Model Cases: On Canonical Research Objects and Sites 9780226780979

Citation preview

Model Cases

Model Cases On Canonical Research Objects and Sites m o n i k a k r au s e

The University of Chicago Press Chicago and London

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2021 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact the University of Chicago Press, 1427 E. 60th St., Chicago, IL 60637. Published 2021 Printed in the United States of America 30  29  28  27  26  25  24  23  22  21  1  2  3  4  5 isbn-­13: 978-­0-­226-­78066-­5 (cloth) isbn-­13: 978-­0-­226-­78083-­2 (paper) isbn-­13: 978-­0-­226-­78097-­9 (e-­book) doi: https://doi.org/10.7208/chicago/9780226780979.001.0001 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Krause, Monika, 1978– author. Title: Model cases : on canonical research objects and sites / Monika Krause. Other titles: On canonical research objects and sites Description: Chicago ; London : The University of Chicago Press, 2021. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2020051197 | isbn 9780226780665 (cloth) | isbn 9780226780832 (paperback) | isbn 9780226780979 (ebook) Subjects: lcsh: Social sciences—Methodology. | Social sciences—Research. | Case method. Classification: lcc h61 .k658 2021 | ddc 300.72/1—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020051197 ♾ This paper meets the requirements of ansi/niso z39.48-­1992 (Permanence of Paper).

Contents

Introduction

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1 Material Research Objects and Privileged Material Research Objects

14

2 How Material Research Objects Are Selected

33

3 Model Cases and the Dream of Collective Methods

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4 How Subfield Categories Shape Knowledge

69

5 The Schemas of Social Theory

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6 The Model Cases of Global Knowledge

101

Conclusion

118 Acknowledgments  127 Notes  129 Bibliography  167 Index  201

Introduction

When biologists seek to answer questions about life and death, development and disease, they analyze data drawn from particular organisms selected for study. Some organisms are used more frequently than others and have become “model organisms,” attracting disproportionate amounts of attention and resources and shaping whole fields of research. Model organisms include, perhaps most famously, the fruit fly, or Drosoph­ ila melanogaster, which has been the site of pathbreaking findings in the study of inheritance and in neuroscience beginning in the early 1900s.1 The mouse has long played an important role in medical research, including research on cancer and HIV/AIDS.2 Other influential animals include Planaria, a type of worm; Aplysia, a kind of snail; and certain varieties of rats, frogs, and dogs. Model organisms can be animals; they can be plants, like Arabidopsis tha­ liana; they can also be considerably “smaller” or “larger” than animals or plants: microbiological entities, such as proteins, viruses, and bacteria, can be studied through model systems.3 Ecologists and evolutionary biologists also form coalitions to coordinate research on “larger entities,” focusing research on particular places as stand-­ins for ecosystems—­typically relatively undisturbed or pristine ecosystems, such as islands—­in order to combine observations from many different studies and gain insights about dynamics in ecosystems in general.4 Researchers in biology and related life sciences are explicitly encouraged to focus their attention in this way. There are lively debates among researchers about the advantages and disadvantages of particular organisms, and some funders demand that a particular experimental organism be used. The idea is that conventions around shared research objects have benefits for the research community as a whole: if different laboratories in different locations

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use the same animals, researchers can compare their findings more easily, and the results of different studies add up in a cumulative way. In this book, which builds on an article written with Michael Guggenheim, I invite you to compare practices in the social sciences and humanities with the ways researchers in the life sciences use model organisms.5 Based on this comparison, I offer a set of distinctions that can be used to examine patterns in the production of academic knowledge, starting from the distinction between material research objects on the one hand and epistemic research objects on the other hand:6 The material object is the specific object accessed through particular traces, produced by specific tools and instruments. It is defined by its role as a tool toward understanding something else, and it is distinguished from an epistemic research object, whatever it is that researchers are trying to understand—­their target of inquiry, which is a conceptual entity and depends on specific intellectual and disciplinary traditions. I argue that scholars in the social sciences and humanities, like biologists, use material research objects, or stand-­ins, to examine broader questions and broader sets of objects of epistemic interest. Material research objects are not always chosen for strategic reasons that are transparent to researchers. I discuss studies in different fields with a view to what they use as material research objects, and I ask about how specific cases and places feature in knowledge about classes of objects and places, and in knowledge about general phenomena. I will suggest that, as in biology, some material research objects are studied repeatedly and shape the understanding of more general categories in disproportionate ways. I call these objects “privileged material research objects,” or “model cases.” Sociologists, historians, and anthropologists thus have a canon of privileged research sites and objects in addition to a canon of texts. When urbanists discuss cities, for example, they draw on research concerning some cities, including Berlin, Chicago, and Mumbai, more than research on others, such as Monaco City, Jacksonville, or Dalian. For discussion of populism among political scientists, Latin America, and more specifically Argentina (rather than Peru, for example), has served as a privileged reference point.7 Sociological work on the professions is oriented by a number of classic works on doctors and, to a lesser extent, lawyers and more rarely considers the role of exterminators or priests.8 At the core of this book is an argument within the sociology of the social sciences, aiming to conceptualize and describe empirical patterns concerning material research objects. I would suggest that an analysis of these patterns is also a useful starting point for addressing normative questions about how social science research can be improved based on observation about the sum

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of practices in research fields and disciplines. The fact that social scientists use model cases is not inherently “good” or “bad”; it has advantages and disadvantages for the knowledge produced. The fact that social scientists use model cases without reflecting on their use has mostly disadvantages. I will suggest that we can better exploit the advantages and limit the disadvantages of privileged material research objects by reflecting on the role they play. Self-­Reflection beyond Abstracted Epistemology Alongside methodological reflection on the level of individual research projects, self-­observation of the social sciences has traditionally been heavily influenced by philosophical approaches.9 Reflection has often focused on the epistemological orientation of different kinds of research; scholars have debated the virtues or faults of “realism” or “interpretivism,” for example. These labels are sometimes used in gestures of self-­identification (such as “empirical-­ analytical sociology” or “critical work”) and sometimes ascribed in an act of hostile labeling (such as “positivism” or “identity politics”). In all cases, these labels are the result of a process of “distillation” or “abstraction” of a “position,” which results in a discussion at considerable remove from anyone’s actual research practices and from the concrete claims and findings we produce, share, and debate. In this practice of distillation, scholars who proclaim their adherence to “the scientific method” converge with scholars who most passionately denounce “positivism” or “the ideology of objectivity.” Scholars who identify most strongly with the notion of “critique” often share this dis­ regard of research practice with their most ardent opponents. In a departure from this circular opposition between ideology and critique of ideology, I, along with others, see an opportunity to renew the reflection on the social sciences based on sociological observations of the social sciences—­ observations that we judge by standards similar to those we would use to judge studies of the art world, humanitarianism, or religion. In these fields as well as in the sociology of culture more broadly, we no longer consider the remote diagnosis of ideological content as a substitute for the analysis of actual practices and institutions. Building on earlier calls for a serious sociology of sociology,10 there has been increasing attention to the social study of the social sciences on practice-­theoretical terms in the past two decades, with important impulses from work in the social studies of the natural sciences.11 I take particular inspiration from work on the natural sciences, which pays attention to the diverse sites, tools, and materials of knowledge production. For the social sciences, this means taking seriously the role of historical

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archives,12 places,13 the settings and tools of qualitative interviews and small group experiments14 and surveys,15 and the ethnographic “field,”16 which have recently become the objects of a new kind of explicit discussion and serious reflection in their respective disciplines. It means taking the role of texts seriously, as one step in a complex set of translation between different kinds of materials, as a carrier of scientific findings that circulates but is itself material, and is further something that, as we shall see, can become an object of research itself. Within this broader discussion, I use questions about research objects—­and, more specifically, using a distinction between material and epi­ stemic research objects—­as my particular entry point. While I am inspired by the attention to sites, objects, and practices of knowledge in science and technology studies (STS), I ask questions about the aggregate of output in the tradition of sociologists of science rather than STS. Robert Merton framed his inquiries in the sociology of science as an inquiry into the “cognitive and social patterns in the practice of science.”17 We can thus ask: What are the cognitive and social patterns regarding material and epistemic research objects that emerge when we look at the collective output of scholarly communities? Whereas biologists explicitly discuss the use of privileged material research objects, the conventions privileging model cases in the social sciences are largely implicit. Conversations about selective attention, overstudied places, and neglected cases are already taking place in different research areas but are rarely brought together across fields. My main aim in this book is to address this gap and to provide a language for analyzing these forms of selective attention and their consequences in a systematic manner. Analyzing patterns associated with model cases provides insight into the ways the social sciences have been shaped by Western cases, as has been highlighted by critiques of Eurocentrism and more recent calls to decolonize various fields of research and curricula. As I will suggest, it also draws attention to dynamics inside particular fields of research that cannot easily be reduced to the patterns emphasized by postcolonial theory and can recur within postcolonial theory. Questions about research objects yield particular kinds of maps, emphasizing some aspects of the scholarly landscape and deemphasizing others. I would suggest that as a unique kind of map with its own emphasis, the map that emerges from the argument developed in this book can usefully complement the maps that currently inform debates within the discipline—­maps that have been one-­sided in other ways, focusing on epistemology, institutions, theoretical schools, or citation networks.

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The Disunity of the Natural Sciences and Its Implications for the Social Sciences and Humanities Attention to the sites, objects, and practices of knowledge in any domain today owes much to pioneering historical and ethnographic work on the natural sciences, such as Robert Kohler’s Lords of the Fly and Landscapes and Lab­ scapes, Bruno Latour and Steve Woolgar’s Laboratory Life, and Karin Knorr Cetina’s The Manufacture of Knowledge.18 Because the precise legacy of these studies is contested—­and because references to the natural sciences have been so fraught in discussions about the social sciences—­it is worth explaining at a bit more length what I take to be the groundwork that these studies have established for the present project. Ethnographies and historical studies that pay attention to the practice and material culture of science have shown how science is produced in particular locations with particular practices and tools, and how this shapes the content and the results of scientific work. Though “constructivist” in a broad sense, these accounts were never “relativist” in the way construed by some opponents; research in this tradition has consistently shown how much systematic work, effort, skill, and reflection goes into producing what count as scientific results. While we sometimes see how findings are contextual, historical, and temporary, they are never simply arbitrary.19 This emphasis on the findings of scientific research being in some ways contingent but not arbitrary is also one implication of the new emphasis on the material in the social studies of scientific research. Although sociologists and philosophers of science have argued since Quine, at least, that theory is in some ways underdetermined by “data,” studies by Latour and others show that the (physical) objects scientists study, such as bacteria or electrodes, also shape and constrain what scientists say about them.20 While some have chosen to be provoked by these studies in the name of “science”—­hence the “science wars”—­the challenge of these findings has not been so much to the sciences but rather to the philosophy of science, and more particularly to a specific philosophy of science that reduced all scientific activity to an idealized representation of theoretical physics. What these works do show is that research within the natural sciences operates according to different logics, with diverse setups that are each elaborate and complex. Scientists collect data in the field, study historical processes, work with abstracted data on computers, and work in laboratories that are themselves highly diverse. This insight into the “disunity of the natural sciences”21 has profound implications for our thinking about the social sciences. The self-­reflection of the

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social sciences in the philosophy of the social sciences, but also in broader conversations labeled as theory in different disciplines, has until recently been dominated entirely by a debate about whether or not they are like “the natural sciences.” The idea of the natural sciences in the singular—­albeit mediated by ideas about science among economists—­was an important reference for the Methodenstreit in the nineteenth century, and it influenced both Max Weber and Émile Durkheim when they outlined their methodological programs. It was carried forward in debates about positivism in the 1960s and 1970s and is still being carried forward in labels like “scientific”; “empirical”; “positivist” or “quantitative”; and “interpretivist,” “qualitative,” or “critical.”22 Once we take seriously a focus on practices rather than the distillation of epistemological ideas, and once we take seriously the variety of practices in the natural sciences, these labels are revealed as misleading shorthands, whether they are used positively or negatively, or whether they are used to identify the speak­ ers themselves or others.23 For a sociological study of the social sciences that tries to bracket normative concerns and asks empirical questions about scholarly practices, the insight into the disunity of the natural sciences means we can add the diversity among and within disciplines in the humanities and social sciences to the diversity within the natural sciences, without making assumptions about the ways in which this diversity can be grouped in advance. Throughout this book, I draw on research on model system research in biology by historians, sociologists, and anthropologists and on existing conversations about model system research in the philosophy of science and the arts and humanities. I also depart slightly from some of this work insofar as it concerns the comparison between biological model system research and research in the humanities and the social sciences and its implications. Historically, biologists’ use of model systems has attracted attention in the philosophy of science because it highlighted the disunity of the sciences discussed above: as a case of scientists focusing on specific animals or cases, it contrasts with idealized descriptions in the traditional philosophy of science oriented toward physics, which has portrayed scientists as seeking to establish laws about causal relationships between categories of objects.24 Commentators have rightly noted some similarities between model system research and work in the social sciences and humanities that focuses on particular objects, and they saw the prospects for forging new links between the arts and humanities on the one hand and science on the other.25 This has led to some fruitful exercises of mutual defamiliarization among different fields of practice. But the shared opposition to law-­seeking physics has also created the temptation to assimilate model system research into abstract

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epistemological oppositions, which have long shaped humanities and social science work. In this direction lies the invitation for scholars in the arts and the humanities to use the fact that some natural scientists also pay attention to specific objects as a justification for simply celebrating a range of case-­ oriented methods that they are already using. The undifferentiated celebration of “case-­ based thinking”26 is largely based on the reconstruction of individuals’ best practices. I bring the sociological focus on collective conventions and patterns and material practices—­ which is already present in empirical work on model system research in the life sciences—­to the discussion of practices in the social and human sciences. Based on consideration of model system research as a collective method, I discuss both similarities and differences among forms of research with privileged material research objects, which provides a different kind of starting point for critical reflection on its advantages and disadvantages. Cultural Schema and the Case of Academic Research When reflecting on the privileged place some objects hold in relation to some categories of objects, we are reminded of the classic research in cognitive psychology about the way linguistic categories are shaped by privileged members.27 This research has shown that respondents associate “chair,” for example, more quickly with the category of “furniture” than “mirror,” and “robin” more quickly with the category of “bird” than “duck.”28 This central member, called a prototype, can be an average or a quintessential member of the category depending on the cultural context. That is, the category “bird” can be prominently associated with a robin—­an average bird—­or an eagle—­a bird that could be argued to have some of the properties associated with being a bird to a heightened extent; the penguin, by contrast, is less likely to be a central member of the category.29 Insights about processes of typification, frames, and schemas have a long history in phenomenology and phenomenologically inspired sociology as well as in what is now cognitive science.30 In contemporary cognitive sociology, some scholarship has focused on general questions about the nature of agency and culture; a focus on “those elements of cognition that are fundamentally social and thus neither the product of unique individual nuances nor universals of the human mind” has also led researchers to explore group-­specific processes involved in typification and the creation of cognitive schemas.31 Research in psychology and sociology suggests that schemas also play a role for categories shared within specific social groups and particularly within groups of experts.32

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introduction

Empirical research on natural scientists has shown that scientists are no exception to the general findings concerning the importance of tacit knowledge, which cognitive scientists call “type 1” cognition:33 scientists too understand categories in schematic ways rather than by following explicitly agreed definitions.34 Heterodox philosophers of science have been very interested in exploring the implications of the fact that categories are understood in this way, as it is at odds with classical Aristotelian logic.35 In considering evidence about how categories are shaped by schemas and privileged members, I make a distinction in principle between general, or group-­specific, schema (which people carry in their heads) as they would be revealed in experiments; and the material stand-­ins selected for research practice about which knowledge is produced and circulated. This distinction opens up the question of how the two are related.36 I will discuss how the selection of material research objects can be shaped by schema in the general population and by schemas within specific research fields, for example. Taking the materiality of stand-­ins seriously will also allow us to discuss differences and similarities among some of the phenomena often discussed sepa­ rately, such as paradigmatic or prototypical examples, classic cases, classic texts and canons, and classic periods. I will also ask further about the categories that stand-­ins stand in for. The categories of the social sciences are not natural categories, linguistically speaking, but have relatively short and particular histories. They need more investigation concerning not only how each author carefully constructs (some of) them, but also with regard to the role they play collectively in structuring knowledge, scholarly jobs and careers, and academic departments. I will argue that some aspects of the social organization of scholarly work counteract attempts to be reflexive about categories and the schemas that shape how social scientists understand them. Materials and Methods Based on a distinction between material research objects and epistemic research objects or targets, this book asks: How are material research objects selected and evaluated? How do specific cases and places feature in knowledge about classes of objects and places and about phenomena of general scholarly interest? What are conventions around privileged material research objects? How are privileged material research objects reflected and reproduced? I will examine how cases and categories are constructed in scholarly con­ tributions, drawing on examples from sociology, anthropology, political sci­

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ence, and history. I aim to develop distinctions that provide a framework for describing patterns associated with the use of stand-­ins in different disciplines. I will present observations and hypotheses that can be assessed empirically, relatively independently of whether these patterns are “good” or “bad,” even though I will use these empirical hypotheses as a basis also for normative reflection. The project takes from critical theory, broadly, the impetus to compare not only with what is but with what could be, to situate current practices in the space of possible practices.37 It approaches the social sciences and humanities with the question: How could research be different? I develop a set of tools for identifying particular elements in the production of the social sciences that allow me to map patterns in the way these elements are used and combined. This allows me to highlight distinctive forms of duplication and repetition, and it allows me to look for unused possibilities, some of which could have value for research if pursued. I am aware that many readers are familiar—­and indeed, extremely fam­ iliar—­with some or many aspects of social scientific research, and will compare my account with their own sense of the field. When I suggest that model cases are sometimes chosen as default, they may think of work by a colleague who has thought very carefully about which case best suited their research aims. When I argue that a particular research object is neglected, some readers will think of studies they have read concerning this kind of object. I hope I can invite at least some of those readers to consider my proposals as hypotheses about collective patterns rather than individual studies. Inspired by the sociology of science, I apply the principle of symmetry, which demands paying as much attention to the average and bad work as to the good.38 When I speak of the “production of knowledge,” I mean largely the production of published papers. I do not follow the tendency to sample the “best works,” which is common in methodological reflection and in the teaching of research design. This tendency is worth suspending for a few chapters for the sake of an empirically oriented understanding of patterns in actually existing social science research, which also deserves some chance of influencing research, teaching, and policy. Some of the studies of cases that I claim are neglected are famous, and justly famous, precisely because they transcend patterns that are strong nevertheless. I would also like to point out that some of these outstanding studies are then received and used in ways that are patterned to fit rather than negate my larger account; that is, they are received as “interesting cases” but are not able to impact the way the larger category is understood.

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introduction

The Organization of the Book This book develops a framework for the comparative analysis of the role of material research objects and privileged material research objects in the humanistic social sciences, using examples from sociology, history, political science, and anthropology. It is organized around a set of distinctions that allow us to analytically describe patterns in the production of research papers. These distinctions are developed in specific chapters and build on one another over the course of the book. The distinctions between material research objects and epistemic targets and between material research objects and privileged material research objects discussed in chapter 1 are followed by the distinction between material research objects and their specimens in chapter 3, and the distinction between privileged material research objects and paradigmatic example in chapter 5. Alongside this conceptual structure, chapters address specific themes that can be accessed directly by readers with particular purposes and interests. Chapter 1 functions as an extended introduction and sets out basic elements of the argument. Chapter 2 engages with rationalist assumptions about how material research objects are chosen and discusses some of the factors that sponsor some stand-­ins over others. Chapter 3 speaks to methodological concerns, discussing important differences between research practices in the social sciences and in biology. Chapter 4 examines the effects of the institutionalization of categories through subfields. Chapter 5 discusses the schemas of social theory, and chapter 6 examines model cases in light of recent debates about global knowledge. The normative issues raised by the analysis of these patterns feature briefly at the end of each chapter and are taken up at more length in the conclusion. c h a p t e r 1 : m at e r i a l r e s e a r c h o b j e c t s a n d p r i v i l e g e d m at e r i a l r e s e a r c h o b j e c t s The first chapter introduces the distinction between material research objects on the one hand and epistemic targets on the other hand, as well as the distinction between material research objects and privileged material research objects. It discusses in more detail how model systems are used in biological research, and it seeks to make it plausible that we have privileged material research objects or model cases in the social sciences by using examples from urban studies and from the sociology of work. I situate conventions regarding privileged material research objects within a broader range of modes of

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valuing stand-­ins: using an analysis of journal articles in sociology, anthropology, literary studies, and field and laboratory biology, I distinguish between a logic of model systems and its cousin, a logic of application, as well as a logic of coverage, a logic of representativeness, and a logic of formal models. c h a p t e r 2 : h o w m at e r i a l r e s e a r c h objects are selected This chapter asks how researchers select material research objects for their studies. Robert Merton’s discussion of research materials and sites as “strategic research materials” suggests that material research objects are chosen by self-­aware researchers because their object is ideally suited to their particular objectives; this precludes an inquiry into the tensions between different aspects of strategy, including individual and collective aspects of strategy as well as consideration of nonstrategic factors. I discuss research on how material research objects are selected in biology and offer the concept of the “sponsored stand-­in.” Asking about “sponsored stand-­ins” in addition to the more traditional focus on “sponsored categories,” “sponsored methods,” or “sponsored facts” allows us to examine a unique route for a range of influences on the social sciences. I discuss the role of prototypes in the popular mind, subcultural factors, journalistic conventions, macrohistoricism, microhistoricism, and Anglo-­American journals and their reviewers in sponsoring stand-­ins. I discuss how some objects lobby for themselves as stand-­ins and how some objects veto being studied by not providing access. chapter 3: model cases and the dream of collective methods In this chapter I examine the material infrastructure of model system research as a collective method. Biologists have explicit conventions regarding privileged material research objects and actively intervene to try to control variation among specimens of privileged material research objects. Researchers in the social sciences, on the other hand, do not try to collectively intervene in the material research object, and they do not try to standardize it; if variation among specimens is low, this is a matter of luck, not effort. This means social scientists are not in a position to fully exploit the advantages of the concentration of attention on certain stand-­ins. Restudies emerge as an interesting practice in the context of this comparison. In the restudy, the authors situate their research very explicitly in the context of specific other research. Calling a study a “restudy” highlights the researchers’ effort—­a kind

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of Brechtian distancing effect—rather than relying explicitly or implicitly on some claimed inherent virtue of the chosen research object. c h a p t e r 4 : h o w s u b f i e l d c at e g o r i e s shape knowledge We might expect social scientists to be more reflexive about the schemas that affect their work than ordinary people. After all, most scholars distinguish their knowledge in some way from the knowledge of everyday life; they are also trained specifically to give an account of some of the translations involved in navigating the back-­and-­forth between material research objects and epistemic targets and are involved in routines whereby they challenge one another’s assumptions and conclusions. Addressing this expectation about social scientists, I aim to make it plausible that these attempts to be reflexive are to some extent counteracted by occasions that explicitly invite scholars—­ and sometimes even mandate them—­to activate schemas to show that they are members of the relevant academic community. Subfield categories, like eighteenth-­century studies, the anthropology of Islam, and scholarship on organizations, institutionalize some categories for epistemic targets—­objects that we try to understand better, such as “organizations” or “Islam.” These categories also structure the reproduction of scholarly communities over time as diverse communities. This means the social sciences reproduce themselves via categorized opportunities, including job opportunities, which I will argue are gateways for schemas and schema-­congruent material research object. chapter 5: the schemas of so cial theory Most social science disciplines accord a special place to some authors and texts. Critical reflection on the status of “the classics” or “the canon” has thus far focused on the cultural function of these texts. In this chapter, I build on those contributions that have begun to denaturalize “big thinkers” in a more fundamental way and examine the preconditions and consequences of consecration of individuals as authors. I recount the history of turning colleagues into authors and authors into objects of study, in the light of alternatives not taken. Only once authors or approaches are established as objects, solidified as stand-­ins of the newly institutionalized category of “theory,” can we ask how value is accorded to and among authors and their texts. I will argue that when colleagues are transformed into authors, material research objects are transformed into paradigmatic examples. Whereas privileged research objects are meant to be studied again and again, with different approaches and

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methods, paradigmatic examples are asked to illustrate a particular approach, and restudying them makes sense only as a challenge to this approach. The transformation of material research objects into paradigmatic examples leads to an industry of application, where findings from the paradigmatic example are grafted onto, instead of compared with, other cases. chapter 6: the model cases of global knowledge This chapter discusses model cases in the light of debates that address inequalities in the production and dissemination of social scientific knowledge in a global context. Drawing on postcolonial theory and the debate about “Anglo-­American hegemony” in the social sciences, I note that historicism and Anglo-­American journals and reviewers have sponsored some stand-­ins over others, limiting the ways different parts of the world feature in what is called international social science. I also note that the logic of model cases has effects of its own. I discuss this firstly by looking at the particular Western countries that have functioned as privileged material research objects for studying different aspects of modernity, such as England, which has been the model case of capitalism and class formation, and France, which has served as the basis of our understanding of political modernity. I ask, secondly, about the model cases and paradigmatic examples of postcolonial theory itself, arguing that as an institutionalized approach category it is not entirely exempt from the tendency to encourage an industry of application, which I have noted for approach categories in general. Thirdly, I discuss the agenda for comparative research on knowledge marked as area specific and sketch an analysis of area-­specific knowledge in terms of the different privileged stand-­ ins of different disciplines.

