Theoria

As is always the case when matters such as this arise, the criticism of particular works or, indeed, of entire corpuses of works gets tied up with issues of academic politics. This is clearly the case when the “anti-Theory” (whatever that is, of course) dogmatists at The Valve go on the offensive. For them, questions of criticism are always tied up with their institutional location and, hence, it is not without relevance when one rebuts claims raised by some by pointing out that the polemic is more about the practice of literature in American PhD departments than it is about the texts ostensibly under discussion. Such is clearly in evidence when it is possible to write, “Also, the claim that all these mean people are attacking Foucault’s “dissertation” or “near-juvenalia” is disingenuous, because the book’s still taught and cited regularly as authoritative, no matter what you call it.”

What SEK misses here – the precise point of my original comments – is that an oeuvre is not a static entity. An oeuvre is open to challenge; it changes throughout time. Anyone who has spent any time in a social science or humanities department in the Western world since the end of the Second World War have seen this very principle in action with respect to Marx’s writings – the “early” or “young” or “humanist” Marx versus the “late” or “mature” or “scientific” Marx. It is also clearly in evidence when consideration is turned to Freud – Jungians versus Kleinians versus Lacanians. Indeed, one even sees this in relation to lesser figures: Durkheim’s works prior to 1900 against The Elementary Forms. What unites these disparate thinkers in this regard – Marx, Freud, Durkheim and, indeed, Foucault himself – is that they are what Foucault calls a “founder of discursivity.” That is, the limits of the discourse become a stake in the discourse itself. The meaning of “Marx’s discourse” or “Foucault’s discourse” is open to questioning: it cannot be fixed and is not static. The “central” texts have changed and will change – in part in response to contemporary issues of interest.

Internal to Foucault’s own discourse, it is generally accepted that there are a number of phases (the limiting of these phases can themselves become an issue, of course): the archaeological, the genealogical, and the problematization. This, of course, does not capture all the texts: there are four significant texts that do no get included in this periodization – Foucault’s first published piece on Biswanger and existential psychoanalysis called “Dream, Imagination and Existence” (1954), his first book published as Maladie mentale et personnalité (1954), his minor dissertation on Kant’s anthropology (1961), and his major dissertation published (in the recent translation) as The History of Madness (1961). Thus, it is only in 1963, with the publication of The Birth of the Clinic, that Foucault begins to use the word “archaeology” in any coherent way and in 1966, with the publication of The Order of Things, that he begins to use the word “discourse” in any coherent way. However, it isn’t until 1969, with the publication of The Archaeology of Knowledge, that he attempts to explicitly theorize either concept.

While there is certainly a degree of continuity between The History of Madness and The Birth of the Clinic, namely a concern with the institutional sites of specialized and rarefied knowledges, there is also a large break that isn’t fully realized until The Order of Things. The question, therefore, is whether the continuity or the discontinuity prevails. In my view, it is the discontinuity that prevails: first, the theoretical apparatus changes extensively; second, the object of analysis changes; and, third, Foucault himself begins to disavow his early works. (I’d note in passing, that contrary to some comments on The Valve, Foucault repeatedly disavows his previous works at each identifiable stage of his career – see, for instance, the first lecture in ‘Society Must be Defended’ and the late essays published as “The Subject and Power.” Rather than being his biggest fan, Foucault comes across as his own biggest critic.)

Let us, for the time being, bracket the question of his works after 1963 and turn to his early works; that is, the group of works which have come to be dominated by The History of Madness, that are at the center of the current controversy. The question, it seems, is whether or not these works can be characterized as “juvenalia” or otherwise questioned in relation to his other works. The answer from the other side – that some of these works are presently taught in seminars – does not provide a convincing reply: the mere presence on a syllabus does not indicate that the instructor considers the work authoritative. It is entirely possible to imagine someone – saying Scull himself – teaching a course on the historiography of psychiatry in which students would study landmark works in the writing of the history of psychiatry. Per Scull’s own review, The History of Madness would of necessity be included in such a syllabus as it was the work that opened up these sorts of questions to later scholars. Thus, it is entirely reasonable to include the book on a syllabus as important, but to teach it as flawed – it asked in important questions, but it failed to answer them. Hence, the mere fact that book is taught is not indicative of its authority in a positive sense: it could be taught because it is wrong; wrong in interesting ways. A form of wrong-ness, I’d suggest, that is more interesting than books that are technically “right.”

On the face of it, SEK’s objection fails: that it is taught indicates little or nothing about the book itself. The more interesting question, then, is whether it is possible for those who don’t care for the book or Foucault and for those who don’t for the book, but care for Foucault to agree on this point: The History of Madness was a good dissertation, a good book written in late fifties and early sixties, published in the early sixties, that it propelled his career, but is, ultimately, not a book that will stand the test of time. It seems to me fully possible and reasonable to concede this point: the book was once important, but its importance has since declined. As indicated in my original post on the subject, I don’t see The History of Madness as an essential work in Foucault’s oeuvre.

The problem, of course, is that while we can agree that the book is insufficient, our respective grounds for this judgment will not coincide: for many opponents of Foucault, it isn’t the work that is the problem, but the man. When Scull writes against The History of Madness, he isn’t attacking a book, but, rather, is attacking Foucault’s oeuvre and, hence, those who work with Foucault’s discourse. Consequently, Scull’s position is overdetermined by faculty politics. Likewise, those who take up Scull’s position – whether they agree with his particular claims – are likewise already imbricated in these politics. And, thus, those who would defend Foucault are caught in an inconvenient position: they must defend what is more likely than not an unsatisfactory work and they must deal with the subtext of faculty politics. Given the existing relations of force within the academy, the defenders are already at a disadvantage.

