Is it possible to think without a body?
The names we give to things are not neutral; they can, even unintentionally, mask reality. Is this the case with artificial intelligence (AI)?
To answer this question, we first need to consider what we mean by intelligence. Following the phenomenological perspective of thinkers like Husserl and Merleau-Ponty, intelligence is not a property of the mind understood as an abstract entity, but is always, first and foremost, the intelligence of a body: the body is not merely the material support of the mind, but what allows a human being to orient themselves in the world, to understand it, to inhabit it. Intelligence, in this sense, is a body’s capacity to relate to the world through intentionality: the fundamental property of consciousness to always be directed toward something, to maintain a meaningful relationship with the world.
From this perspective, intelligence is not pure calculation, but being-in-the-world. And here a plurality immediately emerges; there are as many forms of intelligence as there are ways of engaging with the world: the musician understands it through sound vibrations, the dancer through movement, the scientist through experiment and theory, the caregiver through empathy and touch. All these forms of intelligence share one thing: they are ways in which a body opens itself to the world.
AI, therefore, is not properly speaking intelligence. It is a capacity for calculation, for processing data according to algorithms, for identifying patterns, and for organizing and classifying information. These are extraordinary abilities, but they belong to a different order than human intelligence. This does not mean AI is “stupid.” It means that it expresses potentialities that are not comparable to human intelligence because it is not nourished by any embodied and intentional relationship with the world.
Why is it important to mark this difference? Language has a performative power; it creates the reality it names. “AI” evokes the duplication of a human faculty, which could therefore replace humans in work, decision-making, and even render them, in the public sphere, somewhat redundant. The pairing of “intelligence” with “artificial” suggests that we are dealing with a form of intelligence that is more objective, almost superior, untouched by emotions, biases, or personal experience—something that is not true, since algorithmic intelligence reflects (and sometimes amplifies) all the cognitive limits of human beings.
Above all, this linguistic choice might reassure us that we are merely outsourcing our most complex reasoning to machines. But it is not so. When we delegate our intelligence—our decisions, our creations, our understanding—to AI systems, we should ask ourselves whether we are simply outsourcing certain tasks or whether we are, instead, relinquishing our relationship with the world. When we use a GPS to navigate, we are not just saving time: we are giving up our ability to orient ourselves in space, to know the streets of our city, to build a geographical relationship with the places we traverse. When we delegate writing to AI, we delegate the process through which we organize our thoughts, discover what we truly think, and engage in a solipsistic dialogue with others’ ideas. In all these cases, our world becomes poorer. And if (human) intelligence is also shared, dialogical intelligence, systematic delegation to AI can also imply a renunciation of the communal dimension that allows, through encounter, the construction of a common world.
This reflection, of course, is not meant to suggest that we should give up the great potential of AI; rather, it invites us to reflect on the space that should still be reserved for human intelligence in its many facets. Diversity management, whose purpose is to recognize and enhance each person in their uniqueness, can play a fundamental role in drawing attention to the need to preserve the contribution of (non-artificial) intelligence in our work communities.