1

Material Research Objects and Privileged Material Research Objects An ethnographer spends a day in a particular neighborhood of Boston. He meets two or three informants, follows one around for the afternoon, then goes home to take notes. Drawing on several hundred pages of field notes and several years of research, he will later make an argument about poor people and neighborhood renewal. A scholar compiles data about the hundred largest metropolitan areas in the United States. The resulting finding is later cited abroad concerning the issues of “segregation” and “cities.” Another US city has 546,000 inhabitants and has never seen an ethnographer since its founding.

When a sociologist conducts an ethnography in a specific neighborhood of Boston, this neighborhood is their field site, their observations are captured in their notes, and their interviews are their “data.” When they publish a paper that promises to contribute to the understanding of “slums” or “neighborhood renewal,” the neighborhood studied also becomes a stand-­in for the category of “American city,” or “city.” Of course, our researcher does really want to understand the lived experience in Boston’s West End, New York’s East Harlem, or Chicago’s South Side; but the specific setting also serves partly as a means to an end; it is a stand-­in for something else. Using a distinction that can be traced back to Aristotle, we can observe that the neighborhood plays, at least in part, the role of a material research object: the material research object is the material, concrete object accessed through particular traces, produced by specific tools and instruments. It is distinguished from a formal or epistemic research object—­the target of inquiry as presented by the researcher, which is necessarily a conceptual entity and depends on specific intellectual and disciplinary traditions. Scholars in the social studies of science have highlighted that research is a concrete activity, and one that takes place in specific social situations. Beginning from concrete social situations of situated research, they have drawn attention to the complex work involved in the production of “representation,” or “translation.” Moving from situated observations or concrete traces to findings about, say, “the city” involves a series of steps that involve various

r ese a rch objects a nd pr i v il eged r ese a rch objects

15

kinds of practices and media, which we can observe and study. In some basic sense, we can analyze all forms of research—­even the most abstracted and even the most textual—­with a view to the concrete context of their production, including what the researchers use as stand-­ins. In what follows, I will start from the observation that all research is using stand-­ins in some way or another to explore the role that implicit or explicit conventions concerning material research objects and privileged material research objects play in some fields of research. I will begin by discussing the distinction between material research objects and epistemic research objects, or targets, in more detail. I will then discuss how biologists use model systems as a case of the more general phenomenon of conventions concerning privileged material research objects. Biology is already a prominent reference point for discussions about material research objects; it has an explicit discussion about material research objects and privileged material research objects, so we can learn from these self-­observations, as well as the descriptions provided by historians and sociologists of science. I will then use the case of urban studies and the sociology of work to make it plausible that we can observe similar patterns in the social sciences. As I will discuss, the logic associated with privileged material research objects is only one of several ways to organize attention. We can distinguish this logic from its other, the logic of coverage. It is also often coupled with the logic of application; other logics include the logic of representativeness and of formal models. Material Research Objects and Epistemic Targets I make a distinction between two aspects or dimensions of research objects; namely, between the material object of research and the formal object of research, or epistemic target. The material research object is a concrete object, accessed through particular traces, or “data,” that are produced by specific tools and instruments. It stands in for the epistemic target of the study—­what a given study aims to understand better, which is not usually available for direct observation. The epistemic target is an object as conceptualized in a particular scholarly tradition. It contains the perspective of the study. The distinction can be traced back to Aristotle,1 and reoccurs with slightly different terms in different authors.2 The material object of research is also called the “technical research object,” the “object of experience,” or “proxy”; or, in the expression of Robert Merton (to whose account we shall return to in the next chapter in more detail), it is a concrete set of “research materials.”3 My use of the distinction has been influenced by the work of scholars who observe interdisciplinary research and note that scholars in different disciplines

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chapter one

tend to study the same material research objects but pursue different epi­ stemic targets in doing so, which can lead to misunderstandings in a working group or team.4 The epistemic target, in the way I use the term, is the target as posited by the researcher; using the term does not require me to defend a claim about the existence of any actual epistemic target “out there.” Most social scientists do not think of their epistemic object as an object in a physical sense, but almost all scholarly contributions have a conceptual target of analysis, the object that any given text is “about,” whether it is described or explained, interpreted or reinterpreted, contextualized or recontextualised. They create a research object when anything is presented as the “what” of study, the target of their inquiry: what they are trying to describe, explain, understand, or study. In that sense, “the eighteenth century,” “the history of the military,” and “Islam” are categories for objects of study, as are “emotionality,” “globalization,” and “capitalism.” The material research object is constituted by an instrumental relationship to the epistemic target. It stands in for the epistemic target, as the epi­ stemic target is usually not available; indeed, it can only be an epistemic target by not being fully available.5 The distinction is a distinction that is situatively established by researchers themselves in concrete contexts, by establishing a means-­end relationship. Research on biologists has highlighted that they engage with this distinction over time, adjusting how they label material and epistemic or categorical aspects of their material as they go along.6 Any specific set of materials can be embedded in a longer list of instrumentalities: a biologist might use a concrete set of fruit flies to understand how fruit flies move or do not move toward the light in order to understand vision in fruit flies, in order to understand the role of specific genes in countering neurodegeneration.7 The situational and processual aspects of how material research objects and epistemic targets are construed has also been discussed in sociology, where scholars have described this as “casing” based on observations of themselves and others.8 When researchers start their research project, it is not always clear what will be a case for what; framings of projects shift over time in this regard, and the chains established can be long. For example, a sociologist might look at particular documents in a particular archive to understand conscription practices, in order to understand gendered ideologies of citizenship.9 The emphasis can change even after publication, when other scholars encounter and interpret earlier studies in the context of new conversations.10 I depart from some contributions in the literature on model systems in the social studies of science by isolating the material research object from the full

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ensemble of material tools, which Fujimura calls a “standardized package” for the production of findings.11 This has some costs in terms of the situational dimensions of knowledge production, but it has advantages in terms of discussing shared patterns that are somewhere between a concrete standardized package and an overarching “episteme.”12 In some basic sense, we can analyze all forms of research with a view to what they use as stand-­ins of the empirical. This includes very abstract and textual forms of research, including those in philosophy and social theory, which use thought experiments13 or examples14 as stand-­ins. It includes qualitative and quantitative research. Quantitative studies also do not study their epistemic targets directly: they look at abstracted traces of a population that is also a particular population. Material Research Objects and Privileged Material Research Objects When a material research object is studied often and used very widely, we can call it a privileged material research objects. I draw a distinction between the material research object and the privileged material research object, initially based on the case of biology. All experimental research in biology uses some specific kind of system or organic material—­a specific animal or other organism; only some research uses a system that is widely used and recognized as a model system, such as mice, the fruit fly (Drosophila), or the tobacco mosaic virus. Biologists call the general material research object—­the specific organic material used in any given study to investigate more general processes—­the “experimental system”15 or “experimental organism.” Biologists call privileged material research objects “model organisms” or “model systems.”16 Biologists have explicit collective conversations about the advantages and disadvantages of different material research objects; the norms that privilege some stand-­ins are also quite explicit. In a somewhat sarcastic account, one evolutionary biologist notes: There are those privileged imperial organisms called model systems, and then there are all the other organisms. There are seven basic model systems of developmental biology: the fruit fly Drosophila melanogaster, the nematode Caenorhabditis elegans, the mouse Mus musculus, the frog Xenopus laevis, the zebrafish Danio rerio, the chick Gallus gallus, and the mustard Arabidopsis thaliana. For many researchers, having their experimental organism be considered a model system is an important goal. The recognition that one’s organism is a model system provides a platform upon which one can apply for funds, and it assures one of a community of like-­minded researchers who have identified problems that the community thinks are important. There has been

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much lobbying for the status of a model system and the fear is that if your organism is not a recognized model, you will be relegated to the backwaters of research.17

There is at least the perception that funding can be conditional on using the established model system in a specific field, or on developing a new one. The US National Institutes of Health maintains a list of those organisms it recognizes as model organisms, which currently includes thirteen species, such as mouse, rat, zebrafish, fruit fly, nematode, and thale cress.18 Model organisms can be animals; they can also be considerably “smaller” or “larger” than animals: smaller entities such as proteins, viruses, and bacteria can be studied through model systems. Ecologists and evolutionary biologists also form coalitions to coordinate research on “larger entities,” focusing research on particular places as stand-­ins for ecosystems—­typically relatively undisturbed or pristine ecosystems, such as islands—­in order to combine observations from many different studies and gain insights about dynamics in ecosystems in general.19 Privileged material research objects are not confined to biology. I have noted the similarities between model systems in biology and the literary canon,20 and I would suggest that we can understand the literary canon as a set of privileged material research objects. In the history of literature (and art), it has long been accepted that we should read and discuss some authors and some works more than others—­though it is of course heavily contested what kind of works are included. The literary canon may have many societal uses and functions, including the education of schoolchildren and, some critics would argue, the reproduction of social inequality. It is also a device with a function within a community of researchers.21 In this particular social context, literary works serve as objects of research, and canonical research objects come to stand in for a larger class of objects. Mary Poovey has pointed out that the notion of genre is equivalent to the notion of system in biology, each forming the pillar of a systematics of epi­ stemic research objects, thereby establishing a specifically disciplinary authority over the world.22 Following this insight, we might say that Shakespeare’s Othello is to drama what the fruit fly is to the category of invertebrates. Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” stands in for poems, and Sophocles’s Antigone for tragedy. As a concept, my notion of a privileged material research object—­the most general term that encompasses canons and model systems as well as the social science version, which I call “model case”—­is a hypothesis for a set of implicit and explicit conventions about the use of certain objects but not others. This means we can ask empirical questions about where and how in the com-

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plex chains of instrumentalization conventions apply and how they are institutionalized. I will argue that norms around model cases in the social sciences are more implicit than in biology or even literary studies. Norms about what does and does not count as a model case vary in different fields, with some conventions specifying a more general class of material research objects and others providing great detail about the required specimen. The Model Cases of Urban Research Consider for a moment the role of different cities in the history of social scientific thinking about cities. Even in the general population, the very notion of the “city” is probably shaped by some cities more than others. We might expect a bias toward the largest local city in any given geographical area, a few national centers, and a few very large or iconic foreign cities. This could be examined in experimental research, whereby respondents are asked what they associate with the category of city, or where we measure the speed with which respondents attribute a particular city to the category. Social scientists may share some of the general schemas about cities, but they are also expected to be familiar with a particular concept of what a city is, which is shaped by its history in the academic literature, which is built from classic studies of some cities but not others. The focus of urban studies has been on a slightly different set of cities at different times, but, as Jennifer Robinson has shown, for much of the twentieth century, certain large Western cities have been accorded a privileged place.23 The late nineteenth-­century shopping malls of Paris have had an afterlife in urban theory thanks to Walter Benjamin. Georg Simmel was mostly trying to make sense of his experience of Berlin in light of broader concerns about the social forms particular to modern life. Since the early 1900s, Chicago and the Chicago school have had an outsize influence on urban theory and on sociological work more generally. The University of Chicago opened the first sociology department in 1892 and assembled a high number of scholars who did pioneering sociological work using a range of methods in a range of substantive areas. Thomas Gieryn has shown that, as part of their work, the sociologists in and around Chicago took quite an active role in promoting not just their own studies but also their field site, the city of Chicago, thereby turning the city into the canonical research setting for urban sociology and the nascent discipline of sociology as a whole.24 Scholars both highlighted and downplayed what was specific about Chicago in strategic ways, making it out as a place that was both uniquely suited to studying the city itself, yet not specific in a way that would limit its potential as a site for more general

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urban theory. What was explored in Chicago became general knowledge about cities through what Gieryn calls the “lab-­field shuttle.”25 The work of Robert Park and Louis Wirth was followed by William Julius Wilson’s, which was followed by Wacquant’s, Venkatesh’s, and Klinenberg’s.26 These works have traveled far beyond the United States and have become mandatory reference points for those working on and publishing on cities. The focus on Chicago has shaped understandings of the social scientific concept of “the city”; for much of the twentieth century Chicago was a rapidly growing city, drawing immigrants to industrial and financial jobs. It had an important regional and international role and could be presented as an end point of modernization; it produced a spatial internal differentiation, which could be used to highlight questions of “tradition” versus “modernity,” of individualization and assimilation. Chicago has also served as a privileged stand-­in or material object for the study of other epistemic targets, most notably race. Mario Small has pointed out that the discussion of race in American sociology in the past thirty years would have looked different had it placed less prominence on Chicago and more on, for example, New York.27 A focus on Chicago has highlighted social isolation and institutional deprivation, while a focus on New York brings into view traffic, congestion, and pollution. A focus on the full range of urban experiences, or on the full range of African American experiences, would have highlighted yet other aspects. The focus on Chicago has not remained unchallenged within urban stud­ ies. At the end of the twentieth century, it was suggested by some authors that the city of the twenty-­first century was not Chicago, the dense and hectic amalgam, but Los Angeles—­typified by sprawl, a vast carpet of uniform and indistinct buildings without a center, and connected by endless highways.28 What is significant as a measure of the conventions—­implicit but real—­concerning the use of privileged material research objects in this field is that the debate concerning the status of LA and Chicago was not a debate about how best to think about the full range of variation among cities, or indeed the full range of settlements, but about which individual (American) city best represents “the city.” Authors associated with the self-­proclaimed LA school in some way affirmed Chicago as “the foundational example of the modernist city.”29 To them, Chicago represented the dense city of the twentieth century. It is for the twenty-­first century that they recommended a focus on LA in no modest terms: LA should be studied in order to “rebuild urban theory” and as a “site to excavate the future of cities everywhere.”30 It is striking how little attention this debate about the future of “the city” in the United States and some other Western countries has paid to the “Global

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South” as late as the early twenty-­first century. Researchers have of course done work on a much broader range of cities, but it was not being heard on a conceptual level. Jennifer Robinson has diagnosed a “deep division within urban theory between those cities that have been seen as sites for the development of urban theory and those that have been portrayed as objects for developmentalist intervention.”31 Accounts of cities that challenged assumptions about urbanity derived from Western cities were criticized as not being about “cities” or “the urban.”32 Today, there is significantly more attention to the Global South, not only in urban research but also in urban theory. Again, however, this attention is not distributed equally and can tend to focus on a few very large iconic cities, such as Lagos, Mumbai, Beijing, and Shanghai.33 Adding “important” African and Asian cities to “important” American cities allows for considerable continuity for a literature that has often performed rather than questioned the normative and aesthetic baggage of its notion of “the city,” which also underlies much self-­avowedly critical work. Smaller and middle-­sized cities are studied much less often in the West and in the Global South.34 Shrinking cities appear as an anomalous case.35 There is also a more general bias toward cities in comparison to other forms of settlements, which are relatively neglected.36 Within the more general discussion about cities, some cities or neighborhoods stand in for particular subcategories of urban phenomena: some are more readily identified as “global cities” than others, and some neighborhoods are classic sites for the study of gentrification. We could argue that Dharavi (Mumbai) and Kibera (Nairobi) have functioned as model cases for the object “slum.”37 The Sites and Objects of the Sociology of Work Some work in the contemporary sociology of work is based on data about a large number of individuals abstracted out of context—­that is, it uses data on employment that is usually national-­level data, or surveys of particular groups of workers. This research asks about employment status in relation to education, gender, or number and age of children, for example; or it asks about work satisfaction in relation to gender, pay, hours worked, or education. Other studies are based on particular types of work in particular kinds of organizations. Historically, some sites have been more central to the sociology of work than others. We can begin by inquiring into the concrete cases behind the classical works of political economy: Adam Smith’s classic argument on the division of labor involves the specific case of making pins. In his discussion in the Wealth of Nations, he compares traditional, craft-­based models of pin-­making with modern rational ones drawing on French sources:when individual workers

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each complete all eighteen steps involved in making a pin, they each have to have all the tools (which lay idle most of the time) and they all have to be highly trained.38 It is more efficient to have workers specialize in one task and circulate the work objects. In the broader discussion of classical political economy, including the work of Karl Marx, the textile industry—­and more specifically, the textile industry in Britain—­played a key role.39 For much of the twentieth century, the notion of work was associated with industrial work. Within studies of industrial work in the twentieth century, the car industry has been a privileged site. Scholarship in many industrialized countries has focused on the car industry, but this focus is perhaps most pronounced in France, where there was a specific focus on Renault, and among Renault factories, a particular focus on a particular factory in Boulogne-­ Billancourt, near Paris.40 Alain Touraine was sent to Renault in 1948 by his mentor Georges Friedmann to study the effects of technological change. Based on observations at one particular factory, Touraine examined the implications of a transition from mass production to automation for social integration. Rot notes: “Even if he [Touraine] takes the precautionary measure to note that his conclusions are only ‘hypotheses which call for other enquiries regarding the ensemble of the industrial life,’ his results are taken up again in the ‘General History of Work’ [ . . . ] without an indication to the reference to Renault. They are also mobilized as an analytical frame for Touraine’s habilitation thesis, ‘La conscience ouvrière’ [The workers’ consciousness] [ . . . ] and then became a classic of the sociology of work.”41 Billancourt is also the basis of writings that emerge from the labor movement and speak to a broader audience.42 The same factory is central to the struggles of 1968—­workers were engaging in a wildcat strike, and it was Billancourt where Sartre addressed them—­and to the broader intellectual imagination of the worker. In the 1970s and 1980s, some of the concerns in sociological studies of work and studies of Renault Billancourt shift (from automation to management reforms, for example), while others stay the same (consciousness, resistance, the future). Some of the studies that focus on Renault Billancourt try to justify why this site is particularly well suited to general analytical concerns, trying to construct a “field-­lab shuttle” like the members of the Chicago school;43 yet they all highlight slightly different features of the empirical object “Billancourt.” Touraine gives the following account of his “case selection”: “The importance of the Renault factories, the diversity of their manufacturing, their progressive creed, which even today allows us to observe and to compare workplaces from different periods allow us to assign general value to the concepts generated by their examination.”44 Laure Pitti calls Renault Billancourt a

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“social and political showcase of the French government” (“une vitrine social et politique de la gouvernement français”).45 While she acknowledges that focusing on one factory might seem restrictive, “the fact that we are talking about the Renault factory at Billancourt immediately gives the study a scope that goes beyond the space of the factory: more than a relevant example, this can be considered a textbook case for the study of workers’ mobilizations.”46 Alongside intellectual motivations—­and the curious circularity of calling a case a “textbook” case—­convenience will have played a role too: Billancourt is ten kilometers from the center of Paris, easy to reach via two metro lines. Renault also provided funding for extensive social science research, alongside France’s largely state-­owned electric ultility company, EDF (Électricité de France); Alain Touraine was to lead a large study that seemed to have been primarily contract work, which led to ambivalence among employed researchers.47 There have also always been studies of other Renault factories,48 other car factories (though it is then often not highlighted which one),49 and of other sites and cases such as the nuclear industry, abattoirs, luxury hotels, or elite traders, in France and elsewhere.50 Some contributions did highlight the baggage of the key terms while simultaneously subverting them. For example, feminists have highlighted unpaid work, and feminists and others have pointed out the work involved in consuming and playing, as well as the count­ erschematic notions of destructive work and war work.51 But with the term “Fordism,” the car industry has provided a dominant frame for questions of workplace organization and social arrangements more broadly.52 The term can refer to the social correlates of mass consumption, or can refer to the whole regime of accumulation. Here as in other cases, the ambiguity between concrete referent and large-­scale claims has arguably been productive and to some extent deliberate. This also entailed a burden on car factories, which were made to speak to the fears and hopes of Marxist and post-­Marxist intellectuals through theoretical issues such as alienation, automation, deskilling, and embourgeoisement. Billancourt closed in 2004. At some point before that, the car industry had become identified with the past rather than the future, and the whole period was associated with deindustrialization and, indeed, post-­Fordism in France, the UK, and the US. The sites of formerly iconic industries remained important, but have been used to study other epistemic targets, such as masculinity, nostalgia, and support for populist political projects. Attempts to make sense of the brave new world of work have featured new model cases, such as call centers and the fast food industry (“McJobs”) on the one hand and Chinese factories on the other. One wonders if the sociology

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of work overstates the changes in the world of work because researchers also had to change their site of study. We can also see a metaphoric extension of the case of the (car) factory, such as when contributions evoke “the teaching factory” or the “manufacturing of consent”53 in order to highlight a lack of creativity or discovery in other forms of work. The Logic of Model Cases as One Logic among Others Model systems in biology focus research and pool resources. Model systems, and what I call more generally privileged material research objects, lead to a specific logic of research organization whereby attention is concentrated on one particular research object at the expense of other research objects. The logic of model cases is the main focus of this book, but it is not the only way research can be organized with regard to research objects. In the next section, I will briefly discuss other logics, partly in order to highlight the work that model cases do in contrast, partly in order to situate the analysis of model cases in a comparative investigation of how specific stand-­ins are valued and “departicularized”—­that is, connected to larger debates and concerns.54 The logic of model cases can be contrasted with a logic of coverage, whereby cases are accorded significance because they have not previously been studied. The logic of model cases can often appear together with a logic of application, whereby findings established for a model case are found to be true for other cases. The logic of representativeness deals with abstracted traces of “all” cases (though, as I will discuss, it of course never really includes all cases). Formal models—­most prominently associated with economics and some forms of political science—­are tools expressly removed from empirical content and designed to be manipulated and observed.55 “Departicularization” is not cast here as a problem specific to case-­study research as opposed to “proper,” law-­seeking science. All the logics discussed above involve very particular facts in particular places that are then used in general contexts after a series of translations. In model system research, a particular object, examined through particular material traces, is used to discuss a certain kind of object and a certain kind of question. In the logic of application, a particular object, examined through particular traces, is translated through reference to being assimilated to a well-­known case. In the logic of representativeness, researchers are looking for relationships between abstracted traces of a sample of relevant units. I should say that these different logics do not map easily onto different academic disciplines; rather, I will suggest that many disciplines combine elements of these logics; indeed, elements of these logics may be combined in

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one research project. Yet they are rarely combined to fully complement one another or even out one another’s flaws. model cases versus a lo gic of coverage The logic of model cases accords value to a certain object, partly because it is well known and has already been studied intensively. Some contemporary biologists concentrate value on their preferred experimental systems to the point of explicitly mandating the use of certain animals in certain fields of research. In biology itself, we also find a strong history of an alternative logic, which I will call the logic of coverage. In this logic, research aims to cover the range of possible research objects and research on any particular object x is justified because no one has studied it before, or because x appears neglected in comparison with other research objects, or because it has not been examined recently.56 The logic of coverage has close ties to the history of collecting, which, in some forms, values the individual object because it is still missing or rare with regard to what is already known or what has already been obtained regarding a particular category of objects.57 Collectors of rare plants and animals, of archeological objects,58 of bones and fossils, and of books,59 for example, have played a prominent role in the history of modern science, which in this way is closely connected to the history of museums.60 Natural history and what became field biology have accorded a special role to collecting, discovering, and classifying objects in nature.61 Still today, research articles justifying themselves with reference to the words “understudied” or “neglected” tend to be published in journals such as the South­ eastern Naturalist,62 a regional natural history journal, or the Coleopterists Bul­ letin,63 which is devoted to research on beetles. The logic of coverage can also be found in other disciplines, especially those with a tradition of imagining a map of territories that can be construed as ripe for discovery and rediscovery. Scholars in anthropology and archeology, like biology, have a notion of the “field” as a privileged but also somewhat finite source of knowledge.64 In the past, anthropology was sometimes shaped by a desire to fill in this map and discover new groups (though this has since shifted). In the logic of coverage, the rarity of the object can supersede all other considerations either because theory is not considered important or because the theory is very strongly unified. Empiricism and the dominance of one particular theoretical school can lead to the same result. Adam Kuper has described an extreme consequence of a logic of coverage under conditions of theoretical unification