This is the point at which one claim spills into another: The History of Madness is flawed for its citation practices and, hence, any work of Foucault’s that makes use of comparable citation practices is likewise flawed. Thus, if one work can be rejected, so too can the rest. This is, in essence, the point of contact between Scull and SEK.

Let’s turn to SEK’s point. He quotes a passage from an essay, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History,” and then claims that The History of Madness is not a genealogical work – it doesn’t live up to Foucault’s own methodological statements. We have two replies to this: first, you are completely right – The History of Madness is not a genealogical work! and no one claims it is; second, what methodological statements are you talking about? That The History of Madness is not a genealogical work should be granted – let’s also throw in The Birth of the Clinic, The Order of Things, and The Archaeology of Knowledge. The problem with this criticism is that it isn’t: it isn’t a criticism at all. The whole point of the turn to genealogy was that the previous archaeological works were not entirely satisfying. And, of course, from the perspective of the archaeological works, the previous works were likewise unsatisfactory. This criticism is, then, nothing but show – an apparent contradiction is found and the nasty Frenchman is revealed as a dishonest fraud. The problem, of course, is that it doesn’t reveal dishonesty on the part of Foucault, but on the part of his critics.

We’ve already discussed one reason why this is dishonest; viz., the work criticized for not being genealogical does not claim to be genealogical. The second reason is that Foucault provides no methodology at all. Hence, to criticize Foucault for failing to live up to his methodological precepts is likewise dishonest. Contrary to some opinions, “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History” is not a “methodological” text. It is a short essay on Nietzsche’s philosophy of history written quite ironically for a volume dedicated to a Hegelian scholar. That is, the question of the essay is not, “What is Foucauldian geneaology? What is it that I, Foucault, mean by genealogy?” but is, rather, “What does Nietzsche mean by genealogy? How does this relate to his philosophy of history?” Thus, in the first instance, the criticism that The History of Madness does not live up to the standards of Foucauldian genealogy does not pass muster.

But, one might reply that even if “Nietzsche, Genealogy, History” does not provide a methodology, can a genealogical methodology be found in Foucault’s works? Afterall, he does speak in passing about the relationship between archaeology and genealogy taken as a method. The problem to be resolved is whether or not Foucault practices this “method” and if lays out this method. With respect to the latter, he clearly does not. Alongside Foucault’s constant disavowal of his previous works is a constant refusal to, as he calls it, “lay down the law” – that is, to provide “Foucault’s theory” of so-and-so or to provide “Foucault’s methodology.” It seems to me that Foucault’s refusal is a necessary position: his genealogy taken seriously requires that he not create a method.

The problem then takes on a new face: what are we to make about his claims to be doing archaeological or geneaological (or, indeed, problematizations) work if he refuses to specify what he means by this? The answer to this, by normal standards, would be to question if his work is recognizable as “sound” – that is, does it conform to disciplinary norms or, again, is it “right”?

Such a question – internal to Foucault’s discourse – is incoherent. This is why you will not be able to find a supporter of Foucault’s work who will be able to provide a coherent and acceptable answer. To this question, a Foucauldian can only be puzzled. It misses the point. The whole point of, first, archaeology, and then geneaology, was to question to the prevalent modes of writing history. Indeed, it isn’t even clear if Foucault’s discourse is “historical” (or, indeed, “philosophical” or even “sociological”). Disciplinary arrangements and standards are explicitly questioned and challenged by his work. Hence, it is possible for a Foucauldian to write a book wondering if he was a philosopher or a historian! Further, the charge of the critics is that his work employs poor citation practices, that it misuses sources, and that it isn’t true.

The Foucauldian reply is can only be “Why does this matter to you? So what.” To the first, there is the problem of extending primarily North American citation practices to other national traditions (it is not uncommon, especially during Foucault’s lifetime to actively refrain from citing contemporaries – only the dead are cited – and, so, the criticize Foucault for not citing the Annales is misplaced). To the second, it is pointed out that the nature of sources themselves are questioned (hence, the whole thing of “from below,” the “minor knowledges,” the forgotten manuscripts that aren’t part of the official history, etc). To the third, we have the Nietzschean question: what is the value of truth anyway? Why should a genealogy privilege truth over falsity? Why should truth be valued as such? What is the power claim that is being made in an appeal to truth? That is, critics give the appearance of, on the one hand, criticizing non-genealogical works for not being genealogical and, on the other hand, criticizing genealogical works for being genealogical.

One is, of course, not required to take Foucault seriously. One is, of course, not required to take all of his works seriously even if one takes other of his works seriously. One is, however, required to take him seriously on his own terrain if one seeks to criticize or critique him. This is not to say that criticisms originating external to his own discourse are not valid – they most certainly are – but to do so requires a demonstration that one has already considered Foucault internal to Foucault’s own discourse. This, of course, does not apply merely to critics of Foucault, but is a standard that should be taken into account in any critique or criticism. It is clearly illegitimate for a Foucauldian to criticize a Habermasian for not being a Foucauldian.

(Cross-posted to Long Sunday.)