalised this in his "knowledge problem": no central planner, no matter how brilliant, can grasp the dispersed, local information that markets and traditions aggregate effortlessly. Progressive policies, by contrast, often assume godlike omniscience — that policymakers can foresee all ripple effects and tweak society like a machine.
Stove's scenario nails this delusion. Introduce modern medicine to a primitive society, and you eradicate a disease — noble! But the population explodes, straining resources and sparking conflicts unforeseen by the do-gooders. Offer contraception as a fix, and you unravel cultural norms around family and reproduction, leading to demographic decline or social fragmentation. At home, subsidise single mothers to alleviate poverty, and you inadvertently incentivise fatherless households, correlating with higher crime and educational failures. Guarantee a minimum wage to ensure dignity, and watch small businesses fold, entry-level jobs vanish, and a culture of industriousness erode into entitlement. Enable mass travel for leisure and opportunity, and soon pristine destinations become overcrowded wastelands, tourism devouring what it sought to celebrate. These aren't hypotheticals; they're echoes of real-world blunders, from the welfare traps of the Great Society to the environmental ironies of green energy subsidies that boost mining in fragile ecosystems.
Why do such policies self-destruct? Because progressives, fuelled by Enlightenment optimism, overestimate human abilities. They view society as a blank slate ripe for rational redesign, dismissing limits as excuses for inaction. Yet, as Stove argues, the fund of mournful experience — from failed utopias like Soviet collectivisation (which starved millions in pursuit of equality) to modern debacles like no-fault divorce laws spiking family breakdowns — should outweigh this hubris. The assumption persists: if a reform backfires, double down with more drastic measures. Defund the police to combat systemic racism? Crime surges, hurting the very communities it aimed to help. Mandate electric vehicles for climate salvation? Supply chains strain, rare earth mining devastates environments, and grids falter under demand. Each "solution" begets new problems, ad infinitum.
This isn't to say all change is bad — conservatism isn't stasis. It's prudence: evolve incrementally, respecting what works and testing reforms modestly. As Stove quips, the conservative argument from unforeseen consequences is "the oldest and the best," grounded in humility rather than ideology. Progressives, by ignoring it, court disaster, turning good intentions into hellish outcomes. Think of the opioid crisis: well-meaning pain management policies flooded streets with pills, birthing an epidemic. Or pandemic responses: lockdowns saved a few lives short-term but unleashed mental health crises, educational gaps, and economic scars that linger.
In our hyper-connected world, these limits bite harder. Global policies amplify errors — climate accords that shift emissions to unregulated nations, or migration schemes that strain social fabrics without addressing root causes. Why persist? Perhaps it's the allure of moral grandstanding: reformers feel virtuous signalling change, while conservatives bear the unglamorous task of cleanup. But as Stove reminds us, rationality demands we heed the evidence. Conservatism's defence isn't reactionary; it's realistic — a bulwark against the self-destructive zeal that mistakes activity for progress.
If we embrace this philosophy, we might foster a saner society: one that innovates cautiously, values inherited wisdom, and admits we're not gods. The alternative? More roads to hell, paved ever thicker with the rubble of failed experiments. Stove's essay deserves revival not as dogma, but as a timeless caution: in the face of uncertainty, conservatism isn't cowardice — it's common sense.