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for Malinowskian anthropology at Cambridge around 1960 as follows: “An extreme but not exceptional view held that if a Malinowskian had worked in that region—­or even in the same country—­then it had been ‘done’ and one had best go somewhere else.”65 In an extreme version of the logic of coverage, the fact that some research has been done on one case, one species, or one tribe closes the case and drives other researchers to other cases, species, or tribes. Yet, what has been discovered can be labeled as ready for rediscovery, because it has received less attention overall or not much attention recently: field sciences depend on access to materials in situ, and difficulties of access in field sciences can perpetuate oppositions between the well-­known and the relatively neglected. A publication in Science, for example, proclaims that a “neglected civilization grabs the limelight” and explains that “new access to Iranian sites will allow Western researchers to shed light on a little-­known culture that once dominated the Asian steppes, dubbed the Bactria-­Margiana Archaeological Complex.”66 Because the map of what is more or less known can be extended beyond Earth into outer space, we can read about “neglected planets” as well as “neglected civilizations.” A note recently published in Science, for example, reports: “A probe from NASA has not targeted Venus, Earth’s closest neighbor in the solar system, since the early 1990s, although missions to Mars continue to pile up. Scientists had thought it likely that NASA would select a Venus mission for its next low-­cost planetary probe, but on January 4 the agency selected two projects targeting asteroids instead. There are a host of scientific questions to be answered about Venus’s origins, potential active volcanism, and hints of primordial oceans.”67 The logic of model cases and the logic of coverage can complement each other within one discipline. Historians know the distinction between revisionists who challenge existing interpretations of a well-­known case and those who open up new archival material or new cases. Literary studies are heavily oriented toward a (modified) canon but do give some space to neglected authors, alongside some attempts to introduce a logic of representativeness.68 Yet, what Stefan Bargheer has called “taxonomic morality,” an appreciation of the rare and varied rather than the average or typical, is in a fundamental tension with the particular aesthetic version of a logic of model cases.69 Because of the expectation that an article in a literary studies journal explicates why a work is “good,” which has been noted by Jeanne Fahnestock and Marie Secor, discussions of noncanonical works often seek to project the work as canonical.70 The object is then not an object for research, but an object for venerative reconstruction. Some authors may philosophically reject both the logic of coverage and the logic of model systems when it is made explicit, and espouse the “logic of

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empiricism” instead. In this logic, objects are not justified as either typical or strategic or as rare or understudied; objects are studied “because they exist.” At times, any attempt to discuss possible justifications is rejected in a staged display of resistance against the instrumentalization of research objects through research. Considered as a collective practice, though, this philosophical belief often becomes incorporated either into a logic of model systems, whereby some objects exist more than others, or in a logic of coverage, where all objects exist to an equal extent but some are less studied and therefore deserve more attention. It might be said that the French Revolution is studied not because it is an event or a case of a revolution, but simply because it happened. It is, however, an event of particular historical significance. Some other revolution, conversely, is studied because it has not been studied enough. m o d e l c a s e s a n d t h e l o g i c o f a p p l i c at i o n The logic of model systems contrasts with a logic of coverage; it is often coupled with a corresponding “logic of application.” If model systems are privileged sites for producing contributions to a general conversation, other objects come into view as sites for application of the insights already established for model cases. Sometimes objects are justified, explicitly or implicitly, because something already thought to be true or interesting or important can be shown to be the case there as well. An article might argue, for example, that gentrification, conceptualized in certain US cities, is found to take place with some modification in one European city or another.71 Researchers might find that what has been established for administrative reforms associated with New Public Management in the UK is true also in Norway, or that terms which Bruno Latour has used for scientific laboratories can also be used to describe practices in the implementation of social policy or the planning of cities.72 A version of this logic has been observed by scholars in the tradition of postcolonial thought who note that findings established for the metropole are applied to peripheral contexts, and peripheral contexts are denied the status as sites of discovery. Raewyn Connell has memorably described the sociological cliché she calls “X in Australia.” She notes, “The commonest title of an Australian sociological report, for the 30 years from 1950, was X in Australia—­ where X was a phenomenon already established in the metropole. . . . X might be ‘religion,’ ‘status and prestige,’ ‘social stratification,’ ‘divorce,’ ‘marriage and the family,’ ‘urbanization,’ ‘prostitution,’ ‘political leadership,’ ‘women,’ ‘mass media,’ ‘immigrants’ or ‘sociology’ itself.” Researchers in Australia felt compelled to redo canonical studies in other settings: “The task of the Australian sociologist was to apply the metropolitan research technique, demonstrate

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that the phenomenon also existed in Australia, and say empirically what form it took here.”73 Connell emphasizes the privileged position of the “metropole”—­mostly the UK and the US. Indeed, stand-­ins in northern contexts do seem to have advantages in terms of their perceived capacity to contribute to general knowledge. Connell’s book makes a powerful case for the innovative potential of southern theory as opposed to northern theory. But we can note that the critique of northern hegemony, or “metrocentrism,”74 does not exhaust the problem of model cases. Not all northern objects of study are equal, and we also find the logic of application within northern contexts. The logic of application exists with regard to both model cases and model studies: when what is found for the French Revolution is also found for some other revolution, this is an example of application starting from a model case. When what one famous author or well-known study finds in one place or setting is applied to another place or setting, it is an example of the application of an approach. As I will discuss in more detail below, an important way in which theory shapes the social sciences is by providing model studies that can be repeated elsewhere. When what Pierre Bourdieu found in France is found in many other settings, this follows the logic of application. The logic of application is also evident in the broad range of publication titles that reference Foucault, such as “Foucault in Education,” “Foucault and Therapy,” “Foucault in Cyberspace,” “Foucault in Guantanamo,” “Foucault at the Zoo,” and “Foucault at the Slaughterhouse.” m o d e l s y s t e m s a n d r e p r e s e n tat i v e n e s s The philosophers of science Angela Creager, Elizabeth Lunbeck, and Norton Wise have drawn our attention to the fact that model system research does not treat its specimens as representations of something else, but as representatives for something else.75 Model systems stand in for larger, more general categories of objects, and function as opportunities for research. Even while being selected as a stand-­in, a model system is to some extent recognized as particular. It is in this sense that we can call model system research, in the language of some social science research, self-­consciously “case-­based.” This contrasts with forms of research that work with data sets, which are largely taken as representations of the relevant aspect of the real world as a whole. This is the case with social science research using population samples where data about all specimens classified as relevant are included. It is also the case with research using representative samples that tries to do away with

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the particularity of cases by conceptualizing differences among cases as the kind of differences that are assumed to be equally included in a smaller group produced from the larger group by randomization. Historically, national censuses in different countries were the most important example of population samples.76 Work on organizations sometimes uses data on all organizations of a certain type in a certain geographical area.77 A study of all metropolitan statistical areas in the United States with a population of more than five hundred thousand people is, in some sense, a total population sample.78 As different kinds of social processes and different forms of communication are transacted and recorded digitally, new kinds of “population samples” come into being.79 Some work using census data works with samples of census data.80 Other data sets using samples are constructed to enable the collection of particular types of data or to allow for tracking respondents over time. An example from the US is the National Longitudinal Survey of Youth 1979, which included people born between 1958 and 1965 and detailed employment and family information collected repeatedly throughout respondents’ adult lives. Another example is the German Socio-­Economic Panel, which has surveyed around twelve thousand households since 1984. Note that the logic of representativeness, when it is enacted using such data sets, does not stand entirely on its own feet but is often combined with other logics. The Wisconsin Longitudinal Study, drawing on a random sample of 10,317 men and women who graduated from Wisconsin high schools, is, after all, based on men and women who graduated from high schools in Wisconsin. A study using 4.7 million time-­and geo-­coded 311 service requests in New York City uses a population sample, but at the same time, it is a case study of New York City.81 It is important to note that even data collected across a nation becomes a stand-­in or exemplar if and when work circulates internationally. Blau and Duncan, in their famous study on social mobility, draw on data about 20,700 respondents collected across the US as part of cen­ sus research—­but only across the US.82 model cases and formal models Model cases in the sense I mean in this book can be distinguished from formal models such as those used in economics, many fields of political science, and some parts of sociology. The model case tends to be understood as an empirical object and is approached through a range of methodological means, producing a range of empirical traces. The formal model, also called a mathematical model, is constructed by researchers using a variety of media, including

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the language of mathematics and expressly removed from any particular data.83 Formal models are best understood as artefacts created for various heuristic purposes, and indeed, they are descendants of physical objects that allow for play and experimentation. Morgan and Boumans, for example, discuss the Phillips–­Newlyn model: a physical object built to represent the aggregate economy, using water to simulate the flow of money through an economy.84 Model cases maintain an independent existence in the world, and are studied because of this. They are models for a class of objects, not models of them.85 Models stand in for the world under research in some way; however, this is not because they are typical or representative but because they can be easily manipulated; the results of the manipulation can then be compared to the world. What is observed are the results of various kinds of manipulation on a constructed object, not the phenomenon as such. I would maintain this distinction for the purposes of this book, even though I am aware that in biology some model systems have come to approximate formal models to the extent that they are intentionally designed and circulated as derivative tools.86 Given the way terms such as “positivism,” “quantitative,” or “scientific” tend to elide differences among scholarly practices—­especially when used to describe practices associated in some way with the “hard” sciences—­it is worth highlighting the difference between work with collected data and work with artefacts based on hypothetical data, even though this distinction can also collapse.87 Research using collected quantitative data employs statistical models to test different description patterns in this collected data. In mathematical modeling, by contrast, models employ hypothetical data to better describe patterns, and to explore the consequences of all kinds of possible patterns assumed. Bearman and colleagues, for instance, have analyzed what different hypothetical patterns on sexual relations within a high school mean for the spread of sexually transmitted diseases.88 It is possible to show without any real data that overlapping sexual relationships lead to a much faster and wider spread of sexual disease than serial ones, even if the duration of each relationship is very short and the number of partners very high. What Model Cases Do When some material research objects become model cases, explicitly or implicitly, conversations take a certain direction. We expect model cases to concentrate attention, and other cases to lose out; but we should not think about this merely as a matter of the quantitative distribution of attention within research papers, for instance, or in syllabi. Model cases focus attention, but they also shape the way “their” categories are understood.

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Partly because of this, findings from model cases are assumed to be able to contribute to general knowledge whereas other objects must be justified more explicitly. In this logic, a reinterpretation of a classic case can garner significant rewards in terms of attention and recognition, while it is more difficult for work on an odd or unrecognizable case to be accepted as theoretically relevant. Privileged material research objects shape categories even if and precisely as the relationship between concept and central case is ambiguous and shifting. We should not assume clarity or agreement about which research object best exemplifies a category. There are often tensions among different kinds of stand-­ins that are only partially acknowledged; in discussions about “urbanization,” for example, references to certain spatial structures, certain social characteristics, and certain normative assumptions do shift and overlap.89 We can note that even in fields where we see quite strong conventions surrounding model cases, this does not mean that there is no research on nonmodel cases. It means only that studies of nonstandard cases are situated within a grammar of other research that marks them as nonstandard. A project on shrinking cities, for example, stands out as a contribution because of the field’s bias toward growth.90 It enables other contributions in its wake, but may not fundamentally shape the way cities are imagined by researchers. Conclusion I have discussed the role of material research objects in the social sciences, drawing on a distinction between material research objects on the one hand and epistemic targets on the other hand. Some material research objects are studied repeatedly and shape the way categories and concepts are understood. Categories and concepts may carry unacknowledged baggage related to a particular model case, and findings relating to a model case are more readily perceived to be of general importance. As a logic of valuing material research objects, the logic of model cases can organize work among other logics. The logic of model cases has a cousin in the logic of application, where findings from model cases are applied to other cases. Other alternatives include the logic of coverage, the logic of representativeness, and the logic of formal models. It is worth noting at this point that privileging some material research objects over others is in itself not necessarily a “bad” thing. Discussions among biologists mention several advantages of model system research. Model systems have a coordinating function for biological research. The focus on certain research objects facilitates communication among researchers, and particularly among researchers in different subfields and different national

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settings. This focus can help clarify theoretical differences by limiting empirical variation; moreover, it can help clarify theoretically relevant empirical variation by limiting other kinds of variation. It can allow for the interpretation of new findings in light of in-­depth knowledge of the particular system studied. In these ways, a focus on model systems can create cumulative effects of what would otherwise be isolated pieces of research. Model cases may have advantages in the social sciences also. When authors discuss the same case, this facilitates dialogue in a certain way, allowing scholars to distinguish between theoretical and empirical differences, and therefore to highlight theoretical differences. Car factories have provided a shared empirical focus to Marxian debates about labor, technology, freedom, and social control. In another example, the well-­studied case of the French Revolution has been used to clarify and communicate theoretical debates about the role of culture, practice, and the state.91 However, this concentration of attention has some drawbacks, which are also discussed in biology. By focusing on model systems, researchers are not considering the full range of variation among cases. Assumptions derived from research on model systems are not easily transferable to other objects, yet they might be unthinkingly applied to other cases. Some objects that have value in and of themselves may never be studied and understood. It is my claim that by reflecting more explicitly on the role model cases play in different research fields, we can better exploit the advantages of this logic and mitigate the disadvantages. I will discuss different aspects of this point in future chapters and return to it in the conclusion, but we are already in a position to consider some proposals for what we need more of and what we have enough of. In the next chapter, I will discuss how material research objects are selected, which allows me to engage the rationalist assumption that stand-­ins are always selected because they are “the right tool for the job.” What we need more of

What we have enough of

Studies of model cases that abstain from taking advantage of assumptions of inherent interest and importance, and that justify the case explicitly as one case among many possible cases

Unreflective studies of model cases

Studies of model cases that make use of all previous research on that case Studies of neglected cases

Application of findings established for a model case to another case

2

How Material Research Objects Are Selected A presidential archive in the US invites applications for a grant of up to $2,000 for researchers who wish to work with their collection. A university establishes a fund to encourage its scientists to study the First World War in preparation for the war’s hundredth anniversary in 2014. A renowned Dutch university is advertising a professorship open to candidates who work on some aspects of national lotteries and their role in society. A technology company provides ample access to anthropologists and sociologists interested in studying “innovation.”

I have distinguished between the material object of research on the one hand, and the epistemic target of research on the other hand. The material research object is a concrete set of materials accessed through particular traces and produced by specific tools and instruments. It stands in for what is claimed to be the epistemic target of the study—­whatever it is that researchers say they want to ultimately understand. How are material research objects selected? This is a different question than the one more commonly asked in the sociology of science, as to how theories, methods, or research problems are selected. This is also a question different from the question as to how material research objects should be selected, which is the subject of methodological discussions in different disciplines. In asking how material research objects are selected, I engage with the view—­which is sometimes explicitly stated, sometimes implicitly held—­that the selection of material research objects is primarily the result of researchers’ strategic, methodological choices. I aim to show that the selection of material research objects is influenced by a range of issues and considerations—­some strategic, some less so; some strategic in different ways. I thus want to convince you that the selection of material research objects is a social matter and amenable to sociological analysis. Of course, individual researchers and research teams make considered choices about material research objects. But, as I will argue, these choices are not made in a vacuum. There is also an iterative dimension to decisions,

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whereby a decision depends on past decisions made by the individual and by the collective of researchers. If my basic argument is correct and the choice of stand-­ins is affected by a range of factors, we need to better understand these factors in order to understand how they affect the knowledge produced. I will begin by discussing Robert Merton’s account of material research objects, which he, as I will suggest, misleadingly calls “strategic research materials.” I will then discuss some of the findings from research that has examined empirically how material research objects are selected as stand-­ins in biology. I will develop the notion of “sponsored stand-­ins” to distinguish sponsored stand-­ins from sponsored facts, sponsored categories, and sponsored approaches. This allows me to develop questions about different factors that help a potential stand-­in in its career. I will identify a number of such factors that seem to play a role in the social sciences, including different aspects of convenience, the role of general cognitive advantages and subculture-­specific cognitive advantages, variants of historicism, and features of our publishing infrastructure. I will consider the “looping effects”1 of material research objects that lobby to be included in research studies, such as social groups, which protest their exclusion from work on certain categories or organizations that seek to garner symbolic benefits from being associated with positively connotated epistemic targets, such as “innovation.” Bracketing Rationalist Assumptions The leading sociologist and founding figure of the American sociology of science, Robert Merton, has drawn attention to the role that material research objects play, using the term “strategic research materials.”2 Merton, like current commentators in the philosophy of science, starts by discussing examples from biology. He goes through the list of some experimental systems used widely in biology, such as fruit flies and snails. He specifically references the seventeenth-­ century scientist Marcello Malpighi, who used the then–­newly available technology of the microscope to examine the lungs of frogs and is credited with the discovery of capillaries.3 Merton discusses some practices in sociology that he claims are analogous to the use of experimental systems in biology, including examples from his own work as well as others’. He gives the example of Karl Marx, who used industrialization in England as a site to understand the development of capitalism more broadly. Merton suggests that his own research with Paul Lazarsfeld on audience responses to a fundraising radio program was exploiting a strategic research site because its sample of listeners included a more diverse

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share of the population than do standard psychological experiments, because it was a genuine event, and because its materials allowed for ex post analysis of the programming, unlike spontaneous versions of collective behavior, such as race riots.4 From today’s perspective we can certainly add to Merton’s list of examples of authors exploiting “strategic research materials” within sociology and political science. In his work on education, for example, Pierre Bourdieu can be read as using France as an extreme case to show that even in a country where education, including elite education, is free and provided by state institutions espousing egalitarian and universalist ideas, education helps reproduce social inequality.5 In a more contemporary example, Hechter and colleagues stylize mutinies by crews on boats as a strategic site for understanding collective action because of the extremely high risk associated with dissent in a space that is exposed to the water and the wind and socially isolated at the same time.6 The reader will think of other examples from their areas of speciality, including perhaps from their own work. Indeed, it is an important element of the tradition in sociology and political science to reflect on the selection of research materials or stand-­ins. The very notion of the “case” implies a strategic orientation that is reinforced in the methodological literature and in some aspects of graduate training.7 This kind of thinking is less common among historians and scholars of the arts, but they too put forward a rational reason for their choices based on intrinsic features of the research object when they discuss the “significance” of historical figures, events, or works of art.8 But I would suggest that from the point of view of a sociology of the social sciences, it is unhelpful to call research materials in general “strategic research materials.” When social scientists “talk shop,” and especially when they teach, they are legitimately oriented toward the “best works”; often they are legitimately oriented toward the “best version of the best works,” which is the result of retrospective editing. In contrast, the sociology of the social sciences must ask empirical questions also about the overall output of the social and human sciences. Calling what I call material research objects or stand-­ ins “strategic research materials” implies a premature answer to the question as to how stand-­ins are actually chosen, suggesting that individuals choose them for reasons that are transparent to them with a view to maximizing epistemic gain. It stymies the discussion of trade-­offs among different strategic factors and the discussion of nonstrategic factors at the individual level. It also does not consider strategic or nonstrategic factors at the collective level. Merton would of course acknowledge the “opportunism” of research, in­ cluding his own radio studies with Lazarsfeld, for example. This project was not one where two researchers formulated a research question and then

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picked the most suitable research materials in any one’s account. The project was funded as part of the US governments’ efforts to use radio as a propaganda tool during the Second World War; it was originally Lazarsfeld’s project, and Merton agreed to get involved partly motivated by patriotism, rather than a calculation of epistemic gain.9 Yet despite acknowledging and even celebrating opportunism—­Merton is well known for having highlighted the role of serendipity in scientific discovery more generally10—­he does not investigate the ways in which the opportunities in terms of research materials are structured on a collective level, and what kind of effects this has on the knowledge we produce. The Right Tool for the Job? Let me examine the case of biology, which Merton himself hailed as the “self-­ exemplifying case” for “strategic research materials.”11 Here, the choice of material research object and the choice of model system, or collectively privileged material research object, has been subject to more explicit discussion by participants than in the social sciences. It has also been the target of empirical research by sociologists of science, which has gone beyond the focus on the heroic discoveries produced by the best works. In one account of biological research, which Merton allows himself to mirror in his essay on strategic research materials, experimental systems are selected because of some inherent connection to the scientific problem or question at hand. The Danish physiologist August Krogh has famously stated that for many “problems there will be some animal of choice or a few such animals on which it can be most conveniently studied”—­a statement that has been called the Krogh principle.12 In the relevant paper, Krogh writes: Many years ago when my teacher, Christian Bohr [the father of Nils Bohr], was interested in the respiratory mechanism of the lung and devised the method of studying the exchange through each lung separately, he found that a certain kind of tortoise possessed a trachea dividing into the main bronchi high up in the neck, and we used to say as a laboratory joke that this animal had been created expressly for the purposes of respiration physiology. I have no doubt that there is quite a number of animals which are similarly “created” for special physiological purposes, but I am afraid that most of them are unknown to the men for whom they were “created,” and we must apply to the zoologists to find them and lay our hands on them.13

The Krogh principle is often paraphrased as the principle of using “the right tool for the job.” It is tempting to read into the word “right” in this sentence, and to give it a meaning from the context of other conversations. “Right” could

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be taken to mean “right in every way” here. The “right tool” could be taken to mean “the tool chosen for maximum epistemic gain under the circumstances, whose epistemic implications it is therefore not necessary to discuss further.” Let me first note that it has been shown that empirically speaking not all researchers try very hard to find the “best tool for the job”—­that is, not all researchers have a reflexively strategic attitude toward their research materials. The sociologist of science Harriet Zuckerman, a close collaborator of Merton’s, conducted a study with Jonathan Cole that compared rank-­and-­file scientists with Nobel Prize winners along various dimensions, including with regard to how they chose material research objects. Their findings suggest that it was mostly the Nobel Prize winners who insisted on a close fit between the research problem and the research material; rank-­and-­file scientists were much less strategic in epistemic terms.14 Zuckerman and Cole provide an extreme example to illustrate the contrast they draw between the two groups. They quote a “rank-­and-­file zoologist” as follows: “[I] decided . . . that I am going to take a group of snails and study it and become the world expert on it, to know everything there is to know about it. And really the way I decided on this type of snail is that I looked around and said those are the prettiest there are . . . and that’s about it. . . . They are relatively common. They’re well known. They are fairly big . . . and a lot of people are interested in them. It’s not some far out group that no one cares about, that you can never find a specimen about.”15 According to Zuckerman and Cole, only the eminent scientists gave an account of “strategic research materials” that matched Merton’s description of the underlying phenomenon. This creates an awkward tension for a text that sticks with Merton’s term “strategic research material” to name the object of study, rather than move on to a term that would encompass all observed empirical manifestations in a symmetric manner. It is also worth noting that rightness has many dimensions even for those researchers in biology who are working very hard to make the best decision in epistemic terms. If a researcher compares different organisms to consider for research, they must take into account different kinds of advantages and therefore they have to consider trade-­offs. We can see how even in Krogh’s initial formulation, epistemic advantages are fused with practical con­ siderations. Note that Krogh uses the word “conveniently” when he says that for many “problems there will be some animal of choice or a few such ani­ mals on which it can be most conveniently studied.”16 It is important that the features of an animal make the research problem visible, as some examples from the history of science can illustrate. The anatomy of Bohr’s turtle allows researchers to better see the airflow to and

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ta b l e 2 . 1 Advantages of Xenopus as a model organism Category

C. elegans

Drosophila

Zebrafish

Xenopus

Chicken

Mouse

Brood size Cost per embryo High-­throughput multiwell-­format screening Access to embryos Micromanipulation of embryos Genome Genetics Knockdowns (RNAi, morpholinos) Transgenesis Evolutionary distance to human

250–­300 Low Good

80–­100 Low Good

100–­200 Low Good

500–­3000+ Low Good

1 Medium Poor

5–­8 High Poor

Good

Good

Good

Good

Poor

Poor

Limited

Limited

Fair

Good

Good

Poor

Known Good Good

Known Good Good

Known Good Good

Known Fair Good

Known None Limited

Known Good Limited

Good Very distant

Good Very distant

Good Distant

Good Intermediate

Poor Intermediate

Good Close

Source: “Introduction to Xenopus, the Frog Model,” Xenbase (website), n.d., http://www.xenbase.org /anatomy/intro.do, adapted from Grant N. Wheeler and André W. Brändli, “Simple Vertebrate Models for Chemical Genetics and Drug Discovery Screens: Lessons from Zebrafish and Xenopus,” Developmental Dynamics 283 (2009): 1290

from each lung separately due to the separation of bronchae. One advantage of rats is that they develop slowly, making it possible to make “features of physiological, neural and psychological development accessible to the experimental method.”17 One of the virtues of the widely used worm C. Elegans is that it is transparent, which means the behavior of individual cells can be more easily observed.18 Visibility, or studyability, is changing depending on the state of research technology—­Malpighi’s work was enabled by the frog and the microscope—­ but it is tied to the specific phenomenon under investigation. Some other aspects of convenience are relatively independent of a particular research topic or questions—­in order to be convenient, model systems should generally be easy to reproduce and cheap to keep, for example. The different dimensions of convenience lead to trade-­offs; what is more, all these aspects of convenience are not related to whether or not the findings from a material object are transferable to other objects in general, or to humans in particular—­which is often an aim in biological and medical research. Consider table 2.1, which compares the frog (Xenopus) to chicken, mice, fruit flies (Drosophila), zebrafish, and C. Elegans, and shows the range of factors that are considered.

