“The animal in man no longer has any value as the sign of a Beyond; it has become his madness, without a relation to anything but itself; his madness in the state of nature.”

“it is a technique of training, of dressage, that ‘despotically excludes in everything the least representation, and the smallest murmur’…”

“for millennia, man remained what he was for Aristotle: a living animal with the additional capacity for a political existence; modern man is an animal whose politics places his existence as a living being in question.”

Michel Foucault, History of Madness; Discipline and Punish; and The Will to Knowledge.

Michel Foucault had much to say on many things, and the legacy of his thinking can be found across a diverse range of fields of inquiry, including philosophy, sociology, psychology, history, politics, architecture, health sciences, ethics and sexuality.

Yet Foucault says very little about animals. And perhaps, as a consequence, while Foucault would seem to be everywhere in social and political theory, the impact of his work is yet to be fully appreciated within the emerging field of animal studies. As has been shown in recent critical engagements with Foucault that have drawn connections with animal life, including those of Giorgio Agamben, Donna Haraway, and Roberto Esposito, Foucault’s work is extremely profitable for understanding our conflicted relationships with animals. More than another of the endless applications of his work, we believe this conjunction to be essential: both for the advancement of a new field struggling with questions of power, knowledge, and ethics; and for the study of a philosopher whose antihumanism failed to interrogate the category of species.

We are seeking abstracts from scholars engaged with Foucault and animal studies for a proposed edited book collection.

The collection will be unashamedly critical in approach, seeking to include articles that challenge systems of power which simultaneously organise conduct, violence, care and domination of nonhuman animals, from wildlife parks to factory farms. However, we also recognize there is an urgent need for indepth, inter-disciplinary theorisation that is able to map and challenge the lines of distinction between human and animal. We therefore encourage submissions from scholars working in a range of disciplines, interested in how Foucault might be used to consider human and animal relations in a broad sense. We welcome not only philosophical discussion but analysis of science, policy, and activist praxis. We encourage not simply the transfer of Foucauldian concepts but their effective adaptation to multispecies contexts.

Suggested topic areas include:

• Biopolitics;
• Ethics and the care of the self;
• Power and the political;
• Discourse and knowledge;
• Governmentality and conduct;
• Sovereignty and security;
• History of biology and science;
• Discipline, training and communication;
• Panopticism, surveillance, gaze, spectacle;
• Sexuality;
• Animal subjectivities;
• Heterotopias of interspecies contact;
• The animality of humanity;
• Humanism, language and the border of species.

For abstract submissions (of 500 words), or to discuss proposed contributions, please email either Matthew Chrulew at mchrulew@gmail.com or Dinesh Wadiwel at dwadiwel@gmail.com.

Abstract deadline: 28th February 2010.
Projected completed book chapter deadline: late 2010.

The issue remains open, of course, as to whether or not Foucault’s comments on Nietzsche are correct or even coherent, but the accusation that his interpretation relies upon unpublished texts cannot be sustained. (On my reading they are at least coherent; not being a Nietzsche scholar, I am in no position to judge whether they are correct or not as reasonable interpretations of Nietzsche.) So much for the “analytic” approach to texts, which is described as the “textually-best-supported reading,” championed by Burgis! Also, on the accusation of “post-modernism” and “post-structuralism,” our critics may want to peruse Foucault’s essay, “Structuralism and Post-Structuralism.”

“Truth regime” is a much used but little theorized concept, with the Foucauldian literature presupposing that truth in modernity is uniformly scientific/quasi-scientific and enhances power. I argue that the forms of truth characteristic of our present are wider than Foucault recognized, their relations to power more various, and their historicity more complex. The truth regime of advanced modernity is characterized by multiple, irreducible truth formulae that co-exist and sometimes vie for dominance. A truth formula stabilizes a network of elements: a relation between representation and presentation (words and things), truth and non-truth, and the place of the subject in discourse. Our contemporary truth regime comprises radically heterogeneous truthful knowledges — science, governance, religion/politics, and common culture — that have distinct histories and relations to power.

Those following discussions of Canadian sociology on this blog may be interested in the review of James Côté and Anton L. Allahar’s Ivory Tower Blues and George Fallis’ Multiversities, Ideas, and Democracy [pdf] along with a response from the authors of Ivory Tower Blues [pdf].

Nealon argues here that the explanation for the changes in power’s operation is its increasing efficiency through intensification.  Sovereign power was brutal but clumsy.  Social power was better, but was brought to greater efficiency by discipline, which, Nealon claims, acts not so much upon the body as upon actions.  Discipline’s ability to intervene upon most, or at least many, actions allows it to suffuse itself throughout the body and the body politic.  Moreover, discipline, unlike sovereign power, can create actions, not just suppress them.  However, biopower is the most intense, therefore most efficient form of power.  It acts directly upon life.  Where discipline uses the force of power to effect the creation of action, biopower intervenes on life at all levels, working through norms in order to shepherd life in directions that he treats in the following chapters.

