For Americans, work means everything. We are taught that it builds character, gets us out of bed in the morning, pays our bills, structures our lives, and keeps us away from daytime television. These beliefs are no longer plausible—indeed, they have become almost ridiculous—because there is simply not enough work to do. And whatever work does exist often does not pay the bills unless you happen to land a job as a drug dealer.
The breakdown of the labour market is usually addressed by advocating “full employment.” The unemployment rate in the U.S. is below 6 percent, which is close to the textbook definition of full employment. But shitty jobs for everyone will not solve any social problem. Every fifth worker in the U.S. earns wages that are insufficient to survive. The labour market has broken down, and the jobs lost during recessions are not coming back. Do not tell me the government has fixed this through minimum wage laws—at minimum wage, you have to work nine hours a day just to meet basic needs.
If we take a longer view, the future looks even bleaker. According to studies by Oxford economists, even non-routine cognitive skills—skills like thinking—are on the verge of being automated. The future, then, does not seem promising. The Great Recession is not truly over; it is a moral crisis and an economic catastrophe. But it is also an intellectual opportunity: it forces us to imagine a world in which jobs no longer build character, determine income, or dominate daily life.
This crisis compels us to ask an unavoidable question: What comes after work? What would you do without a job as the external discipline that organizes your waking life? What would you do if you did not have to work in order to receive an income? These are not abstract or “fancy” ideas. They are practical questions in a world where there are simply not enough jobs. Can we make money without working—and, more importantly, can we do so ethically?
Most jobs today are not created by private corporate investment, so raising corporate taxes will not necessarily reduce employment. When we place our faith in hard work, we are not only expressing a belief in character; we are also trusting that the labour market will reward effort rationally. But when income is no longer proportional to hard work, we begin to doubt the value of hard work itself. When drug dealers make millions, it becomes difficult to defend the idea that building character through labour is meaningful—because crime, quite clearly, pays. That is why this is also a moral crisis. We no longer know how to justify the system we live in.
The impending end of work raises the most fundamental question of all: What does it mean to be human? Philosophers have long argued that love and work are the essential ingredients of a healthy human life—and they were right. But can love survive the end of work as a willing partner in the good life? Can you imagine a moment when you meet an attractive stranger at a party—or scroll through a dating app—and you don’t ask, “So, what do you do?”
We will not find answers until we acknowledge a simple truth: work now means everything to us—and in the future, it cannot.