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Note that being suitable for generalization does not feature among the properties considered. This contrasts with discussions of sampling in some forms of quantitative research (a point I will return to in the next chapter).19 Being similar to humans is one criterion among many. The frog has distinct advantages, but it is not very close to humans, for example. The mouse is close to humans but it is expensive; additionally, access to embryos is poor. Beyond trade-­offs between different aspects of rightness at the level of the individual research project, a material research object’s suitability for an individual research project depends partly on what other researchers are doing on other research projects. Merton does not discuss this collective dimension, but it is a prominent part of the discussion and justification of the use of model systems in biology. Scientists argue that the very fact that scholars coordinate and focus on the same material research object has cumulative advantages for research. In one version, this reads, “We are unlikely to ever know everything about every organism. Therefore, we should agree on some convenient organism(s) to study in great depth, so that we can use the experience of the past (in that organism) to build on in the future. This will lead to a body of knowledge of that ‘model system’ that allows us to design appropriate studies of non-­model systems to answer important questions about their biology.”20 Another group of authors puts it like this: “Model system research allows for particular study systems to be studied in great detail and breadth, and paves the way for synergies through the accumulation and sharing of large datasets, tools, infrastructure, standardized research protocols and knowledge from multiple disciplines.”21 According to table 2.1, for example, it is an advantage of an experimental system if its genome is known, relatively independently of the specific target of a specific study; a genome is of course known because others have already spent time and resources studying it. Note that this collective argument is in tension with the argument that the chosen animal is the best animal for each individual study—­researchers and funders make the case for coordination precisely because individual researchers would not necessarily choose the same animal if left entirely to their own, individually rational, devices. Within the collective logic of model systems, there is thus a certain planned and desired inertia: thoughtful consideration of previous investment is encouraged. There is also a certain unplanned and to some extent undesired inertia: sociologists of science have observed that “once mastery over a particular research material had been achieved, future work was in many instances constructed, taking the use of that material as given. That is, particular materials became entrenched resources at particular research sites—­even across generations of investigators—­and extensive professional

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networks formed around the organization of research materials. Not only were the pace and direction of research altered, but research problems themselves were sometimes delimited by the materials at hand—­not by technologies or theories.”22 This inertia is built into material scientific infrastructures, which at any given institution at any given moment will be organized to house and use a specific organism, or a specific set of organisms. Experimental organisms are embedded in a set of tools and measurement apparatuses, which Joan Fujimura calls “standardised packages,” that enable a coordination between lab, experiment, and world, that allow for continued experimentation, and that go some way toward ensuring “ ‘do-­able’ problems,” which enable continuous publication activity.23 Inertia with regard to model system use is also reinforced by the way scientists’ careers are structured: scientists, as individuals, invest in knowledge of specific experimental stand-­ins; they accumulate experience, and there are advantages for a scientist to stick with a particular organism. As Bonnie Clause notes, “Banks of data and the accumulated experience of investigators are strong factors driving the persistence of use of particular organisms for research, underscoring their apparent ‘rightness’ for the job.”24 Scientists form groups around an organism, which communicate via newsletters—­“The Maize newsletter,” “The mouse newsletter”25—­and conferences; it is not unusual for groups of scientists to be identified and identify themselves by their organism of choice, thus to be known and know themselves as the “fly people” or the “mouse people,” for example.26 Scientists collect resources on particular experimental organisms as a service to the community; they also tend to lobby the scientific community to use “their” model system, presenting the advantages of the model system, which they are already working with. This “boosterism” on behalf of specific material research objects uses a range of means and strategies, and is supported by its own genre of publications. A webpage on the cockroach includes a poem as well as collected references;27 an article on the chicken entitled “The Chick: A Great Model Organism Becomes Even Greater” ends with a footnote acknowledging funding from major science funders in the US, the UK, and China with the words “Let us hope that the investments from these sources continue and that others will finally be persuaded to join, just as it starts to get really exciting.”28 Funders do exercise influence over which experimental systems are used; funding can reflect intrascientific concerns—­for example, in cases where funders encourage coordination through shared use of model systems. But “sponsorship” by extrascientific concerns can also influence the use of material

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research objects. In the history of biology, this influence is perhaps clearest for the case of agriculture. The interests of agriculture have made certain forms of research more convenient; Adele Clarke has pointed out that agricultural scientists had a head start when access to live animals became important for reproductive research and gradually replaced work on dead specimens in the beginning of the twentieth century.29 Barbara Kimmelman’s study of agricultural geneticists brings out the subtle ways in which sponsors can influence scientific research through and beyond the choice of material research objects. When scientists at elite institutions became interested in genetics, an emphasis on the distinctive advantages of corn as an experimental system allowed researchers at agricultural institutions to maintain a genuinely scientific orientation among pressures to be commercially relevant.30 Alongside the use of specific materials, there was also a specific focus on physiological and biochemical outcomes that were not necessarily always agriculturally useful outcomes, but could be seen to prepare a focus on such outcomes. The efforts by agricultural geneticists did not break the hegemony of Drosophila research at the time, but it did have lasting legacies.31 Other species of agricultural interests that have been widely used include yeast, wheat, rice, and chicken.32 Sponsored Facts, Sponsored Categories, Sponsored Approaches, and Sponsored Stand-­Ins Building on this discussion of the natural sciences, I am suggesting that when a researcher in the social sciences considers different options for material research objects to use as a stand-­in, these options do not appear to him or her as equal, and that this inequality is based not just on their suitability for the research problem in question. In what follows, I will use the concept of sponsorship to discuss factors that advantage some potential stand-­in over others. The concept of sponsorship—­most prominently associated with sports teams and individual athletes—­highlights how particular units are linked to resources, without suggesting a complete takeover of these units. Indeed, the idea of sponsorship presupposes that the sponsored unit continues to behave to some extent independently; the sponsored team continues to play in a league, the athlete continues competing against other athletes. By resources I am referring to a broad range of resources, beyond just the financial: the advantages of a specific material research object may be practical, financial, or symbolic; these advantages may have their origins within the scientific field or outside it. In considering sources of sponsorship, we should consider the full range of sources of sponsorship, beyond the commercial or state interests that we are more predisposed to acknowledge in light of

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general political discussions. Relationships with other kinds of actors and more mundane links, such as those to activists, journalists, or special interest groups, can be considered forms of sponsorship in that they push and pull on researchers with some promise of reward. Before I highlight some of the factors that play a role in sponsoring stand-­ ins in the social sciences, I want to clarify what is at stake in focusing particularly on sponsored stand-­ins, as opposed to sponsored facts, sponsored categories, or sponsored approaches, which are more often considered. Much discussion of scientific integrity in the natural and social sciences focuses on the possibility that facts may be sponsored. Sponsored facts are at stake when we discuss bias regarding scientific questions such as “Does smoking cause lung cancer?,”33 “Is human influence a cause of global warming?,”34 or “Are antidepressants effective?”35 There is some evidence that interested parties like the tobacco industry, the oil industry, and the pharmaceutical industry have tried to sponsor one answer to these questions over others. There is some evidence (particularly with regard to antidepressants) that the answers to questions about effectiveness are sponsored through selective publishing.36 For the case of the social sciences, we can ask about the ways resources attach to answers to questions, such as “Are differences in IQ between groups genetic?” or “Are heterosexual couples best as parents for children?”37 In both of these cases, the sociological debate raises complex issues about how these questions are framed, the way the categories are used, and the way the independent and dependent variables are measured. But scholars also engage in discussions on the factual level. In a subtle contribution to our understanding of sponsored facts, Dan Hirschman has highlighted that some facts become to some extent self-­compelling, circulating widely as “stylized facts.”38 In addition to sponsored facts, observers of the sciences have also discussed the impact of “sponsored categories.” It is well known that research on some disease categories attracts funding from pharmaceutical companies and public funding agencies while other diseases are neglected.39 We also know that activists lobby for “their” disease and that lobbying for diseases has changed the conversation for all researchers, leading to a shift in the discussion from a distribution of resources among scientists to a discussion about the distribution of resources among diseases.40 We will all have observations about sponsored categories for research areas in the social science.41 Historically, criminology has been sponsored by states, and indeed, state interest in the management of deviance has been a key factor in the emergence of the social sciences as a whole.42 Criminology in the UK is now to a significant degree sponsored by student interest. Students are attracted to the category of criminology, and sociology departments

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have been setting up joint degrees in sociology and criminology to maintain student numbers. This leads to demand for staff able to teach in those areas, and it leads to an incentive for staff who perform research in relatable areas to emphasize that they also contribute to criminology. The sociology of education and the sociology of medicine are at least partly sponsored by sustained interest in this area by government and service providers, as well as by the opportunity to inform students who pursue careers in education or medicine. The study of cities has been sponsored by philanthropic foundations, in a context where hope for political solutions on the level of the nation-­state has been in decline. Big data and digital humanities seem to have been sponsored by university administrators and funding agencies looking for “the next big thing.” Historiography has been shown to be closely related to nationalism and nation-­states. This is not just a matter of abstract ideology or boosterist agendas. It also has more mundane institutional and material vectors, in the training of teachers and in the design of school curricula.43 The link history has to school teaching reinforces the focus on national histories regardless of the method chosen.44 National and cultural minorities push for their own history to be included; groups organized around professions, hobbies, and locales also demand historical output. The list of societies affiliated with the American Historical Association—­which includes the Mormon History Association, the Hungarian Studies Association, and the Society for Military History reflects some of those external influences.45 The media sponsor events and people as objects of historical study via the institution of anniversaries.46 Anniversaries promise an audience for works on major figures or major events, such as the First World War. The few years leading up to the hundredth anniversary of the outbreak of the First World War in 2014 saw the publication in English of “The First World War. A New History,” a “New History of America’s Entry into World War I,” a “New History of the Western Front in World War I,” and a “New History of the German Invasion of 1914.”47 Not all of the very large number of books published every year on the First World War are written by a professional historian, but many of them are. Of course, the First World War must rank highly in anyone’s estimation of “significance,” in terms of the number of people who died, in terms of its consequences for the political order of the world, and in terms of its cultural impact. Still, it would be hard to deny that the form that attention to the First World War takes is shaped not only in general by the immense public interest in the war, but by the ways this specific interest is mediated by the journalistic and governmental institution of the anniversary, by schools, and by groups of enthusiasts who provide a popular audience for these books.

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It is clear that knowledge in a range of disciplines is shaped by “sponsored approaches” as well. Scholars engaged in writing the history of sociology have debated the links between, for example, philanthropy in the US and specific methods. It has been suggested that foundation funding has established certain quantitative methods in American sociology.48 It has been shown that foundation funding sponsored eugenics as a key branch of social science in the 1920s and 1930s. Scholars have also advanced a more general argument about the homology between the social sciences on the one hand, and an administrative approach interested in social control allied with colonialism and the cultural politics of the Cold War on the other hand.49 The availability of data in certain forms can sponsor specific approaches. A recent example of this is the effect of big data on quantitative methodologies. Data generated by online interactions has facilitated the rise of relational descriptive approaches at the expense of correlational approaches using survey data.50 What can we learn from asking specifically about sponsored stand-­ins in addition to these other forms of sponsorship? Of course, stand-­ins play their role in research always in conjunction with questions, shifting epistemic targets, and approaches. But they do affect research; they are a unique source of bias that is not otherwise reflected across research fields in the social sciences. Perhaps more so than with other aspects of sponsorship, reflecting on sponsored stand-­ins gets us close to the substantive content of scholarly papers and pertains to choices made and remade by individual researchers during the course of research projects. In what follows, I will discuss some factors that contribute to a stand-­in’s prominence in the social sciences. Sources of Sponsorship for Stand-­Ins Highlighting practical and discursive, macro-­and meso-­level factors, my list of sources of sponsorship is deliberately eclectic in theoretical terms and not intended to be exhaustive. Setting out to challenge the assumption that material research objects are chosen for intrinsic or strategic reasons, I do not aim to develop a theory about which factors I mention are more or most important. My explorative approach reflects the state of the conversation, where the sponsorship of stand-­ins in the social sciences has not previously been con­ ceptualized in a systematic way. convenience Some stand-­ins are sponsored by the ready availability of specimens, sources, or data. The notorious example of a stand-­in sponsored by convenience is

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the undergraduate student, readily available to researchers at large universities and often used for psychological experiments, whose findings then circulate as general findings. A study of the six internationally leading psychology journals found that 95 percent of studies are based on US, English-­speaking, or European samples. Further, “for JPSP [Journal of Personality and Social Psychology], the samples were typically not just Americans but American undergraduate psychology students at research universities, narrowing further the range of humanity being studied.”51 Undergraduate psychology students are not only already on campus and reachable via campus communication systems, they are also often incentivized by course credit, a currency, which academics themselves control. American undergraduates are not representative of humans and, as Paul Rozin has suggested, “even for North Americans, the freshman or sophomore is very atypical, because this person is at a unique life transition, between family life and an entirely peer-­centered life.”52 Convenience is a source of sponsorship that is at the same time banal—­ researchers can only study what they can study—­and almost infinitely complex: most other factors, from the most strategic or intrinsic (“the easiest way to study important phenomenon x”) to the most extrinsic (“funding was provided by the military”), can be discussed under the label of convenience. The term uniquely draws attention to the mundane, logistical aspects of convenience, so I want to use this section to highlight some of these. Research sites and objects in a range of substantive areas are sponsored by the fact that they are situated in an area where universities and researchers concentrate: PhD students who do not do what relative to the location of the university is called “research abroad” or “international fieldwork” rarely do qualitative studies in an area that is very far from their university unless they have a partner or family in that other location. Churches, nurseries, families, neighborhood, and protests are all easier to study within easy reach of a university. The Renault factory in Bilancourt, which I discussed in chapter 1, was a short train ride from the center of Paris and was thus accessible to the large number of researchers living there, as well as to journalists and to intellectuals wishing to express their support for striking workers. Considering archival research, scholars do travel to archives, but, as historians will discuss informally, some archives are in nicer places than others. It is an advantage for a research object to have material in an archive that gives out grants for the study of its material; it is a problem if the relevant archive places tight restrictions on researchers or is controlled by a moody heir or difficult estate.53 It is an advantage for a research object to have records concentrated in one place, rather than spread around many, smaller sites. It is a problem if few sources have survived.

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The availability or not of large data sets sponsors some quantitative studies over others. Data sets have acted as a sponsor of approaches and of the categories, which have been used in the collection of the data. Data sets also sponsor some stand-­ins over others: the fact that some countries—­such as some Scandinavian countries and Austria—­have high-­quality administrative data available for researchers, for example, does sponsor them as cases for the study of economic and social policy reform.54 These countries are studied to some extent independently of the inherent scholarly interest of the reforms carried out there; research has become influential despite the fact that Anglo-­American journals considered internationally leading can be said to favor American data. schemas in the popular mind Cognitive psychologists claim that categories are understood in schematic ways in the general population. This suggests that, to the extent that social scientific categories are also popular categories, such popular schemas influence case selection among academics. They may do so because academics themselves carry the same preconceptions, as they too are members of the general population. Popular preconceptions may also shape scholarly work because researchers hope to better communicate with other researchers and with broader audiences by using stand-­ins that are recognizable in terms of popular stereotypes. It has been shown, for example, that US-­based, multinational firms that own strong brands are heavily overrepresented in international management research.55 This bias in research studies might coincide with the cog­ nitive bias in the general population vis-­à-­vis the category “corporation.” In one of my own fields of research, the study of humanitarian relief, scholars have focused heavily on NGOs (as opposed to states in affected regions, say, or even the UN), and among NGOs, they have in particular focused on one NGO, Doctors without Borders.56 This has a number of reasons, including some good scholarly reasons in each individual study; but it is overall somewhat disproportionate and does coincide with a very high level of recognition of that organization among international charities in the general public. Doctors without Borders is the organization that is most successful in fundraising from the general public, as opposed to from institutional donors. I would also expect that the association of “immigrants” in social science research with men who migrate for work from poorer countries to richer countries, rather than women in general, men and women who move for love, or those who migrate from richer countries,57 could be confirmed to match the baggage of the category of “immigrants” in experiments with the general population. In different countries, different ethnic groups would be

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associated with the notion of immigrants, and this might be influencing researchers in each country in ways that are not fully reflected in the international conversation about immigration that brings these cases together. s u b c u lt u r a l fac t o r s Another set of hypotheses concerns the influence of schemas that researchers carry not by virtue of being members of the general population, but by virtue of them inhabiting a particular social world or position. This can be conceptualized as a class position, cultural milieu, or profession-­specific disposition. Bourdieu has highlighted the privileging of language and an unreflexive projection of the intellectual’s removal from practical concerns as part of the scholastic disposition.58 With this, he highlights features of an approach to research objects. We can also ask what group-­specific background might imply for the choice of particular stand-­ins. Until very recently, scholars of social movements have tended to overstudy movements they like. Given the influence of the countercultural movements of the 1960s of the demographic of social scientists—­in the US but also in many European countries—­that has meant more studies of workers’ movements, environmental groups, and feminist groups, and fewer studies of the extreme right and racist mobilizations. Scholars of revolutions have paid more attention to Leftist revolutions, such as those in Nicaragua and Cuba rather than Iran.59 Urban sociology has also been shaped by the kind of cities urban sociologists like, the discussion of gentrification shaped by the kind of neighborhoods sociologists like to live in, rather neglecting “boring places,”60 for example. To the cities anthologized in a German edited volume by that name (Bitburg! Fulda! Siegen! Ulm!), we can add others: Monroe, Boise, and Hinesville (US); Chester, Castleford, and Hull (UK); Bahía Blanca (Argentina); or Akita, Niigata, and Takamatsu (Japan). Academics’ experience of inside their own workplaces has spurred interests in managerialism, and the university features prominently in discussions of audit culture, rankings, and neoliberalism.61 If we explore hypotheses about the impact of scholarly subcultures, we can also explore variation within and across scholarly communities in different disciplines and social groups and in different parts of the world (a point I shall return to below and in chapter 6). macrohistoricism and microhistoricism I have begun by discussing practical and cognitive factors; the next factor can only be described as macrocultural or ideological. There seems to be a

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strong bias—­certainly in sociology and political science—­in favor of material research objects that can be framed as the “most advanced” within their cate­ gory. Thinkers associated with postcolonial thought have identified one very consequential version of this, which I would call “macrohistoricism”: the pri­ vileging of some countries as “the most advanced countries.” The notions of “modernity” and “development” have posited a movement in history and have situated cases within that history, even though they coexist in the present. This has been used to justify a focus on some countries rather than others, and to imply that lessons from these countries can be transferred to other cases, even if it may take some time. Dipesh Chakrabarty has diagnosed the underlying intellectual structure of this ideology as “first in Europe, then elsewhere”: “This ‘first in Europe, then elsewhere’ structure of global historical time was historicist; different non-­Western nationalisms would later produce local versions of the same narrative, replacing ‘Europe’ by some locally constructed centre. It was historicism that allowed Marx to say that the ‘country that is more developed industrially only shows, to the less developed, the image of its own future.’ ”62 This ideology led to a privileging of certain Western countries in sociology and political science. Within an inverse version of this logic, anthropology was tasked with the study of the least developed, unspoiled, and untouched.63 There is another version of the focus on “advanced cases,” which I would call “microhistoricism”: a focus on the “most advanced” cases within a range of subfields. It is worth noting that one general feature of highly focused–­on cities, for example, is that they are growing. There is an assumption that to study growing cities is to study the future, is to study what other cities will become. It is a modernization-­theoretical device and has thus harmed attention to non-­Western contexts, but it can help explain why eventually, however slowly, attention had to turn to cities in the “Global South”: because of high rates of growth, southern megacities are again justified as sites to study “the future of all cities.” Similarly, to study work has been to study the most advanced forms of work and, relatedly, to study the most advanced forms of organizations. This is true in the studies of blue-­collar work that have tended to follow the latest technological developments and have shifted from factories in the West to call centers and factories in Southeast Asia. There are echoes of this also in the study of white-­collar work, such as when Richard Sennett focused in The Corrosion of Character on IBM as the most advanced form of work at the time.64 The developmentalist orientation is often normatively charged; as such, depending almost on the temperament of the authors involved, it can take on

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a utopian or a dystopian bent. In the Marxian version of microhistoricism, researchers might study some groups of workers to look for the sources of the coming revolution; the most advanced forms of work are studied in order to examine the forms of contradiction or resistance they might generate. In a different version of critical work—­one that might be inspired by Foucault—­ the most advanced forms of governmentality are studied to understand the future of a society of control. We can consider the infatuation with the new in the social sciences in this context: the new can be valued according to the logic of coverage. If a scholar is fast enough, they can use studying a recent phenomenon to claim they are studying something that has not been studied before. They can then also try to stabilize the new as the most advanced stand-­in for a longer-­established category, allowing them to study the best or worst version of the future. journals as sponsors Critical accounts of the global organization of the social sciences highlight the journal system as a major sponsor of material research objects located in the US or the UK.65 To elaborate, scholars based in the US or the UK, some with entirely local concerns (“American sociology”) and networks, drawing on mostly local reviewers (including graduate students known to them), have established a set of journals that, partly by virtue of the advantages of the English language,66 attract a large audience. Because these journals attract a large audience, formal measurements and rankings privilege them. Tenure committees in Hong Kong, Chile, and Germany accept these journals as privileged places of publication.67 Scholars who submit to these journals report that reviewers question much more thoroughly why cases from outside the US or the UK might be relevant to general knowledge. They also report that they are asked to provide additional context on material from contexts outside the US and the UK, as reviewers, who while highly educated may be more monolingual than the average person around the world, feel it is legitimate to profess ignorance of “other” countries (and “other” countries’ theorists).68 Researchers may receive the recommendation to place the article in an area-­studies journal rather than a journal dedicated to general sociology or politics.69 This means there is some advantage to having data from countries with which reviewers are familiar. Alternatively, it means having no data can be an advantage.—­abstract papers may circumvent the problem of being “marked” by deviant specificity. Bruno Latour comments on this experience in a footnote to a paper he published under the pseudonym Jim Johnson in an American journal: “The

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reason for this use of pseudonym was the opinion of the editors that no Amer­ ican sociologist is willing to read things that refer to specific places and times which are not American. Thus I inscribed in my text American scenes so as to decrease the gap between the prescribed reader and the pre-­inscribed one.”70 Of course, scholars’ choice of stand-­ins usually precedes the submission of work for publication; but it is not unreasonable to assume that the anticipation of the reaction of reviewers in top journals affects researcher’s behavior before publication. The reaction of reviewers then also influences the exposure given to different cases postpublication. act iv ists and schol ars protest ing exclusion The feminist sociologist Joan Acker wrote in 1973 that “generalizations about social mobility patterns and trends on a societal level are based primarily on studies of white males (Blau and Duncan 1967). Since this group does not provide even one-­half of the population, the validity of the generalizations might be questioned.”71 Acker was making the case that men have served as a privileged stand-­in for the category of “human.” This point has been made by other feminists concerning a range of fields ranging from health research, which privileged a male body free from the “distractions” of female hormones,72 to political theory, which imagined the citizen as one of a band of brothers.73 Men as stand-­ins have been sponsored by the popular prototype that associates “human” with “man.” In response, scholar-activists have sponsored women as research objects.74 It might be worth noting that the latter is not necessarily more of a “political” or “external” intervention than the former. This kind of lobbying to become research objects can be observed with other social groups who advocate that they should be explicitly included in social science research. LGBTQ activists have insisted that gay, lesbian, and queer families be included in research on parenting and families.75 American minorities have urged scholars to pay attention to their history and their experiences. In many of these cases, there was research on these groups previously, but only under specific other categories, which limited the cognitive impact of their specificity. Women, for example, were included in research on families, but not in studies concerning inequality or work. Queer people were included in studies of sexuality (and before that, criminology) but not in research on families. Asian-­Americans were included in the history and sociology of immigration, but not in the general political history of the United States. Thus, to the social sciences these groups were “hidden in plain sight” as material research objects, to quote a phrase used by Eviatar Zerubavel

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to highlight the importance of the relationship between figures and backgrounds, and between search categories and the structure of our attention.76 s t a n d - i­ n s t h a t s p o n s o r t h e m s e l v e s There is evidence that organizations sponsor themselves as research objects in the sociology of organizations. The most important resource organizations provide—­or deny—­might be access for scholars. Organizations might provide funding for researchers working on themselves; different large organizations have maintained large research arms at different times, which also included social scientists, some of which conduct research using their employer as a research object. Car manufacturers have hosted research units. Research labs within large internet and computer firms, such as Xerox PARC lab, have also shaped social science research. (Lucy Suchmans’s ground-­breaking “Plans and Situated Action” was set within Xerox, and other studies followed.77) Organizations might in some part be motivated by the symbolic benefits gained from the aura of being a model in the sense of being a model to be followed. To the extent that stand-­ins are implicitly and explicitly justified as being “the most advanced,” providing access to research can allow a firm to associate itself with the future. In some fields, the positive connotations of serving as a stand-­in are particularly pronounced. This seems to be the case whenever the epistemic target is framed in a positive way, which sociologists of science would call “asymmetric.” The sociology of organizations and management and business studies have been shaped by many positively connotated epistemic targets, such as “innovation,” “efficiency,” and “leadership.” In the literature on urban planning, positive epistemic targets, such as “regeneration,” have played an important role. Here more than in the sociology of urban life, cities themselves have actively lobbied for status as a model city. Baltimore, for example, has been hailed as an example for waterfront redevelopment: “Baltimore . . . was a city with a waterfront and a port that was being talked and written about as having been successful. . . . ‘[A]ided by the active promotional efforts of those who were central to the Baltimore experience’ (S. Ward, 2006, p. 272), it became the model to which other US (and elsewhere in the world) waterfront cities aspired, and to which they compared their own experiences.”78 Conclusion In the chapters so far, I have highlighted the role material research objects play in research. Because the epistemic target is usually not available, all forms of

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research employ stand-­ins of some kind. I have explored how material research objects become stand-­ins, engaging with overly rationalist accounts that assume research materials are primarily strategic research materials. I have aimed to show that various forms of sponsorships play a role in the selection of material research objects. Some stand-­ins have general or subculture-­specific cognitive advantages; historicism privileges certain countries and a range of other cases that can be framed as “the most advanced”; and some stand-­ins actively lobby to become stand-­ins. When we consider stand-­ins that lobby, we can also consider research objects that veto, or block access, so as to not become research objects. This is true of elites in some contexts and for some organizations—­for example, Scientology or Google. Asking about the sponsorship of stand-­ins—­as opposed to the sponsorship of facts, categories, and approaches—­highlights the research practices that underlie social scientific knowledge, and with that, it highlights a particular vector for the social shaping of social knowledge. Within a debate that often contrasts the internal norms and values of science with external political or economic interests or ideologies, asking about the sponsorship of stand-­ins allows us to draw attention to more mundane aspects of the social nature of the social sciences, such as aspects of practical convenience, popular and subculture-­specific schemas, and objects that lobby. We become aware of the influence of links to professional groups and organizations as well as paraprofessional groupings, such as enthusiasts of various kinds.