Although I am fascinated by what Nealon does with this reading of Foucault in the following chapters, I must admit some discomfort with it as an interpretation of Foucault.  I have two reservations here, one that might be called interpretive and one that might be called metainterpretive.  The interpretive reservation has to do with the periodization Nealon lays out.  On this periodization, discipline bears upon actions while biopower concerns norms.  As he writes, “the disciplinary criminal is known through her transgressive deeds, while biopower’s delinquent is known through his abnormal personality” (p. 47).  I believe this is a mistaken interpretation.  For Foucault, it is precisely discipline that works through personalities and norms.  He writes,

Behind the offender . . . stands the delinquent whose slow formation is shown in a biographical investigation.  The introduction of the ‘biographical’ is important in the history of penality.  Because it establishes the ‘criminal’ as existing before the crime and even outside it.  (Discipline and Punish, p. 252) 

And elsewhere he states, “The power of the Norm appears throughout the disciplines” (Discipline and Punish, p. 184).

Foucault’s view, as I see it, is that discipline is one part of biopower.  Near the end of the first volume of the History of Sexuality, Foucault writes, “starting in the seventeenth century, this power over life evolved in two basic forms. . .  One of these poles . . . centered on the body as a machine. . .  The second, formed somewhat later, focused on the species body” (History of Sexuality, Vol. 1, p. 139).  There are two aspects to biopower.  One of those involves individualizing discipline, and the other involves an intervention into life of the kind Nealon calls biopower.  Therefore, discipline is actually a part of biopower.

Admittedly, I haven’t yet read Nealon’s book, but I completely agree with May’s point – Foucault most certainly does not present a “stagest” account of power (c.f., Deleuze’s strange reading in piece on societies of control).

Update: Reference Miner, from the same company that makes Bookends, is also a pretty good, free product: it searches the Library of Congress, Amazon, etc. The LoC search is especially useful as it brings up the BibTex record.

And, unrelated: is anyone aware of an interview (possibly with pictures) conducted by the New York Times, published the week of January 16, 1979 with Michel Foucault?

Scull questions whether many readers will wish to ‘plough through’ this unabridged translation of Histoire de la Folie. The complete failure of his 3700-word review to give an intelligible account of the book’s main ideas, and the reliance on little more than perfunctory recital of chapter headings to convey the content of 300 pages of newly translated material, entitles one to wonder (not for the first time) whether Scull himself has ever ploughed, or only flicked, either in French or English, through the full text of the celebrated work which he is so determined to eliminate from the scholarly canon. One must also wonder why Scull chooses to gamble his own scholarly credibility on such an ill-founded and malevolently unbalanced polemic. For while Scull has certainly criticised Foucault in the past, new readers of Scull’s current annihilating judgement on Foucault would scarcely guess that Scull had written as recently as 1989 that ‘almost all those who have worked in the history of psychiatry during the past two decades and more owe multiple debts to the late Michel Foucault’, or that in 1989 Scull considered it worth citing Foucault’s work as sharing his own view that the moral treatment of the insane introduced by Tuke and Pinel was a significant break from prior medical practice, or indeed that a quotation from Madness and Civilisation served as an epigraph to Scull’s Museums of Madness, a work whose very language is in places steeped in Foucault’s influence.

Let us remind ourselves that the “salutary” lesson which Scull now expects readers to learn from Foucault’s book, “which might be amusing, if it had no effect on people’s lives” is “the ease with which history can be distorted, facts ignored, the claims of human reason disparaged and dismissed, by someone sufficiently cynical and shameless, and willing to trust in the ignorance and the credulity of his customers”. Historians as little given to Foucault-devoteeship as Roy Porter and Jan Goldstein acknowledged some time ago that something had been amiss with much English-speaking commentary on Foucault and the history of madness; in Porter’s words, “the standard criticisms have often been products of prejudice, misunderstanding and ignorance (not least, ignorance of those parts of Folie et déraison omitted from the English translation)”. Today, rather than take the overdue opportunity to move on and allow a more informed and open-minded reassessment, Scull, a keen propagator (alongside Porter himself) of a number of those “standard criticisms”, decides to raise the stakes and reach for the airbrush. It is hard to say what is more astonishing in Scull’s TLS review and his subsequent letter: their obtuse malice and aggression, their indolence and hypocrisy, or their arrogant attempt to silence dissenting voices. One is reminded of Foucault’s remark in reply to a similar attack 25 years ago by Lawrence Stone: “I fear you have taken a considerable risk. Think of those who have read my book; think of those who will read it and want to collate it with your review of it.” It has just got much easier for many people to do exactly that.

Read the rest here.

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.)