What we need more of

What we have enough of

Studies that contextualize the “most advanced cases” in the contemporaneous universe of cases

Studies that perform membership of a subculture

Studies that counteract subcultural biases in case selection Studies of forbidden cases

Studies of the most advanced or most successful cases in isolation

3

Model Cases and the Dream of Collective Methods A crate of twenty young Wistar IGS rats is bought and sent by courier service across the United States. The discussion of “professions” departs from the case of doctors, drawing on studies conducted in hospitals across the United States. A series of studies focus on the population in the same midsize town in Indiana, labeled “Middletown.”

A biologist who uses rats for her research has before her unique, mortal in­ stantiations of rats, which we can call specimens. Biologists who study rats all study the same animal in some sense (“rats”), but not the very same or identical animal (“a unique, individual rat born at a specific time, which we might call Maggie”). In this chapter, I want to take the ways biologists manage the relations among unique instantiations of material research objects as a point of depar­ ture for examining the collective dimension of model system research and its material infrastructure in biology. We can then compare this to practices and discussions in the social sciences and humanities. I have said that in biology there are explicit discussions of experimental systems, and the conventions that privilege some experimental systems as model systems are explicit conventions. Noting the distinction I have just drawn between material research objects and specimens of material research objects we can further note that there are also explicit discussions of speci­ mens and explicit conventions that regulate the use of specimens. Biologists actively intervene to try to control variation among specimens of model sys­ tems; this requires a material infrastructure designed to support model sys­ tem research as a collective method. To the extent that social scientists as a group also privilege some material research objects over others, the conventions are implicit and, as a conse­ quence, not specific. With some exceptions that I will discuss, most research­ ers in the social sciences do not actively intervene in or interfere with the material research object, and they do not try to standardize its specimens.1 In what follows, I will highlight differences between some practices in the social sciences and some practices in the natural sciences. However, I do not

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want this conversation to go in either of the two directions that this kind of exercise usually leads: I do not want to use comparisons between the social sciences and the natural sciences to (1) suggest that the social sciences should be more like the natural sciences; or to (2) defend what social scientists have already been doing on the grounds that the social sciences are inherently different. Here, rather than highlight the weaknesses of the social sciences through comparison with a different set of practices, I want to use the comparison with biology to indicate internal tensions within the social sciences—­not be­ tween social scientific practices and scientific ideals, but between social sci­ entific practices and the conditions of their usefulness. Specimens and Model Systems in Biology The animals used in biological experiments are not caught in the wild or trapped in scientists’ backyards. The animals used in research today are the product of a long social history that began in the late nineteenth century and continues to the present. In the previous chapter, I drew on work from the so­ ciology and history of science that examined scientists’ work with frogs, mice, rats, fruit flies, and tobacco viruses. If we take this work on its own terms, we note that authors have often not asked how material research objects are cho­ sen but rather studied the way scientists coordinate material research objects on the one hand and research problems or questions on the other. In their observation of this coordination, sociologists and historians of science note that scientists invest a lot of effort in manipulating material re­ search objects to suit their purposes. Experimental systems are the product of “purposeful and systematic intervention.”2 Efforts of coordination not only relate to the general category of material research object (“Let’s all use rats”), but include efforts to control and stabilize the individual animal or animals under investigation (the specimens) in relation to other such animals. That means that when rats are used to study learning, for example, scientists seek to control variation among rats. In her study of the Wistar rat, Bonnie Clause points out that, initially, control over specimens was asserted by controlling environmental conditions and breeding within one lab; later, animals began to be exchanged and circulated with labels and trademarks: “In 1942—­some forty-­six years before the first patent was granted for a genetically engineered laboratory animal—­the Wistar Institute took steps to protect its commercial rights in Wistar rats and to limit the use of the Wistar name to rats produced by the Institute. The name WISTARAT was trademarked and was subsequently printed on labels attached to the boxes in which the rats were shipped.”3

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There is one aspect I want to highlight about this standardization: follow­ ing Ian Hacking, we can distinguish between a data generator (a material re­ search object) and what it produces (data).4 What is standardized in biology is the material research object, not the data produced with or about the mate­ rial research object—­a point I shall return to when discussing the circulation of data sets in the social sciences. Standardization and the Birth of Collective Method The findings of historians of science suggest that a number of different factors have powered efforts to standardize specimens since the turn of the twen­ tieth century. Firstly, one of the concerns among scientists was simply about supply: new experimental methods require larger quantities of live speci­ mens. There was thus a need for a larger number of animals, and because of the in­­frastructure required, some centralization of production seemed to make sense.5 Secondly, and relatedly, the transformation of biology at the turn of the twentieth century is sometimes called the “industrialization of science”6—­a description that highlights the elective affinity between scientific developments and broader cultural developments. Early efforts at standardization were in­ spired by what we might call “cultural Taylorism.”7 Historical accounts of na­ tional and international initiatives to coordinate the production of animals show an emphasis on quality control, which in a way is not specific to science.8 Thirdly, in his study of the coevolution of the fruit fly and research by humans, Robert Kohler observed that standardization emerged as something important for controlling variation within individual studies, which had be­ come reliant on quantitative techniques.9 Lastly—­and this is the point most relevant to my discussion of the social sciences and humanities—­we should note that this standardization was also gradually realized as a symptom of the fact that biologists regard their use of model systems as part of a collective method. Joan Fujimura writes that “stan­ dardization is the outcome of collective action and commitment.”10 There was some recognition that standardization produced a “known” animal11—­that it allowed findings from different sites to be put together.12 Animals became “known” through the publication of reference tables, which provided base­ line data on a range of physiological, anatomical, and biochemical indicators. Fujimura writes: These standardised animals were used to construct representations that were comparable between laboratories. They were used to reconstruct laboratory

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work practices and, in turn, experimentally produced representations. These practices and representations were assumed to be homogenous across labora­ tories and through time.13

Let us consider again the supposed advantages of model system research. A shared focus on a specific material research object facilitates communi­ cation among researchers, and particularly among researchers in different subfields and different national settings. It can clarify theoretical differences by limiting empirical variation; it can clarify theoretically relevant empirical variation by limiting other variations. In these ways, a focus on model sys­ tems can help create cumulative effects of what would otherwise be isolated pieces of research. The realization of these advantages presupposes some ef­ fort at standardization. The Infrastructure of Collective Method This effort to standardize material research objects is a form of coordination among researchers. Note that this kind of coordination is separate and differ­ ent from the standardization of concepts through shared definitions within a paradigm, which is more often discussed in the philosophy of the social sciences. Sociologists often complain that standardization of concepts is lacking in the social sciences.14 This highlights the selective ways that social scientists who invoke the natural sciences in battles against other social scientists under­ stand the natural sciences. Standardization in the natural sciences should not be understood simply as a philosophical commitment to scientific method; it is an investment in an infrastructure of research. Klaus Ammann has listed some of the infrastructural preconditions of the standardization of model sys­ tems, which scientists today take for granted when they breed or order ani­ mals for their research: •   The systematization of breeding through professional and commercial laboratories •   The production of pure breeds through breeding methods •   Standardization of husbandry conditions •   Documentation of research results of and with variants •   The maintenance and cultivation of variants •   The rigorous control of the entry of “new” materials into research-­internal processing.15

Fujimura has highlighted the range of interests that are coordinated through these efforts: funders, policymakers, researchers, manufacturers, and regula­

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tors, who all participate in the production and maintenance of what she calls a “standardized package.”16 As a result of this work, standardized packages are a machine for producing “ ‘do-­able’ problems,” which scientists need for publication.17 Standardized packages are the basis of what Hacking has described as the “self-­vindication” of the social sciences.18 It is also what, according to Hans-­ Jörg Rheinberger, helps produce “the new” by contrast. Using the term “expe­r­ imental system” for Fujimura’s “standardized packages,” Rheinberger writes: “Experimental systems are precisely those setups that allow for the genera­ tion of singularities in the realm of our knowledge spaces. They allow, to put it paradoxically, to create new knowledge effects in a regulated manner and yet one that transcends our capacities of anticipation.”19 Textual Canons and Standardization I have said that biologists circulate standardized copies of specimens of privi­ leged material research objects. I note that this standardization is not unique to biology; in literature as well, the canon is both a list of authors or texts and a set of conventions concerning physical objects. I have suggested that liter­ ary scholars study James Joyce’s Ulysses to study “the modern novel.” In this case, Ulysses is the material research object and “the modern novel” is the epistemic research object. The specimen, then, is the unique physical copy of any work that a scholar is working with. Literary texts are copied and mass-­produced. They often circulate in dif­ ferent editions and versions. In some contexts, the material features of the text are more or less taken for granted, but sometimes scholars do pay much attention to the histories of particular versions of the texts.20 Scholars discuss different editions and reflect on the practice of editing through textual and editorial science, partly in order to find the best approximation of the “true” Ulysses, or the Ulysses “as Joyce intended it for print,”21 for example. Scholars take into account different iterations of an author’s manuscript as well as ear­ lier published versions—­negotiating, for example, a tension between manu­ scripts as submitted and manuscripts as published and considering different kinds of variations and errors. Like in research with model organisms, the process of copying and mul­ tiplying the material research objects is used for purposes of standardization and coordination. As Grégoire Mallard has noted, “Critical editions and their system of correspondence stabilize the canonical representation of a text for many years to come except if some other scholars try to challenge directly these editions by creating new ones.”22 Scholars reference specific editions in

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order to make clear which differences of interpretation are owed to different versions of the text. Standard editions of texts go some way toward making sure that research objects are identical and deviations can be identified and named. The Limits of Standardization Of course, one should not assume that efforts at standardization are “success­ ful” at eliminating variation among specimens. The very idea of the elimina­ tion of variation depends on how variation among specimens is conceived. As new knowledge is produced about genetic or environmental sources of variation, earlier attempts at standardization begin to look unsuccessful. The use of stand-­ins, such as frogs or mice, in general raises the ques­ tion as to how stand-­ins relate to epistemic targets on the one hand and to other possible stand-­ins, such as humans, on the other hand.23 Ankenny and Leonelli call these questions about a system’s “representational target” and “representational scope,” respectively.24 To the extent that it is successful, the standardization of specimens raises the further question as to how laboratory animals relate to their other relatives, which some might call “natural.” Model systems are laboratory products. Ammann has highlighted the transition be­ tween “the mouse as a life-­worldly organism and the model system with the name of mouse” as one between “nature” and “second nature.”25 Organisms are made contextless by laboratory work. The removal of the stabilization may also undo what is supposedly a feature of the organism but is in fact a feature of the stabilization procedure. Concerns about the effects of stabilization are expressed in many areas of research, though they do not necessarily change the way routine research is conducted and the way conclusions are drawn. In primate research, for exam­ ple, Leavens and colleagues have pointed out that claims about chimpanzees are often based on chimpanzees reared in institutional environments, when in fact behaviors such as manual pointing vary significantly depending on whether we examine chimpanzees in the wild, chimpanzees raised in institu­ tional environment, or home-­raised chimpanzees.26 Similar issues echoing the opposition between “lab” on the one hand and “field” on the other hand are raised in debates about the role of example sen­ tences, which are used in research on grammar and in the teaching of languages. Critics can be heard to complain about the “often flimsy, sometimes even ugly example sentences”27 used in linguistic scholarship, which are “simple and, above all, isolated from the real speech situation.”28 In words that anticipate

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contemporary scholarship on translation in 1975, it is noted that one would have to “describe for every little example sentence the principles of reduction, within which one has excised and prepared it out of a text and a complicated situation of communication.”29 The Underspecified Specimen of Model Cases Social scientists privilege some material research objects over others, but they do not acknowledge this explicitly. The implicit conventions for privi­ leged material research objects are not very specific and often do not pro­ vide much guidance as to which specimen exactly a researcher should be using. There is a convention, for example, to study and reference doc­ tors when discussing the professions. Doctors are often the first example in general discussions of the professions, such as in the blurb for a textbook, which promises an account that is “thoroughly illustrated by reference to examples from medicine and other established professions, such as law and architecture.”30 The sociology of professions can be traced back to Talcott Parsons and Everett Hughes31 (though it builds on Weber’s discussion of status groups). Parsons tends to write about “the professions” in the abstract, but his first example of a contemporary professional in “The Professions and Social Struc­ ture” is a doctor.32 Everett Hughes, the other founder of the field, calls medicine “the queen of the professions.”33 Many of Hughes’s most prominent students—­ Howard Becker, Anselm Strauss, and Eliot Freidson—­studied doctors. This privileging has not gone unnoticed in the field. Dingwall notes that the “em­ pirical base is oddly skewed” toward medicine and cites accounts, which frame as central a case as lawyers as “neglected.”34 But it is not clear which doctors exactly are referenced, and there are no norms with regard to which doctors to study—­apart, that is, from a certain privileging of US cases, which becomes apparent when we consider that US sociologists do not usually consider stud­ ies of professionals outside the United States and that some of the US studies of US doctors are read abroad.35 Different researchers in the sociology of professions study different doc­ tors. The best-­known empirical works include studies of different kinds of hospitals in different parts of the US. There are some well-­known studies of hospitals affiliated with elite universities, such as Renée Fox’s Experiment Perilous, Charles Bosk’s Forgive and Remember, and Frederic Hafferty’s Into the Valley.36 There are also important studies in less elite settings and community hospitals as well, such as Becker and colleagues’ important Boys in White and

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Anspach’s Deciding Who Lives.37 Some studies, such as Merton and colleagues’ study on the “student physician,” have a comparative design that, on the level of individual studies, highlights a range of organizational factors.38 Though scholars usually provide some information about where the re­ search is conducted, social scientists are not required to use a specific speci­ men to accrue the benefits of using a privileged material research objects. The specimens of privileged material research objects do not travel and are not copied. Individual hospitals, for example, are not passed among researchers, and scholars do not circulate doctors. Unlike biologists and their specimens, sociologists do not intervene to make doctors more alike and they do not usually manipulate the doctors’ environment to study its effects. The Communal Use of Cases The conversation about methods as commonly understood discusses the re­ lationship between the traces of the material object, the material object itself, and the epistemic target on the level of the individual study. Underspecified material research objects and underspecified privileged material research ob­ jects pose no specific problem for individual methods. All the studies of doc­ tors referenced above are presumably methodologically sound. But when knowledge starts to be transported across research studies—­ when scholars engage in what Charles Ragin, drawing on an essay by Jennifer Platt, has called “the communal nature of case use in the social sciences”39—­ questions arise about our collective as well as our individual methods. When data about a specific object or site is attached to a category of material re­ search objects, it becomes data about a specimen. Variation among speci­ mens becomes an issue with the circulation of information via any category, such as “doctors.” This issue is exacerbated when conventions about privi­ leged material research objects establish links between some categories of material research objects, such as “doctors,” and larger categories of epistemic targets, such as “the professions.” In some sense it is of course a strength of the sociological literature on doctors, for example, to have covered a range of medical institutions; but when claims about doctors stand in for claims about professions, the under­ lying variability begins to matter in a different way. Social scientists have a convention about privileging doctors as a stand-­in for the professions, but that convention is implicit and does not tell us which doctors to study and where. The specimens of research objects are not standardized, and therefore are presumably more varied than in both biology and literature. As a result,

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different research projects on different specimens of the same stand-­in are not easily comparable. I noted in a previous chapter that privileging some stand-­ins or material research objects over others is in itself not necessarily a “bad” thing; discus­ sions among biologists mention several advantages of model system research. I note now that in the social sciences we tend to rely on privileged material research objects but do not consider the conditions of their usefulness. This means that the advantages of overstudying some objects for collective meth­ ods are not exploited. It also means that the disadvantages of overstudying some objects are incurred without very good reasons for doing so. The Lucky Case of Material Research Objects with Low Variance The problems of collective methods pose themselves differently depending on the nature of the material research object. The variation among specimens of privileged stand-­ins varies—­that is, some specimens are more similar to one another than others. Some extreme cases can illustrate this point: it may be argued that the issue of standardization resolves itself if there really is only one object, such as the Mona Lisa; or when copies are virtual and copied al­­ most painlessly, such as in thought experiments. The prisoner’s dilemma or Galileo’s thought experiments with falling bodies exist only as mental pro­ jections, and there is nothing “out there” in the world that could vary from them.40 (Though one might ask about the Mona Lisa, what about conventions of seeing, and conditions of lighting? Similarily, some philosophers have pointed out that thought experiments are viewed very differently by people with different backgrounds.41) There are, by contrast, many doctors, many multinational US corporations, many gangs, just as there are many different kinds of fruit flies (for those who have the knowledge of relevant variation) or many possible edition of works by Shakespeare (again depending on relevant expertise). Among objects of empirical social science research, some kinds of objects could be said to have low variation. Variation might be said to be smaller among objects fixed in space or time. There is, in some sense, only one “French Revolution,” and one “Peronism in Argentina.” There is, in some sense, only one “Chicago.” Variation might also be limited by efforts at stan­ dardization by actors in the world. Renault car factories from the same period might be relatively similar to one another; branches of the Hilton hotel chain are likewise shaped by attempts to make them more alike. I would like to make two points about the variation in variation among

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empirical objects of social science. Firstly, I would note that the sociological versions of “unique” material research objects are not really stable. Consider the case of Chicago. It is true that the agreement among urban sociologists to focus on Chicago to some extent ensures comparability, even though Chi­ cago is not representative of US cities, let alone cities in general. Unlike a pro­ fession, it is “locked in place,” and to some extent geographic variation among specimens of the model case is excluded. But Chicago has many neighbor­ hoods, and the variation of what one could look at, even if one studied it at the same time—­the informants that the researcher meets, the data considered—­ would be greater than in disciplines where standardized copies circulate. There is also variation due to time: the Chicago of the 1980s may be very different from the Chicago of the 1990s. In the same way one cannot swim in the same river twice, as the saying goes, no two people study the same Chicago, and no individual studies Chicago twice. Secondly, I note that in the absence of explicit collective efforts at control­ ling variance and, indeed, of explicitness in the conventions privileging some cases over others, a relative lack of variance is more or less a question of luck in the social sciences. This point holds notwithstanding individual attempts to exploit, for example, the planned similarity between two factories. On Restudies There are some other ways, in which social scientists deal with variation among specimens of material research objects that are interesting in the context of our discussion. Social scientists do not develop collective strategies in the way biologists do; but some of their practices do constitute a strategy vis-­à-­vis the collective aspects of method. In what follows, I want to discuss the genre of restudies in relation to my analysis of the role of implicitly or explicitly privi­ leged material research objects. Restudies are studies that study specific sites or objects with explicit ref­ erence to an earlier study of the same site or object. This follow-­up research could be conducted by the same researcher in a planned or unplanned re­ turn to a former field site,42 but the term is also associated with follow-­up by other researchers. It signals an opportunity or invitation to build on someone else’s work. I would distinguish “restudy” from “replication,” though sometimes writ­ ers use the terms interchangeably.43 Replication aims to test previous studies and confirm or challenge their findings. Restudies have broader aims, seeking not to confirm or deny the original study but rather to build on others’ find­ ings of the same site, critically but constructively.44

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According to Peter Skalník, the first restudy was a study of Maszkienice, a village in southern Poland (then Austria), by Franciszek Bujak at the very beginning of the twentieth century. The study, interestingly, focused on the effects of emigration to America on the village.45 Restudies are often associ­ ated with place-­bound ethnographies of a “village” or “culture” in anthropol­ ogy and community studies. The latter has an important central European tradition,46 has been vibrant in the UK,47 and has the Lynds48 (“Middletown”) as well as W. Lloyd Warner (“Yankeetown”) as US representatives.49 But restudies can go beyond place-­bound material research objects and epistemic targets. As Charles and Crow note, the object being restudied “can refer to people who have an occupation, a religion, or a location on the inter­ net rather than a geographical place as their shared point of connection and collective identity; it can even be constituted symbolically as in an imagined nation (Anderson, 1983) or in the reconstruction of communities previously based on occupations which no longer exist (see, e.g., Jones, 1997, 2003).”50 Even community studies vary with regard to whether the community is the ultimate epistemic target or a means toward understanding something else. Lyon and Crow note, for example, that Ray Pahl’s study of the Isle of Sheppey aimed to understand “ordinary people’s lives” and economic and social change in a spatial context.51 I have described how biologists routinely return to and share material re­ search objects. Sociologists and anthropologists do this more rarely; if they do, they attach a specific label to it, setting a “restudy” apart from routine ways of approaching research objects. The material research object in a restudy does not circulate and is not actively intervened into—­this marks a differ­ ence between the sites of restudies and test towns, which are conceived as controlled environments in the context of marketing research. In such test towns—­like Hassloch in Germany, for example—­residents are shown differ­ ent products and different advertisement than the population elsewhere, and the composition of the sample is carefully monitored.52 The restudy is thus different than biological research using a model sys­ tem; but it approximates the case of treating a specific ecosystem, such as an island, as a model systems. It fulfills the invitation issued among biologists to “agree on some convenient organism(s) to study in great depth, so that we can use the experience of the past (in that organism) to build on in the future. This will lead to a body of knowledge in that ‘model system’ that allows us to design appropriate studies of non-­model systems to answer important ques­ tions about their biology.”53 There are some similarities between restudies and repeated research proj­ ects on privileged material research objects that are locked in place, such as

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Chicago. But I would emphasize that there is an important difference between the restudy and routine model case research in the social sciences. In the re­ study, the authors label their object as a specific object, marking their choice rather than relying explicitly or implicitly on some virtue claimed as inherent to the object of study itself. The setup of the restudy creates a version of the Brechtian Verfremdungseffekt (distancing effect).54 If the distancing effect in theater helps audience members to consciously relate to a play as a play, in re­ search it helps readers consider the chosen field site as a chosen field site. This can highlight the questions that arise in terms of the transferability (or not) of findings rather than establishing a link via implicit schema congruence, or unexamined hyperbole such as “Chicago typifies the great industrial metro­p­ olis”55 or “LA is the city of the future.” Authors of restudies also situate their own data very explicitly in the context of other specific research. This makes variation analyzable, often highlighting change in explicit ways. I would argue that this distancing effect is a virtue also of the Middletown studies when compared to routine model case research, despite and even be­ cause of the flaws in the original design of the study. Robert and Helen Lynd picked Muncie, a town in Indiana that then had just under forty thousand inhabitants, for a series of studies on American norms and social change in the 1920s and 1930s. The Lynds suggested that Middletown was selected for its “middle of the road” quality and “characteristic” features.56 Sarah Igo has pointed out that the confusion in the presentation of Middletown “between average, typical and good” has had problematic outcomes for how Americans see themselves.57 But at the same time, the explicit focus on a specific site, because of and despite the pseudonym, makes it possible to hold the original studies accountable not only for factual errors, but for theoretical blind spots and other oversights. The authors of Middletown initially chose Muncie because they thought it was less diverse than other American cities—­though, as Lassiter and col­ leagues have argued, its demographic patterns were more in line with other American cities than the Lunds claimed58—­and intentionally focused on white residents. Muncie’s African American community received less atten­ tion despite efforts at documentation by local residents, but it eventually has found a prominent place in Middletown’s legacy.59 The Lunds themselves cor­ rected the initial study through a stronger focus on class.60 Similarily, War­ wick and Littlejohn’s Coal, Capital and Culture, published in 1992, is a restudy of a mining village in Yorkshire called “Coal Is Our Life” that made conscious attempts to correct the gender bias of the earlier study.61 My point in discussing restudies is not that social scientists become like biologists when they do restudies. The discussion in and of restudies contains

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many thoughtful reflections on how concepts change, on how personalities affect findings, and on the limits of comparability, which take up traditional concerns about the specificity of the social sciences.62 It is not that change can be isolated as a cause because the object is absolutely the same or its environ­ ment is controlled. But the process of conceiving and conducting a restudy encourages explicit reflection and it has its own effects, such as directing an­ thropologists away from ahistorical notions of “culture.” The labeling of studies as restudies encourages explicit reflection on mate­ rial research objects and epistemic targets. It is as a positive result of this ex­­ plicitness that researchers sometimes shift the empirical focus of specimen in their restudy in order to get at the same epistemic target. In their restudy of a study of Swansea, Davies and Charles, for example, included new neighbor­ hoods in order to study some of the same things in a new but now more suit­ able location; they also included an inner-­city neighborhood to allow them to capture the multiethnic character of contemporary Swansea.63 Model System Research versus Representative Samples I might have provoked the impression that the comparison to the standard­ ization of specimens in biology highlights a weakness in qualitative research using case studies that could be addressed by conducting more quantita­ tive research. This is not straightforwardly the case. Quantitative research in the social sciences is also different from model system research in the life sciences, which undermines some claims being made on its behalf as to its congruence with “the scientific method”—­certainly as long as “the scientific method” is understood to be a singular entity. Let me discuss quantitative research based on the case of large-­scale sur­ veys analyzed in terms of the causal relationship between variables, while not­ ing that this is only one form of quantitative research, next to modeling with hypothetical data, experimental research, and inductive neo-­Bayesian meth­ ods using created and found data. This type of quantitative research has shaped the debate about qualitative versus quantitative social science in dis­ proportionate ways; we might say it has served as a model case of the philos­­ ophy of the social sciences. It has also served as a privileged reference point in conflicts among camps in the social and human sciences, which are con­ strued in epistemological terms. The circulation of standardized specimens in model system research is not the same as the circulation of more or less identical copies of data sets, such as the German Socio-­Economic Panel or the US National Longitudinal Sur­ vey of Youth. Though there is indeed very little variation among different

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copies of these data sets, variation is here managed for forms of data, not for the specimens of material research objects about which the data is collected, which in Hacking’s terms we would call a “data generator.”64 The underlying material research object (“US society”) has stopped behaving independently and is sampled according to the logic of representativeness, rather than se­ lected as a whole following the logic of model cases. When biologists study a set of standardized mice, for example, they do not study a representative sample of mice, rodents, or indeed animals; they label, multiply, and standardize a specific mouse so it can serve as a stable basis for insight. The model system remains a specific entity used to better understand a phenomenon of interest in a particular animal. Biological model systems, though standardized, “maintain an independent existence in a con­ tingent world.”65 The model system is, in the terms used by Mary Morgan, “exemplary,” not “representative.”66 The aim of the standardization of specimens in biology is accountability and reliability more than generalization. Generalization would be a separate step for research—­a step that in reality is not pursued that often. Biologists are by and large not interested in the population of mice or in the population of rodents; they are also by and large not interested in general laws concern­ ing all organisms. They are thinking from “particular to particular,” not from the particular to the general and from the general to the particular; similarity rather than deduction is the basis of transfer of insight.67 The standardization of a model system like the mouse is prior to and sep­ arate from research projects with different methods that are carried out. It is a collective project, designed to add value across studies. With any given animal model system, a range of methodological research procedures can be executed, including those using statistical techniques. Model system research highlights the fact that qualitative knowledge of a single case helps in reading quantitative studies, including the qualitative knowledge that emerges from reading different kinds of quantitative studies together. Conclusion There are important differences between law-­seeking quantitative work in the social sciences and model system research in biology. The shared contrast to law-­seeking physics has created the temptation for commentators in the hu­ manities to assimilate biological model system research into abstract episte­ mological oppositions, which have long shaped the humanities and social sci­ ences, celebrating model system research as being like qualitative work using

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case studies and celebrating qualitative work using case studies as being like model system research. As I have tried to show, there are important differences between model system research in biology and case-­oriented work in the humanistic social sciences. Empirical work on model system research in the life sciences high­ lights its collective and its material dimension. Biologists have developed an infrastructure that supports model system research. When we approach re­ search in the humanistic social sciences with a parallel set of questions and concerns, we find that, by contrast, the conventions that privilege some stand-­ ins for certain categories in the social sciences are not explicit and not very specific. In contrast to both biologists and literary scholars, social scientists do not intervene with specimens, nor do they standardize them. Irrespective of the methodological virtues of individual studies, collectively, social scien­ tists are only lucky if the variation among specimens is limited. This means we have a concentration of certain cases organized in a way that does not deliver on the advantages of privileged material research objects in biology. A general account of case-­based science associated, for example, with the work of John Forrester,68 would tend to overlook these differences between model system research and practices in the social sciences and humanities when considered as collective practices. It also pays insufficient attention to the differences among case-­based methods outside biology.69 Forrester’s emphasis on the individual (human) and its infinite variations obscures the difference between specimens and material research objects and leads him to reject classes of objects on the same terms as general laws. For­ rester’s separation of case-­based thinking from thinking in terms of taxono­ mies and categorizations seems at odds with most case-­based research strate­ gies in the social sciences and even the humanities. Forrester here follows the ideological commitments of his original case, the practice of psychoanalysis, which is unusual in its refusal to embrace categories that would mediate be­ tween the individual specimen and the general truth of the theory, such as groups of patients, or patients who were affected by specific kinds families or experiences.70 I have discussed some of the problems arising within the biological uses of model systems: standardization may not be successful—­or it may be too successful; findings based on standardized animals may not be transferrable to wild versions of the same animal, or to other animals, or to humans. I must emphasize that standardization is not a value in itself; it is not the details of biological practice so much as the fact that biologists are facing up to the problem of collective method that I think we should try to learn from.

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I would suggest that in order to have a realistic conversation about what we do and do not know, we need to make explicit the way we collectively use stand-­ins to understand categories. This would also allow us to have a more realistic conversation about what can and cannot be delivered when focusing on some cases and not others. This conversation is very different from one fo­ cused on the question of whether some methods on the level of the individual study are more suitable for generalization than others. When we ask about stand-­ins in research, we can ask further about the categories that stand-­ins stand in for. It is to this discussion that I turn in the next chapter.

What we need more of

What we have enough of

Discussion of unique features of specimens

Studies of model cases that do not consider variation among specimens

Restudies Studies that contextualize studies using representative samples using other kinds of knowledge about the underlying case

4

How Subfield Categories Shape Knowledge The American Society for Eighteenth-­Century Studies is an “interdisciplinary group dedicated to the advancement of scholarship in all aspects of the period  .  .  . from the later seventeenth through the early nineteenth century.” The American Sociological Association’s W. Richard Scott Award for Distinguished Scholarship is “granted for an outstanding contribution to scholarship on organizations, occupations, and/or work in an article published within the last three years.” A department of anthropology “invites applications for an open rank faculty position in the Anthropology of Islam and Muslim Societies.”

We might expect researchers to be more reflexive about the schemas that affect their work than ordinary people. After all, most scholars distinguish the knowledge they use and produce in a professional context in some way from the knowledge gained and employed in everyday life. Scholars are also all trained to give an account of some of the translations involved in navigating the back-­and-­forth between material research objects and epistemic targets, and they routinely challenge one anothers’ assumptions and conclusions in this regard. Addressing this expectation about researchers, I will try to make it plausible that these attempts to be reflexive are to some extent counteracted by occasions that explicitly invite scholars—­and indeed, sometimes mandate them—­to activate schemas in order to show that they are members of the relevant academic community. In earlier chapters, I have distinguished between material research objects on the one hand and epistemic research objects on the other hand, and I have discussed some of the factors that sponsor some material research objects over others. Here, I link this account to aspects of its institutional context, tracing some of the factors that help entrench and reproduce privileged material research objects. Among occasions that mandate the activation of schemas, I will highlight occasions associated with subfield categories. Often beneath explicit theoretization among practicing researchers, the differentiation into subfields within and across disciplines has powerful consequences for the content of scholarly work. Subfields like the examples referenced above—­“eighteenth

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century studies,” “scholarship on organizations,” “the anthropology of Islam”—­ institutionalize some categories for research objects and some categories for approaches. Subfield categories structure opportunities such as publication opportunities, citation opportunities, and job opportunities; as such, categorized opportunities are gateways for schemas and to some extent for schema-­ congruent material research objects. Examining the Intellectual Effects of Subfield Categories The impact of subfield categories on the content of knowledge has been too little explored in conversations that span different research fields. This is partly due to the fact that when practicing social scientists discuss differentiation among themselves, they often focus on entities that are “larger” than subfields, such as disciplines or theoretical and epistemological “camps.” The way these camps are labeled depends on the speaker’s position. Social scientists might contrast “scientific” or “analytical” research with “political” or “applied” work—­a contrast that usually tries to elevate what is subsumed under “scientific” and devalue what is labeled “political.” Alternatively, scholars might distinguish “critical” or “interesting” research on the one hand and “positivist” or “mainstream” scholarship on the other, which tends to value the critical and devalue those labeled as positivist.1 These framings have been shaped in important ways by a period in the 1960s and 1970s, when the social sciences witnessed a huge expansion and were drawn into the cultural politics of that era. These fault lines also have a longer history dating back to the Methodenstreit and beyond, which has been explored by others.2 They are reinvigorated today by attacks on colleagues in the name of “analytical sociology”3 and by critical approaches. When researchers discuss epistemic divisions they tend not to include subfields as important objects of analysis but rather see them as sites in which broader divisions are played out.4 Another reason for the relative neglect of the intellectual effects of subfield categories is a long-­standing divide between accounts of science that study actors, institutions, networks, and outputs from the outside, and accounts of science that consider the content of the work produced.5 This divide has a long history in the general field of the social studies of science and persists to some extent in the specialized literature on research specialties, groupings, and subfields: the work in the sociology and history of science that has done the most to bridge the gap between sociological or “externalist” approaches on the one hand and the content of knowledge on the other hand has largely rejected an analysis of the mesolevel of social groups

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and groupings. Influenced by microsociological and phenomenological approaches, this work has focused closely on sociomaterial practices and their knowledge implications; while highlighting material linkages between situations, it has tended to exclude extrasituational factors like subdisciplinary but also disciplinary groupings.6 Meanwhile, sociological and scientometric studies that describe scientific groupings, networks, and institutions from the outside have become increasingly sophisticated.7 I briefly discussed what I called “sponsored categories” in chapter 2. Here I want to emphasize that subfield categories shape what researchers study, and that this happens relatively independently of how well (or not) particular categories fare at any given moment.8 I will argue that the form of a subfield category has effects, even though the precise content of a category is contested and changes over time; and that this effect can be observed also when new categories arise and are institutionalized. Object and Approach Categories in the Differentiation within Social Science Disciplines I am using a distinction between categories of epistemic research objects and categories of approaches for my analysis of subfields and research areas. I have defined the epistemic research object as whatever it is that any given study claims to aim to understand better. I have pointed out that almost all scholarly contributions have a conceptual target of analysis—­the object that any given text is “about,” whether it is described or explained, interpreted or reinterpreted, contextualized or translated. Approaches, by contrast, are a set of conceptual and methodological assumptions; approach categories can be “theories,” such as Marxism, governmentality studies, or postcolonial theory, or “methods,” such as regression analysis, network analysis, or ethnography.9 Research objects can be studied with different methods and different approaches. Any particular city, for example, can be studied through a range of approaches. Approaches, inversely, take up a range of objects and topics. Different disciplines have different patterns of internal differentiation (and some research areas are interdisciplinary): Subfields in sociology are organized around objects selected among institutions and areas of “modern” social life, such as work, professions, the family, organizations, art, science and economic sociology, with some identity categories, such as gender, race, and sexuality. Alongside this differentiation into research objects, sociology is also differentiated into approaches, such as “world system theory,” “symbolic interactionism” or “field theory.”

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Regional categories continue to structure jobs and associations in anthropology despite considerable critical discussion of the concept of region.10 Alongside regional specializations, anthropologists form communities around topical categories that parallel sociological subfields (“health,” “religion”). Theoretical paradigms and approaches, such as Marxism, cognitive anthropology, or science and technology studies, can also provide an intellectual home for scholars working across regions. Historians divide the past by national and regional categories (despite and alongside a recent surge in “global history”) and period categories (despite critical discussion of period categories11); they also use thematic categories, producing histories of “human rights” or “immigration,” for example, and of “childhood.” We have started from the proposition that categories in general are understood through schemas and privileged members, rather than through definitions.12 This is presumably also true of categories for research areas and subfields.13 Object categories are shaped by certain objects, or cases, more than others. The sociology of gender is still associated with research on women, for example, rather than research on men.14 The sociology of law is associated with criminal law rather than commercial law or zoning regulations.15 Approach categories such as “ethnomethodology” and “actor-­network theory,” but also “comparative research” or “postcolonial theory,” gain meaning by classic works and authors that transport a schema of action (a point I shall return to in the next chapter on “the schemas of theory”).16 Categories can be multiple and shifting; there is a certain overlap between, for example, microhistory, historical anthropology, history from below, and the history of the everyday. Categories can be more or less well defined by one particular stand-­in, or they can be shaped by a series of different, shifting stand-­ins. Ambiguity can, on the one hand, make it harder for scholars affiliated with an approach to communicate a coherent program or to enforce internal discipline; on the other hand, ambiguity can offer appeal to a wider range of audiences. In the case of the label “environmental history,” for example, it seems to be an advantage that its classics include at least three different types of works. With works that address the history of nature conservation, such as Roderick Nash’s Wilderness and the American Mind,17 the field includes the history of environmental activism and conservation, which is open to reverential types of attachment. By including works that exemplify the symbiosis of natural and social history for particular areas, such as William Cronon’s Nature’s Metropolis18 on Chicago, it signals a commitment to rethinking the categories of the social and the natural, with broad theoretical implications for all disciplines. By including data on long-­term climate

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change and long-­term histories of environmental change such as the work of Christian Pfister, Jared Diamond’s Guns, Germs, and Steel, or Ian Gordon Simmon’s Environmental History of Britain,19 the approach can signal that it can connect with research in the natural sciences. The Imperialism of Approach Categories I should note that no word is either inherently an approach or an object category. This is true on a fundamental level because object categories are constituted by an approach. We can also observe empirically that the same category sometimes functions as an object category and is at other times claimed as an approach category. Many sections of the American Sociological Association, for example, started out as intellectual movements with a program for renewing all of sociology or all the social sciences. Cole and Zuckerman would call this “cognitively radical” as opposed to “cognitively conforming.”20 But the fallback position of any section is that of one section or association among many, being justified with reference to a specific object that exists and deserves to be studied. In the telling of Craig Calhoun, for example, researchers associated with the project of “historical sociology” wanted to link inquiry into social patterns to questions about social change, and sought to transform the social sciences by insisting on the historicity of all categories. But the field became “domesticated” as a “mere subfield” in the United States21 and allowed itself to be reduced to “a conventional sociology applied to past times.”22 In the terms used in this chapter, historical sociology ceased to be defined by an approach (which would claim to provide a new foundation for all of the social sciences) and became identified with a specific object: past times. Categories become institutionalized, stable, and complementary to one another as objects, and they can be claimed as part of an intellectually imperialist agenda as an approach. Categories of objects remain available for mobilization in the name of approaches. The sociology of culture, for example, has had a relatively stable existence as the study of the “arts” and “popular culture.” Yet scholars have made different arguments about why the sociology of culture should not be defined by an object, but rather should stand at the center of an approach to all of social life, which also includes politics and the economy.23 Omar Lizardo has similarily argued that the “sociology of cognition” should instead aspire to be “cognitive social science”;24 the field of science and technology studies has expanded significantly beyond its core in the social studies of science to consider finance, markets, art, and religion with attention to knowledge and tools.

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A striking example of this kind of imperialism driven by an object category sponsored by the state, the media, and student interest can be found in the field of criminology. We might define criminology as the study of an object, crime, or deviance, but scholars identifying as criminologists, facing an expanding job market, buoyed by student interest and government demand, have made claims for their own way of studying a lot of things. We can find references to a “criminology of place,” a “criminology of emotions,” and a “criminology of humanitarianism,” a “criminology of extinction,” “pleasure,” “leisure,” and “music.” These moves allow scholarly fields to expand and study a range of things; they are also an example of subfield categories being employed as part of what Fran Osrecki has called “strategies of forgetting.”25 Osrecki has suggested that we analyze sociology with a view to the strategies that are used to respond to the challenge of having to make claims to newness in the face of the overwhelming mass of existing work. One such strategy, which Osrecki and Mike Savage have called “epochalism,”26 involves proclaiming a new historical era (“reflexive modernity,” for example), which then justifies the need to study everything anew without fully comparing the before and the after. Approach categories, including object categories that are used as approach categories, similarily allow writers to clear the slate of previous scholarship. Researchers can justify contributions as new by noting and even documenting, for example, that so far criminologists have not studied or have relatively neglected music or humanitarianism, which can help scholars avoid the trouble of situating a given study in previous scholarship relevant to their topic. The Reproduction of the Scholarly Landscape via Categorized Opportunities Andrew Abbott has drawn attention to selfsame patterns of reproduction in social scientific communities, whereby the whole splits into parts like in a broccoli or fern. He writes, “We typically distinguish the various social sciences and various positions within them using a set of dichotomies. . . . All of these dichotomies are like Kant’s pure versus practical reason, fractal distinctions. Synchronically this means that if we use any one of them to distinguish groups of social scientists, we will then find these groups internally divided by the same distinctions.”27 When Abbott discusses “groups of social scientists,” he means groupings defined by their ideas, and he focuses on distinctions among what I have described above as epistemological and theoretical “camps.” When we train our lens on categories of objects and approaches instead, and think about

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the reproduction of communities across space and institutions, and within and across national boundaries, we can observe a different kind of pattern of selfsame reproduction.28 On every occasion that a community of sociologists constitute themselves as “sociologists,” for example, they draw on categories of intradisciplinary differentiation, which are used to prescribe and produce but also regulate internal diversity. Each disciplinary association, whether national (“ASA,” “BSA,” “DGS”), regional (“Eastern”—­that is, the Eastern Sociological Association in the US), or international (“ISA,” “ESA”), reproduces in some form the diversity of object and approach categories. Even associations that are already specialized, like SASE (Society for the Advancement of Socio-­economic Studies) reproduce (some) thematic categories, such as “Professions and Professionals in a Globalizing World” or “Political Economy of Industrial Relations and Wel­­ fare States.” The reproduction of the scholarly landscape over time unfolds through opportunities that are categorized opportunities, though reproduction in this sense is not a mechanical affair; it is more a matter of “continuing to exist” than of “staying the same.” Categories are contested within each community of scholars. Categories rise and fall; new categories emerge and are institutionalized. Job opportunities, journal submissions, citation decisions, funding calls, and awards can all be conceptualized as “categorized opportunities.” Categorized Opportunities and Schemas Categorized opportunities can be modeled as situations where candidates face an audience. Ezra Zuckerman writes in a now classic article in the sociology of organizations, “Consider a very simple social situation: an interface between two classes of actors [ . . . ]. The first set of actors, whom I term ‘candidates,’ seeks entry into relations with members of the second class, whom I call ‘the audience.’ Candidates present the audience with different ‘offers’ in an attempt to win their favor. There is a fundamental asymmetry in the interface. Candidates seek relations with audience members, and the latter select those to whom they will grant these privileges. . . . The latter seek to assess the relative worth of the offers presented by the former.”29 The evaluation of candidates is shaped by categories. Of course, even if we allow that categories tend to be understood in schematic ways, as discussed above, this does not mean that candidates who conform most closely to a schema will always succeed. There are many other criteria of evaluation, and many kinds of substantive developments within subfields, that are reflected in judgments about candidates. Occasions that link categories and rewards

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may not reward centrality; but occasions that link categories and rewards do require membership, and some degree of schema conformity is required for membership to be recognized.30 As Zuckerman writes, “Offers that do not exhibit certain common characteristics may not be readily compared to others and are thus difficult to evaluate. Such offers stand outside the field of comparison and are ignored as so many oranges in a competition among apples.”31 We can note that a number of situations in everyday academic life invite participants to make and remake the links between a subfield category and its schema. When someone says at a party that they are working on something, they will often be told about what that makes their conversation partner think of—­and depending on hierarchy and self-­awareness, this can go on for some time. Courses and syllabi are structured with reference to significant cases and key works. In their writing, scholars are required to cite important earlier contributions. Academics cite for a range of reasons: to signal membership in a community, to demonstrate competence, to acknowledge intellectual debts, to establish and maintain relationships, and to project an enemy.32 The way these reasons are applied is to some extent mediated by an anticipation of what is in the reader’s and the reviewer’s mind, and this anticipation can rely on schemas as reasonable best guesses. The Distribution of Jobs through Categorized Opportunities Job openings are among the most consequential of such opportunities. Academic positions can be advertised as “open” within a discipline, but often they specify a particular area of specialization, not least because a dean may be persuaded more by an argument about a need in a specific area than by a department’s request for simply “more staff,” as Arthur Stinchcombe noted more than fifty years ago.33 Anthropologists note a gap in the scholarship on, say, Islam, which leads to the job posting cited at the beginning of this chapter. Historians hire specifically for early medieval history or African history. Sociologists might decide they need someone who teaches theory, someone to do urban sociology, or someone to do quantitative methods. There is a considerable literature that studies academic hiring empirically. Contributions have examined various factors that might affect evaluation of candidates, such as gender,34 race and ethnicity,35 parental or relationship status,36 networks,37 and publications. This literature has been shaped by a commitment to fairness and meritocracy, pitching “intrinsic criteria” against external bias. As a result, scholars have largely not discussed the fact that to the extent that candidates are judged by academic criteria, they are nearly always judged in the context of not only disciplinary but also subdisciplinary

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categories. In a recent exception, Hamann and Beljean note that “[job] advertisements mobilize categories that are recognised in the field and thus inform the reviewers’ and committee’s assessment through the appointment procedure. . . . By emphasizing expertise in specific research fields as an important criterion for candidates, job advertisements illustrate that academic labor markets are highly fragmented on the basis of intellectual specializations.”38 What are the implications of this? How might categories inform audience assessments of candidates? What might we say about the effect of the fact that research communities reproduce themselves via categorized opportunities on the work produced by these researchers? Audience members—­a committee or a whole department—­are often diverse in their orientation and in their interests. Indeed, academics are trained to disagree on small points of conceptual emphasis and empirical analysis, and search committees and other decision-­making bodies are often designed to include a diversity of backgrounds. In this context, the category and its schemas function as a resource in negotiations among audience members. To say, “This candidate is very strong, but she is not an urban sociologist” can carry a certain weight in committee deliberations and allows the speaker to sidestep in-­depth discussions with their colleagues about the quality of a candidate’s work and the many epistemological, methodological, and discipline-­political issues implied in any such judgment. A similar function is fulfilled by associating a candidate with a different category. One might say, “This is more of an urban planning person” or “an urban policy person” to argue against a candidate for a job in urban sociology, for example; or might say, “This person is more of a sociolegal scholar than a human rights scholar” to weaken a candidacy for a job in “human rights.” This can be effective without ever having to argue in detail why the candidate cannot at the same time be a member of the mandated category. The underlying schemas can be contested explicitly—­someone can defend a candidate by saying, for example, “Their work is perhaps not part of the sociology of organizations in the style of x, but rather in the style of y.” The point remains that the category is a constraint for these discussions; in some cases, it is also a legal constraint. The time for explicit contestation and discussion is always limited. Sometimes centrality (rather than only membership) can turn up as an explicit normative criterion concerning categorized opportunities, particularly when opportunities are rare and one position is filled at a time, such as with job opportunities. This is the case even though (and in some cases because) the job ad will have had a history shaped by strategic concerns and communications with the relevant deans. Faculty members might remind one

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another that “this is our only chance to hire a historian of Africa,” or say, “Let’s remember that this is our STS hire.” They might voice concerns about centrality by saying, “I would feel disappointed if we offered a position in quantitative methods” or “in theory” to someone whose work uses such and such an approach. In opportunities shaped by an object category, the choice of material research object is one important aspect of establishing membership or centrality. It could be that schema-­congruent material research objects present an advantage for candidates seeking to be recognized as members or central members of a category. It can also be the case that search committees appreciate seeing an “unusual case” addressed in an application, especially as sifting through a large number of applications can highlight the cases sponsored by circumstances at any given time. The risk with the unusual case is that it could be read as theoretically less relevant or as belonging to another category. We can expect patterns in what kind of “unusual” is valued as unusual in a good way, as opposed to “strange.” Ambassadorship Opportunities and Ambassadorship Careers I would suggest that categorized opportunities in a scholarly landscape that reproduces itself through regulated diversity of objects and approaches often take on the form of “ambassador opportunities”—­opportunities shaped by “the need for x in y.” Though there are some concentrations on the institutional and geographical map—­there are many sociological system theorists at Bielefeld University in Germany, for example, and quite a few network analysts at Columbia in New York—­most departments seek some measure of diversity among their staff members in terms of a range of object and approach categories. As a result, many academics in tenure-­track or permanent positions find themselves in what I would call “ambassadorship positions” of some kind—­for example, representing “urban studies” in department x or “theory” in department y. In the above, I have largely assumed that opportunities and candidates exist independently of one another. Yet candidates encounter opportunities in a series across time; that is, they have occasion to adapt in response to existing opportunities. This could be traced for projects and papers as well as for individual scholars.39 It seems reasonable to posit that anticipation of the reward for ambassador positions creates an incentive to create a set of studies that are shaped by the need for x in y, or y in x. Individuals can of course strategize vis-­à-­vis opportunities in different ways, including ways that seem nonstrategic. They might, for example, use

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the job security provided by tenure to pursue new interests.40 On the other hand, the effects of categories may become stronger over the course of people’s careers because of a gradual realization of their de facto ambassadorship position. This is a relational process, in some ways similar to what Abbott describes for fundamental dichotomies: someone who might be “the urbanist” in a rural department, for example, might see other aspects of her resume emphasized in a department in LA or Berlin. Having been hired for a categorized opportunity, one is asked to teach certain courses and not others. Faculty members are expected to teach x in y and are beginning to be recognized as x in y. They are invited to contribute to handbooks and edited volumes to represent x. They have better chances for grants that continue x in y, and better chances at favorable peer review for x in y. Approach and object categories have ambassadors in departments; ambassadorship also works across national borders. In sociology and the humanities, scholars with positions in the US can act as ambassadors for scholarly traditions from their countries of origin. US-­trained scholars who take up positions outside the US can act as ambassadors for US styles and tastes across the world. Studies occasioned by the need for x in y, which I have called “ambassadorship publications,” can lead to the creative adaptation, extension, and innovation of approaches and to new perspectives on categories of objects. But ambassadorship opportunities may not require extension and innovation; they may also lead to publications that are summaries or reverential re­­ constructions of previous work. The Schemas of Regional Categories in Anthropology Before concluding this chapter, let me return to the general argument about the schemas of subfield categories to briefly highlight the baggage of regional and period categories, both of which are extremely influential in terms of structuring the scholarly landscape and structuring attention to research objects within it. Regional categories serve to denote regions that deviate from the mostly unmarked region of the speaker. Any regional category has different associations in different disciplines and in interdisciplinary fields of area studies, a point I will discuss in more detail in chapter 6. Allow me here to briefly discuss hypothesis for the schemas of regional categories specifically in anthropology. I have already noted that there is considerable ambivalence in anthropology about the status of the concept of “region” as an analytical category; few

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scholars would actively defend a strong notion of a regional cultural whole. Yet regional journals and associations persist, and regional expertise continues to play an important role in graduate training.41 Do regional categories have prototypes? What are the schemas and privileged stand-­ins of regional categories? To a limited extent, regional labels are associated with some places within them rather than others. Scholars of Bangladesh, for example, can be heard to complain about the relative privileging of India in studies of South Asia; Brazil is more prominent in the anthropology of Latin America than Argentina, but not in the political science of Latin America. Though there are some loose conventions about specific places of study within regions and countries (Salvador in Bahia in northeastern Brazil is a classic place to study Afro-­Brazilian religion), overall I would suggest that conventions about the link of regional labels to specific places of study are relatively weak in anthropology. Indeed, one of the ways regions persist lies in the nonchalant manner, in which papers can move between data from all kinds of particular villages and labels for larger cultural groups. I would suggest the links between regional labels and classic works and conceptual concerns are much stronger. Clifford Geertz’s work is a central reference point for work on Southeast Asia and North Africa, for example; Isaac Schapera’s work is a reference point for studies of Botswana and Southern Africa and so on and so forth.42 Classic studies in anthropology bring with them their own conceptual concerns. Arjun Appadurai has provided a poignant analysis of this aspect of the anthropological tradition, noting that South Asia is often read through the lens of hierarchy. He writes that “anthropology has, more than many disciplinary discourses, operated through an album or anthology of images (changing over time, to be sure) whereby some feature of a group is seen as quintessential to the group and as especially true of that group in contrast with other groups. Hierarchy in India has this quality. In the discourse of anthropology, hierarchy is what is most true of India and it is truer of India than of any other place.”43 Appadurai notes an association of South Asia with hierarchy; he provides hypotheses for other regional clichés, such as a link between the Mediterranean and “honor,” between Latin America and compadrazgo, between China and ancestor worship. These themes provide a point of entry and orientation for the nonspecialist reader. Among specialists, as Appadurai points out, these themes “capture something important about the place that transcends intraregional variations and that is, at the same time, problematic, because it is subject to ethnographic or methodological question. . . . For the specialist, images like hierarchy acquire their appeal not because they ease the labors

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of traveling through the jungles of other people’s ethnographies, but because they are compelling ideas around which to organize debate, whether such debate is about method, about fact, about assumptions, or about empirical variations.”44 The Regional Schemas of Period Categories Historical disciplines have seen sophisticated reflective discussions about the notion of “period”; historicist assumptions of a strong cultural unity of periods have long been challenged;45 scholars have also been interested in how periodization is achieved among actors studied.46 Despite this, period categories remain central to structuring work in the historical disciplines, including history, art history, literary studies, and archeology. Period categories serve to denote periods that deviate from the mostly unmarked period of the speaker, and are associated with effects of lumping and splitting—­that is, with highlighting the similarities of phenomena within and the differences of phenomena across.47 As a category governing the social organization of scholarship, a period has stand-­ins in terms of events, people, or works within it and in terms of previous scholarship about it, which will depend on discipline and national context. Here I wish to highlight that unless further specified, periods often have regional stand-­ins. The classic example of the regional baggage of period categories is the close association of the term “antiquity” with a specific region: material from Greece and the Roman Empire—­which in some sense is not at all obvious even for Western countries like Germany, Finland, the UK, or the US. The discipline of history here has been closely associated with the philology of ancient Greek and Latin and the archeology of Greece and the Roman Empire. The specific connotations of period categories can be expected to vary across national and disciplinary lines; within each national context of knowers, knowledge of a target period will also be shaped by nationally specific combinations of disciplines charged with studying it. Disciplinary and national variations can be highlighted with reference to a study that has examined how the early first millennium before the Common Era in Greece (a period from roughly 1200 to 700 BCE) has been understood by scholars in ancient history and archeology.48 Antonis Kotsonas has shown how different disciplines use different designations for the period in question: historians bemoan the lack of sources in this period and call it the “Dark Ages.” They are then displaced by archeologists who are better able to deal with the evidence that is in fact available and call it the “Early Iron Age.” As Kotsonas points out,

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the label “Dark Ages” was favored by British scholars, who sought to draw parallels to British history, which allowed them to highlight a subsequent “renaissance”; Germans, by contrast, stuck with a notion of “geometrical” for the period, following the lead of art history.49 Different designations are also associated with different geographical stand-­ins: the “Early Iron Age” is associated with the periphery of the Greek sphere of influence, such as Crete and Macedonia, which saw more continuity than the center of Greece. In the history of art and architecture, a period is often called by the name of “style.” A style has paradigmatic reference points in different genres. A certain altar by Bernini can be used to examine the baroque, a certain kind of novel is “the naturalist novel,” and so on. Henri Focillon has noted that period and style are potentially separate concepts—­that we can describe a stylistic feature as baroque in a building from the twentieth century, for example.50 This severs the link between style and time, but largely maintains the link between style and example. Alternatively, one might say that by emancipating the notion of style from the notion of period, the period becomes a stand-­in for a style. Periods are usually treated as categories, but periods can themselves be stand-ins for other categories. Classical periods or golden ages play a particular role in national histories, especially in national histories of literature: France has its classical period in the seventeenth century, Spain between 1500 and 1700, Germany around the year 1800 (Goethe! Schiller! Hölderlin!). The history of a range of countries and areas that are today associated with Islam is heavily focused on the classical period of Islamic history, between the eighth and twelfth centuries. Modern history restarts with the nineteenth century, leaving materials from, say, the seventeenth and eighteenth century rather underexplored. Conclusion I have described some of the ways in which object and approach categories structure differentiation within sociology, historical disciplines, and anthropology. I have argued that the institutionalization of subfield categories provides a gateway for the transportation of schema and schema-­congruent material research objects. Future research could examine hypotheses about how categorized opportunities vary in how they promote schematic candidates. There are a few dimensions of variation we might consider on formal terms. Firstly, we might consider variation in the way the audience is composed in relation to the opportunity: most scholarly opportunities are opportunities within a field of producers, which means that audience members in Zuckerman’s sense are in principle peers of a candidate. Yet audience members can identify or be

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identified with the same category as the opportunity, or they can be involved as “externals.” Relatively independently from that, audience members can share many assumptions with one another or be very heterogeneous. Secondly, opportunities vary in whether they result in a series of yes/no decisions on a series of candidates, a “winning” group, or a single “winner” at any one time. Some decisions involve opportunities that are frequent and ongoing; others are rare and isolated. Opportunities where just one candidate is selected at any one time and selection occurs relatively rarely, such as jobs or awards, may be more schema-­prone than, say, grant applications and journal publications, where a group of candidates is selected following noncomparative assessment of individuals.51 Alongside the comparison of opportunities in formal terms, research can empirically address opportunities in different national, institutional, and disciplinary contexts.52 It can explore the effect of schemas related to research specialities in the context of other factors that affect academic hiring—­ including “extrinsic criteria,” such as gender, that have long been emphasized in the literature, and including other versions of “intrinsic criteria.” We can certainly imagine cases of blatant nepotism (an extrinsic factor in hiring), which disregards the category of the categorized opportunity altogether. We can also imagine a tension between the emphasis of fit with categories of specialization as an intrinsic criterion for the evaluation of candidates with other intrinsic factors, such as a seemingly objective comparison of h-­indexes. Meanwhile, we note that the combination of fragmentation and reproduction leads to ambassadorship publications, which resemble what was there before and resemble each other. In a research landscape biased toward the (unmarked) present and the (unmarked) region of the writer, we have combinations of regions and periods that escape scholarly attention in any form.

What we need more of

What we have enough of

Discussion of the range of cases that are hidden behind key contributions cited

Work justified by lack of attention to an object within an arbitrarily defined community of scholars

Attention to unusual combinations of regions and conceptual concerns Attention to unusual combinations of periods and regions

Texts that primarily support claims to ambassadorship positions

5

The Schemas of Social Theory Michel Foucault analyzes Jeremy Bentham’s plan for a prison as a way to rethink theories of political power. A later scholar analyzes how people talk about Fitbits and notes many similarities to the self-­monitoring Michel Foucault ascribed to the prisoners in Bentham’s designs for a prison. A scholar offers a reinterpretation of Foucault based on attention to works previously not available in English.

There is a certain pleasure in thinking about the particular examples and set­ tings that inform the most revered works of philosophy and social theory—­a pleasure in stopping to reflect on the implications of Plato’s choice of the shoemaker as an example,1 for instance, or to explore how Sartre’s philosophy has been shaped by the kind of interactions fostered by the Parisian cafés he spent so much time in.2 We can ask about the work Jeremy Bentham’s prison does for Foucault’s analysis,3 and about the impact of the years 1969–­72 in the history of Italian trade unions in particular on contemporary Marxian politi­ cal philosophy.4 This pleasure stems in part from the contrast between the general aspi­ rations of these texts and the particular, sometimes mundane, settings that insights are derived from. The analyses of the role of concrete examples can open up the black box of distinctive abstract positions; they invite us to play with possibilities and allow us to ask what the history of philosophy would look like with different examples. In this chapter, I take up this reflection of “paradigmatic examples” in the context of the discussion of material research objects attempted in this book. Within the larger project of the book, this means discussing material research objects and privileged material research objects in the context of texts and privileged texts, and authors and privileged authors. Before I return to objects and examples, I will begin the chapter again from the debate about “the classics” and “canons” in the social sciences, tak­ ing as a starting point the case of sociology, which has seen the most intense published debate on its canon. I will note that the debate on the classics in so­ ciology has drawn on a specific kind of sociology of sociology—­one that has

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been heavily influenced by macrocultural approaches among both those who seek to uphold and defend the value of the classics and those who critique the canon and its role. I will suggest that a sociomaterial approach allows us to ask broader questions about the consequences of conventions around privi­ leged texts for the kind of knowledge we produce. I will explore the preconditions of consecration of certain authors and texts, the preconditions of what Fabien Accominotti has called “the divide [ . . . ] between the chosen and the rest in a population of candidates.”5 I will note that only once “authors” are distinguished from “colleagues,” and only once au­­ thors or approaches are established as objects and solidified as stand-­ins of the newly institutionalized category of “theory,” can we ask how value is accorded to and among authors and their texts. I will argue that the transformation of colleagues into authors transforms material research objects into paradigmatic examples. Whereas privileged ma­­ terial research objects—­the fruit fly in biology, Chicago in urban sociology, the car factory in the sociology of work—­are meant to be studied again and again with different approaches and methods, paradigmatic examples are called on to illustrate one approach. If paradigmatic objects are studied again, this is often intended as an explicit challenge to an approach. I will ask about the schemas of theory in three senses: having asked about theorists and their writings as stand-­ins or schemas for the notion of theory and about concrete examples in works of theory as stand-­ins for the empiri­ cal, I will ask, thirdly, about the schemas of theory in the sense of schema as a “recipe for action.”6 I will discuss formulaic aspects of theory production that can be highlighted on the basis of this analysis: I discuss the strange ef­ fects of making an author the epistemic target of social scientific inquiry; I discuss the role of booster and ambassador publications; and I show how the transformation of material research objects into paradigmatic examples leads to an industry of application, where findings from the paradigmatic example are grafted onto, instead of compared with, new cases. Macrocultural Analysis and Beyond in the Sociology of Textual Canons Most social science disciplines today accord a special place to certain authors and texts; political science has conventions concerning key texts for some subfields, such as political theory (Hobbes! Locke! Arendt!)7 and interna­ tional relations theory (Morgenthau! Waltz!). Anthropology initiates students through a focus on the history of the discipline and classic studies and con­ troversies.8 Sociology celebrates a selection of texts in its teaching of “theory,”

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which focuses on the writings of some figures from the nineteenth and early twentieth century called “the classics,” including, for example, Marx, Weber, and Durkheim, as well as more recent figures like Bourdieu or Foucault. The importance of privileged texts is acknowledged in arguments in different disciplines regarding which texts should be included in the “canon,” and in struggles to make it more inclusive.9 Among these disciplines, sociology has seen the most published reflec­ tion on the role of its “classics,” or “the canon.” This published reflection has drawn on a kind of sociology of sociology. But if we take this reflection seri­ ously as a sociology of sociology, rather than as a set of commentaries by authors who are sociologists, we note that it has drawn very selectively on the theoretical resources that the discipline has to offer. It has privileged macro­ cultural and functionalist approaches over a range of possible alternative ap­ proaches, including alternative approaches within the sociology of culture and knowledge. The macrocultural type of sociological analysis of the sociological canon usually contains three elements. It begins by noting that practices associated with the classics can be questioned, and seen as strange; it then quickly fore­ grounds the question, “Why do sociologists have a canon?” and responds by pointing at the integrative function that the classics play for the discipline.10 This view is very explicitly stated by Jeffrey Alexander when he writes, “The functional necessity for classics develops because of the need for integrating the field of theoretical discourse. By integration, I do not mean cooperation and equilibrium but rather the boundary maintenance, or closure, which al­ lows systems to exist.”11 This macrocultural approach to the classics is often shared by “apologists” and by “critics.” Apologists tend to emphasize positive aspects of integration: the canon is a “symbol that condenses—­‘stands for’ a range of diverse general commitments”;12 the classics provide the basis of a shared identity beyond research specialties—­they set a model for good work, serving as a touchstone that embodies aesthetic as well as rational standards.13 Critics, by contrast, highlight the omissions and exclusions that the par­ ticular path chosen for integration entails;14 they also show how the canon links the discipline to broader ideological projects linked to the Enlighten­ ment and to conceptions of modernity, which legitimate at the same time as they obscure the legacy of imperialism, racism, sexism, and heterosexism.15 This kind of sociology of the sociological canon has not exploited the full range of theoretical approaches at our disposal. It carries forward a focus on explicit ideas and their integrative function, a focus that has been rightly criticized by recent work within the sociology of culture and that not all

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participants in this conversation would defend were it applied to any other area of sociological investigation.16 In this chapter, I want to build on those contribution that have paused longer at questioning the status of the classics and have begun to denaturalize “big thinkers” in a more fundamental way.17 I want to question their role from a perspective that begins from an orienta­ tion toward sociomaterial practices in science and technology studies and a practice-­oriented sociology of culture in general, and the distinction be­ tween material research objects and epistemic targets developed in this book in particular. I ask: What do we do when we privilege an author or a text? What are the conditions of possibility of “the canon,” a set of privileged authors and texts? What role do privileged authors and privileged texts play in processes of translation—­that is, in performing partial correspondences between par­ ticular objects, facts, and observations and more general claims?18 The macrocultural and functionalist tendency of discussions of the clas­ sics has led scholars to focus on a specific and limited set of their conse­ quences. The discussion has, firstly, focused on the fact of integration as a consequence. Secondly, it has asked “who wins among theorists and why,” focusing on the social-­theory version of what observers of American politics call “the horse race”—­the competition among candidates once it has been de­ cided that someone must “win,” rules have been set, and candidates have been chosen. Thirdly, it has asked about the ideological consequences of the back­ ground and concerns of selected authors and the content of selected texts. Moving beyond the cultural approach, based on a sociomaterial approach to scholarly practices, I will ask on a more basic but also more general level: What effects do conventions concerning privileged authors and texts have on the knowledge about the world that we produce? The Prerequisites of Consecration Raewyn Connell’s contribution to the debate on the role of the classics in sociology is best known for its elaboration of an alternative canon in her book Southern Theory.19 But we should not pass too quickly over her un­ derlying and fundamental point that there is nothing natural about the way sociologists treat certain authors and texts. It is worth recalling that what are now considered the “great authors,” however selected, were not recognized on those terms in their own time, nor were there other such figures then. Connell notes that “as late as the 1920s, then, there was no sense that certain texts were discipline-­defining ‘classics’ demanding special study. Rather, there was a sense of a broad, almost impersonal, advance of scientific knowledge

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with the notables being simply leading members of the pioneering crew. So­ ciologists accepted the view, articulated early in the history of the discipline by Charles Letourneau (1881, p. vi) that ‘the commencement of any science, however simple, is always a collective work. It requires the constant labour of many patient workmen.’ ”20 Connell points out that there are ways to organize scholarly communities and the reception and dissemination of texts that do not involve heroes, clas­ sics, or canons. She contrasts a logic of canons with, among other things, a logic of encyclopedias, which simply lists the contributions of everyone who has participated. How, then, do we understand precisely what happened between this past and the era of the “canonical point of view”21 that is ongoing today? What exactly is consecration? I would emphasize that consecration is not just a change in the amount of status an individual author is accorded or a change in the amount of attention they receive. Rather, there is a fundamental shift in what the author is understood to be, and a change in the kind of attention they are given.22 The emphasis on the “constant labour of many patient workmen” referred to above implies some kind of equality among “workmen”; it also implies functional equivalence, which is to say that the patient workmen are all of the same kind. It is a break with this functional equivalence that is a precondi­ tion of consecration, which establishes a separation between “colleagues” on the one hand and “authors” on the other hand, turning authors into what I have called epistemic research objects—­something that we can work to try to understand, something that can be the ultimate target of activity recognized as scholarly. A symptom of the transformation of colleagues into authors is the ap­ pearance of specific kinds of text: texts that often bear the name of an au­ thor in their title, and have as their aim to explain, understand, or reconsider that author’s work. Jennifer Platt has traced the first PhD thesis about Émile Durkheim back to the 1930s, at Columbia and Harvard.23 Connell notes that “long commentaries on Weber appeared with the translations in the 1940s (Gerth and Mills 1946), and Parsons made an exposition of Weber the cen­ terpiece of the first edition of his Essays in Sociological Theory (1949). [ . . . ] Elaborate symposia on Simmel and Durkheim, edited by Wolff (Simmel’s translator), were published as books in 1959 and 1960, respectively. [ . . . ] In 1958–­59, centenary celebrations of Durkheim and Simmel appeared in both the American Journal of Sociology and the American Sociological Review.”24 According to Levine, “Fresh translations, editions, and secondary analyses of

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classic authors became one of the faster-­growing industries within sociology” in the 1960s and 1970s.25 The separation of colleagues—­with whom we can argue, who are authors in an everyday sense—­and privileged authors—­whom we write about, whom we acquire expertise about—­parallels the separation of research and theory and indeed gives birth to the notion of theory, as Stefan Bargheer has sug­ gested in a study of the reception of Weber’s Protestant Ethic.26 Theory as a category has become fully institutionalized in sociology in the second part of the twentieth century. There are theory sections in regional, national, and international disciplinary associations; there are theory jour­ nals; there are theory courses and there are theory textbooks. There are not many theory jobs, but there are many jobs that entail the teaching of theory and require some kind of evidence for the ability to teach theory.27 Once created, theory is a category in need of explication, which I would suggest is like other categories not understood via definitions, but by privi­ leged members or prototype.28 The category of “theory” has authors and ap­ proaches, such as microhistory or ethnomethodology, as prototypes. Authors and approaches have key works as prototypes.29 Having highlighted the transformation of colleagues that is involved in consecration, and having argued that authors function as objects of re­ search and as prototypes of theory, I would make a distinction between texts that are privileged or potentially privileged as stand-­ins for authors or ap­ proaches and texts that are privileged by themselves, such as citation classics in different subfields.30 On that basis—­of examining whether colleagues do function as objects of research—­there seems to me to be little fundamental difference between the classics and contemporary big names, between theo­ rists who have passed away, like Pierre Bourdieu, or those, like Judith But­ ler, who are alive. Here I would disagree with Peter Baehr, who has argued that being dead is a precondition for consecration.31 I would argue, rather, that we can watch consecration live as an ongoing process when we consider the contemporary landscape. Again, we should not be looking at indications of fame or attention, but at indications of a transformation away from be­ ing colleagues toward being objects of research. Among living colleagues, Judith Butler, Bruno Latour, and Luc Boltanski, for example, have articles, books, and edited volumes devoted to them, and we are beginning to see PhD applications that have as their ultimate aim to understand one of these authors better. Though Baehr describes the interview as an impediment to the conse­ cration of living authors—­on the grounds that it “destabilizes” the object of

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investigation32—­I would suggest that contemporary cases highlight the inter­ view as an important moment in the transition from colleague to author. The organizers of a public conversation between Bruno Latour and Graham Har­ man at the London School of Economics (LSE), for example, are unusual in how blunt they are about the investigative logic of this practice, describing their conversation as an experiment to observe the object—­Latour. They write that their “symposium was a temporary laboratory for a social science experiment, to test Harman’s claims about Latour’s metaphysics and Latour’s claims about his own work, by subjecting them to an experimental protocol.”33 It is worth pointing out that “Latour,” like “Weber” and “Durkheim,” is a strange object in the context of disciplines that focus on social, cultural, and political formations such as sociology but also anthropology.34 Let me revisit the stated intention to organize a discussion between Latour and Harman as a “social science experiment”: it is not clear in what sense this is called a social scientific experiment, as Harman’s claims about Latour and Latour’s claims about himself are hardly social scientific claims. There are no genuinely sociological theories about authors, unless we count those that ask with some incredulity how the effects of authorship are produced.35 I have suggested that in each case, consecration involves taking an author out of the realm of colleagues in general by assigning the author an elevated and changed position. It is worth pointing out that consecration means tak­ ing an author out of the context of colleagues who have formed part of the intellectual agenda associated with the author. The career and reception of the work Bruno Latour is a recent and fitting example of this as well: the rise of Latour as an author, as opposed to a colleague, partially obscures the his­ tory of science and technology studies as an interdisciplinary intellectual movement, which, among other things, entails obscuring a broad range of feminist contributions.36 Theory Objects and Privileged Theory Objects Once authors or approaches are established as research objects, as stand-­ins of theory, we can ask how value is attributed to them and distributed among them. There can be authors or approaches that are privileged as stand-­ins for theory, and this is what is usually discussed (and contested) as “the canon.” Theory syllabi focus on some thinkers, not others; secondary commentary in journals focuses on some authors, not others.37 In the sociological canon, unlike the catholic canon, privileged authors can fall, as Baehr has noted,38 with one of the most prominent examples being

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Talcott Parsons. When they do fall, privileged authors rarely go back to being colleagues; it seems that guilt occasioned by past projection leads them to be excised rather than cited for specific findings or comments. There can be new stars, and new struggles for inclusion, as evidenced by efforts to incorporate female founders39 and the belated inclusion of W. E. B. Du Bois among the sociological classics.40 Complementing a logic of privileged stand-­ins, there is a logic of coverage we encounter when we see claims about “omitted classics,” such as Herbert Spencer or Theodor Geiger,41 or about “neglected theorists,” like Raymond Aron.42 Because the transformation into research objects is performed by the commentator, there is infinite potential for “discovery” of theorists among colleagues, especially in the past, in other countries, and in other disciplines. Discovery is based on the claimed neglect of a colleague as an author by other colleagues, so there is infinite potential also for the cyclical rediscovery of authors. The logics of privileged stand-­ins and coverage are replicated at the level of the text, with some texts usually included in discussions of the work of Karl Marx or Michel Foucault, say, and others neglected, which can then be added or rediscovered. How are the stand-­ins of theory selected? How are privileged stand-­ins se­ lected? There has been much discussion on this question; and this discussion, like the discussion about stand-­ins more generally (discussed in chapter 2), has been shaped by the tension between, on the one hand, those who empha­ size “inherent” factors that make the process seem strategic and rational, and on the other, those who highlight external, social reasons. Intrinsic explanations—­which are sometimes explicit and sometimes im­­ plied in the performance of “appreciation” or “defense” of the canon—­highlight positive aspects of the texts that have been selected. According to Nicos Mou­ zelis, for example, the works of Marx, Weber, and Durkheim became estab­ lished as classics because members of the academic community realized that “the writings of these three thinkers are exceptionally good” and “are superior to other writing in terms of cognitive potency, analytical acuity, power of syn­ thesis, imaginative reach and originality.”43 Against this account stands the scholarship that has explored how factors such as institutional prestige, personal characteristics,44 dynamics of schol­ arly rivalry among audience members,45 dynamics of orthodoxies versus re­ visionism,46 and support by agents and champions47 play for authors’ reputa­ tion. Factors external to the scholarly community also play a role, such as a cultural fit with elite consumption habits,48 or what McLaughlin calls “climate of the time.”49

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Here we can observe a tendency to selectively explain the consecration of currents one does not like with external or “social” factors—­a move that, in the parlance of the sociology of science, we might call “asymmetric.” There is a tendency among certain sociologists, for example, to see feminist and multi­ cultural attempts to broaden the canon as externally motivated, but not to con­ sider general societal schemas, which code white European men as leaders, as a factor sponsoring the traditional canon.50 Based on my claim about the transformation of colleagues into research objects, I would like to make two points relating to this debate. Firstly, let me comment on one particular factor, which Davis calls ambiguity,51 which Baehr calls textual suppleness,52 and which Parsons refers to by noting that, with classics, “you can never exhaust their meaning and their significance in a single reading.”53 Rather than highlight this factor as a hermeneutic property, I would like to emphasize the material dimension of it, and read it in light of an author’s suitability for transformation into a research object. The classical authors, as Baehr notes, have written a lot; “such mass [of texts] can be im­ portant for the very simple reason that it allows a reading community more interpretative options. [ . . . ] Textual suppleness is greatly enhanced by the survival of letters, corrected galley proofs, manuscripts in the author’s own hand complete with crossing out and revisions, and lecture documenting the author’s cognitive processes. Or, rather, seeming to document them, for it is exactly the significance of these letters and drafts that can then become a source of scholarly excitement and revisionism regarding what the author in question meant or was purportedly doing.”54 This resonates with the finding by Guetzkow and colleagues that “original data excites humanities scholars, because it opens new opportunities for interpretation. Since the existence of a text precedes the act of interpretation, focusing on new or noncanonical texts can constitute a major path of innovation for humanities scholars.”55 Secondly, I note that studies of successful authors have highlighted the role of transnational processes. The German economic historian Max Weber was “discovered” as a social theorist in the US, and brought back into Ger­ many.56 A series of more recent French figures have been turned into theorists in the UK and the US (Derrida,57 Bourdieu, Latour, Badiou, Rancière). The status of both Anthony Giddens and Ulrich Beck as theorists has benefited from an exportation of their work, which was followed by a more enthusias­ tic reimportation into the UK and Germany respectively.58 This finding is counterintuitive if we start from an association of “central­ ity” versus “success,” “attention,” or “recognition.” This finding makes more sense based on a distinction between colleagues (even famous colleagues) on the one hand and authors on the other hand): The distance created by national

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borders is a barrier to reading other scholars’ work. This barrier then presents an opportunity for those inside a scholarly community who might be look­ ing for colleagues outside it to discover as authors. While reading colleagues’ work is a routine duty as part of some other research projects, reading work by foreign colleagues who can with any degree of success be claimed to be authors can itself be the basis of a range of publications. Booster Publications and Ambassador Publications Scholars are expected to engage colleagues directly and to read their texts by themselves. When it comes to authors, scholars are assumed to need a sec­ ondary literature, especially by those who produce the secondary literature. There is a Max Weber Dictionary, a Karl Marx Handbook, and a Glossary of Luhmannian Terms. Seemingly unaware of the irony concerning the nature of the text in question, the author of an article on Foucault’s lecture “What Is an Author?” notes that the text entered the canon of discussions of authorship, “yet throughout the 1980s it never received the close critical attention which it deserved, and which its classic status should surely have entailed. Instead, commentators on all sides variously endorsed and criticized what were taken to be Foucault’s claims, without actually scrutinizing his argument.”59 If one assumption is that scholars need a secondary literature to read authors, a related assumption is that scholarship is a competition for atten­ tion among old ideas rather than the creation of new ideas, and that authors therefore need advocates or champions. This leads to publications that are ex­ plicitly justified as booster publications, such as one that “outlines Foucault’s concept of governmentality and argues for its contemporary significance,”60 or one that claims “that one of the most viable approaches to the philoso­ phy of history today is that of critical theory of history, inspired by Reinhart Koselleck.”61 There are whole journals devoted to particular authors: Max Weber Studies, for example, is a journal “committed to the application and dissemination of the ideas of Max Weber.” There is also Simmel Studies, Rethinking Marx, the Journal of Nietzsche Studies, and then also Foucault Studies, which is “the only international journal in the English language devoted to the work and influence of the thinker Michel Foucault.” These booster publications can be justified by “influence”: the byline of Foucault Studies notes that it is “often listed as the most cited contemporary author within the human and social sciences also in the Nordic countries.” Booster publications can also be justi­ fied by neglect: claims about neglect can be relative to an estimate of deserved attention and can be repeated in a cyclical fashion.

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The assumption of the need for a secondary literature is amplified by the segmentation of scholarly conversations (discussed in the previous chapter), which creates opportunities for scholars to position themselves as “ambas­ sadors” of theory in general and of particular authors and approaches in par­ ticular. This is true of the segmentation into national conversations. Theorists have their “champions” in national contexts that are not their own.62 There are the spokespeople for Bourdieu in the United States, the representatives of Weber and Durkheim in the United States, and a diversity space for Luh­ mann in the United States. There is also a Boltanski in the US. Germany has a number of Bourdieus and is starting to have a few Boltanskis. Renowned contemporary theorists also have representatives in other, smaller countries. The differentiation of thematic subfields (discussed in the previous chap­ ter) is also a trigger of ambassadorship positions and booster publications. This is evident in the large range of publications that link the contribution of authors to specific scholarly communities, such as “Foucault in Education,” “Foucault in Geography,” “The Later Foucault in Organization and Manage­ ment Studies,” and “Foucault in Accounting History.” The opportunities for ambassadorship in turn can affect intellectual con­ tributions and careers, as discussed in chapter 4. Faculty members are ex­ pected to represent a certain author or position in a certain context and are beginning to be recognized on these terms. They are invited to contribute to handbooks and edited volumes to represent their author. They have better chances for grants that continue the tradition, and better chances at favor­ able peer review for contributions that do not offend fellow members of the tradition. Over the course of a career, scholars can be encouraged to adopt the position that “x was always right,” or “you have to read x in context.” In each school there are a few people whose careers are no longer based on answering questions about the world at all, some of whom see it as their role to identify and prosecute unfair critiques or serious misunderstandings of “their” author. Model Cases versus Paradigmatic Examples Works by privileged authors or privileged texts usually refer to particular em­ pirical objects, drawing on particular sources of data. In most cases, these objects could be seen as what I have called material research objects, the concrete stand-­in, that is used to understand an epistemic target that is not available for direct empirical observation. We could say that Foucault studied Bentham’s design for a prison in order to understand new forms of power, or that Latour studied biological laboratories in order to understand the rela­ tionship between nature and society.

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But I would argue that in the process of transforming a colleague into an author, in the process of establishing an approach as an approach, the role of these objects changes and material research objects are transformed into symbols of the approach. The process by which a person becomes a theorist promotes a reading that isolates them from their original context and their empirical concerns; consecration of people focuses attention on specific stud­ ies while obscuring their local origins, or even the fact that they were studies of specific objects. Bourdieu has commented on this process, writing that “as a rule, non-­French interpreters of my work, both anthropological and socio­ logical, have offered a reading of it limited to its purely theoretical dimension. This has often led them to ignore its properly empirical dimension, as well as the contribution that my research brings to our knowledge of French society and, mutatis mutandis, of all modern societies.”63 Consecration transforms material research objects into paradigmatic ex­ amples.64 If paradigmatic examples are not material research objects, they are also different from privileged material research objects—­even though both are “symbolically elevated.” Privileged material research objects stand in for categories of research objects; paradigmatic examples are stand-­ins for au­ thors, “theories,” or approaches. Material research objects can be studied with different approaches. Also, a privileged material research object can be studied through different methods and different approaches. Both are expected to behave to some extent inde­ pendently of the chosen approach. Privileged research objects are studied re­ peatedly; indeed, it is the fact that a research object is studied repeatedly and with different approaches that boosts its standing as a priviledged research object.65 Approaches also use concrete examples, which serve as reference points and as a bridge between the particular and the general—­what we might call following Farzin and Laux “shreds of the empirical”66—­but here there is no explicit encouragement to restudy the concrete reference points that are the basis of classic studies at the heart of approaches. On the contrary, when a specimen, a particular site, or a particular piece of data, is prominently asso­ ciated with an approach, it is associated with a set number of questions rather than with a class of objects. Philosophical examples are not empirical, but they are to some extent shared, and available for shared manipulation. For sociology and other em­ pirical disciplines, the transformation of an object into an example associated with an approach means that it is no longer available for others to use for their own ends. A reexamination of the cases that are central to an approach is not encouraged, and makes sense only as challenge to the approach.67

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Theory and the Logic of Application Partly because of the transformation of the concrete reference point of re­ search projects, which is an element of consecration, theory can encourage an industry of application. When what one consecrated author or study finds in one place or setting is applied without much modification to another place or setting, it is an example of the application of an approach or a theorist. An example is the industry that has emerged around “governmentality.” This concept from Foucault can be summarized in different levels of detail, and can then serve as the basis of examinations of a range of phenomena, where the approach can be shown “to be fruitful” or “to render intelligible ways of thinking, acting and governing.”68 The concept of governmentality has been used to describe aspects of psychoanalysis, welfare, the lack of welfare, self-­ tracking devices, refugee camps, the prisoners’ camp at Guantanamo Bay, and so on. This usually entails an argument about how all these things are “like” Bentham’s prison. What is distinctive about the application of theory to an object, insofar as it is application, is that it is not an open-­minded comparison. Building on the transformation of research objects into paradigmatic examples and enacting it, application denies the original object its status as an object. In application, the comparison between the original object of study and the new object of study is geared only toward finding similarities. Let me discuss some tendencies in actor-network theory (ANT) as another example of application. ANT had its origins in the ethnographic description of biological laboratories, which highlighted the contingencies of scientific production and the role of tools and technologies. As scholars inspired by this work have branched out into studying objects other than science, they have displayed a tendency to use the theoretical language developed in the context of laboratory studies to describe other objects in the world. We thus see a proliferation of descriptions of trading floors, design studios, policymaking, neighborhoods, and other sites of everyday life as “laboratories” abound with “experiments” and “immutable mobiles.”69 This type of analysis stands in a long tradition of describing one social world with the vocabulary from another—­consider Bourdieu’s use of eco­ nomic terms in the sociology of culture, or the ironic use of religious terms in the sociology of culture, including in the sociological analysis of the so­ ciological canon discussed above.70 It can deliver some insights by provid­ ing a defamiliarizing description of these activities and sites. Yet, as Michael Guggenheim has pointed out, as long as this analysis proceeds by way of

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metaphorical extension rather than a comparison of sites, it is, somewhat ironically, in the way of exploring the connection between place and knowl­ edge, which was the original promise of the theory.71 The tendency toward application rather than comparison—­toward what we might call, drawing on Imre Lakatos, the nonprogressive uses of theories—­ can be voluntary; these uses can also be enforced. Individual scholars and com­ munities of scholars can vary with regard to the openness they show toward reexamining and developing key assumptions they hold in confrontation with new materials. Theoretical groupings, or individuals within them, can enforce reverential reconstruction of “the theory” or “the theorist’s work” and the application of concepts, as opposed to the reexamination of concepts with new materials. Enforcements in that sense can originate from authors them­ selves (while they are alive); it is often also left to designated heirs and those in ambassadorship positions. The peer review process, where articles get published if and when they are sent to “friendly” reviewers, can encourage minimal novelty and therefore can encourage application. When boundaries around an approach are drawn sharply, group membership is controlled and power is concentrated, an approach can become a school, and the application of an approach can become enforced through hiring processes.72 This type of application of approaches in extremis leads to a logic of cover­ age, which we have seen can accompany both the extreme empiricisms of col­ lecting and the extreme theoretical closure of work within an approach: If an object has not been studied before with a particular approach, this fact alone can be used to justify a study as a scholarly contribution. If application is all that is considered appropriate, there is no need to study an object again if it has been studied before with a particular approach. Adam Kuper has described this view among Malinowskian anthropologists.73 Conclusion A focus on material research objects casts a specific light on discussions of “theory.” Consecration transforms colleagues into authors, turning them into a strange kind of epistemic target. On this basis, some authors function as privileged material research objects for the newly created category of theory; some authors are put forward as alternative candidates for privileged mate­ rial research objects; yet others are created from the large pool of colleagues according to a logic of coverage. I have distinguished between material research objects and paradigmatic examples. Approaches are also often identified with concrete material objects

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of research and examples, but as an approach becomes solidified as an ap­ proach, these objects lose their status as research objects in their own right. The link between approaches and incorporated stand-­ins can lead to an ap­ plication of insights derived from one case to other cases according to a logic of coverage. What follows from this? I would highlight again the distinction between “application” and “comparison” in work that builds on previous work cast as theory. Application transfers insights and concepts derived from paradig­ matic examples to other objects. “Comparison” compares the paradigmatic example as a material research object with other material research objects and uses this to consider and develop the insights and concepts of the origi­ nal contribution further. We need more work that takes the stand-­ins of ap­ proaches as empirical objects and compares them to other empirical objects. We can also look at paradigmatic examples of one approach with the tools of another approach. I am suggesting that we need less rote application of approaches to cases and less reverential reconstruction in research publications. I would point out that there is of course an important role for application in teaching, which includes the teaching of students as well as colleagues teaching one another. I would agree with the argument that both of these are too little acknowledged when researchers are formally rewarded. But I would also suggest that if we acknowledge these other aims more explicitly and acknowledge them more as separate from research, we might explore different forms that might be useful for pursuing them. Ideas for teaching do not necessarily need writing down; some of the intellectual work of ambassador publications could be done more efficiently by retweeting earlier ambassadorship publications, for example. There are other paths for theory research that are not as fully explored or exploited as they could be. I have suggested that there are no genuinely so­ ciological theories of how to understand authors as objects of research or epi­ stemic targets. As a result, work borrows from theories in other disciplines, such as literary theory, philosophy, biography, and history; some work in so­ ciology borrows an aesthetic point of view concerning authors that is present in arguments about the “significance” of theorists, and which also underlies its negative equivalent, the “takedown.” The implied research question is of­ ten, “Why is a text good and important?,” which has traditionally been the predominant research question in literary studies.74 Sociologists draw on ele­ ments of history and biography when they consult new sources to highlight Weber’s depressive episodes, Foucault’s activism, or who exactly Bourdieu studied with.

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But, perhaps because they would rather not openly confront the tension be­ tween the research object “author” and their own discipline, sociologists rarely fully explore where literary, philosophical, or historical approaches might take them, thus avoiding theoretization of their own activity. I would like to illus­ trate this point with two counterexamples of currents that do take other rel­ evant disciplines seriously and thereby produce something that is systematic in its own way and more clearly different from what we should expect every colleague to come up with when reading and responding to another colleague. The first set of works in that category to be mentioned take their inspira­ tion from new historicism, a current in literary criticism75 and the history of ideas.76 In contrast to the papers, routinely produced that highlight what a past author contributes to our understanding of a current issue, this tradi­ tion calls for a “more genuinely historical reconstruction” of what authors themselves were concerned with in a way that might not be readily accessible to present readers. In the words of Robert Alun Jones, “Here we are less inter­ ested in the Durkheim who might be led to converse with us than with imag­ ined conversations between Durkheim and his contemporaries, in their own language rather than ours, in short to embrace the historicist commitment to understand the past, as far as it is possible, in its own terms.”77 Secondly, I note that although sociological work on theorists is very much oriented toward texts, most work on “authors” in sociology does not go very far in taking the actual science of texts very seriously. There are some excep­ tions to this—­some sociologists who take literary theory and methods seri­ ously and use them to analyze the texts of theorists. Sina Farzin, for example, has analyzed the work of the German social theorist Niklas Luhmann with close attention to his writing, noting how he uses metaphors and how the use of metaphors indicates challenges for his theory.78 Tobias Schlechtriemen has explored the metaphor of the organism in early sociological theory.79 Work on the role of images and diagrams also contributes in this vein, based on close attention to the formal aspects and outputs of theoretical work.80

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chapter five What we need more of

What we have enough of

Reading of theorists that show how their concerns were very different from ours

Arguments showing that author or approach x can usefully be applied to case y

Contextualization of theorists that pays attention to practices of research and specific cases

Arguments that have a particular person as their ultimate epistemic object

Studies that compare the stand-­ins for approaches with other objects Studies that switch theorist and material research objects

Readings of an author x that show his (or more rarely her) relevance to current concerns Arguments that explain author x to a specific community, be it defined in disciplinary or national terms Arguments that use concepts derived from particular cases as metaphors to describe other cases but that do not compare the different cases

6

The Model Cases of Global Knowledge A scholar compiles data about the hundred largest metropolitan areas in the United States. The resulting findings then circulate abroad as data about “segregation” and “cities.” A fellowship competition at a large German university demands a minimum of fourteen publications in the last five years as a precondition for applying; it counts only journals in English listed by Thomson Reuters. The automated CV submission system counts book reviews in English-­language journals as publications, but does not allow books in German or any other non-­English languages. A paper drawing on research on social movements in Malaysia is rejected by a journal in social movement studies, with the suggestion to the author to submit it to a regional journal or a development studies journal instead.

Observations about the particular objects and places that are and are not featured in academic work gain currency in debates about efforts to internationalize, globalize, or decolonize the academic landscape. The published debate has addressed inequalities in the production and dissemination of social scientific knowledge in a global context in several related but also separate conversations. In one conversation, scholars associated with postcolonial thought have analyzed how social scientific categories have been shaped by unacknowledged colonial histories, incorporating voices, sites, and locations construed as other in selective and unequal ways.1 This leads to a critique of the social sciences as “Eurocentric” or “metrocentric.”2 A related but in some aspects separate conversation has emerged among social scientists who are concerned with the uneven “globalization” of the social sciences. If the debate inspired by postcolonial theory focuses on history and epistemology, this second debate in the sociology of the social sciences deals with academic institutions—­the inequalities among them and the consequences of the fact that English is used as a global language of science.3 I have drawn on some of the insights emerging from these two conversations in previous chapters. In this chapter, I will review these insights and also explain what the distinctions developed in this book might contribute to existing analyses of how knowledge is produced and how it might be produced in a global and transnational context. I will suggest that asking about

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inequality among research objects reveals a logic whose effects on what we think we know are relatively independent of the inequality of epistemologies, institutions, and people emphasized by discussions of Eurocentrism or Anglo-­American hegemony.4 The Critique of Eurocentrism I have distinguished between material research objects—­the concrete and specific objects accessed through particular traces—­and epistemic research objects—­the conceptual target of an inquiry. I have suggested that, contrary to rationalist accounts of scientific production, material research objects are chosen for a range of reasons, including nonstrategic ones, and that we need to reflect more systematically on the impact of these choices on the social sciences. I have further argued that some material research objects are privileged material research objects, assumed by collective convention to have the capacity to produce insights of general relevance. Put into these terms, postcolonial theory has drawn attention to a particular kind of privileged stand-­in, highlighting that “Europe” or “the West” have served as model cases for modernity. It has shown that the social sciences have been profoundly influenced by relations between metropolitan sites and colonized territories and that they have denied that influence, first isolating cases as “Western” and then treating findings about them as the source of general knowledge. In this analysis, the Eurocentrism of the social sciences is not just a contingent outcome of local scholarly production; the ideology of historicism sponsors European sites and research objects through the idea that what can be observed there will later be observed elsewhere, that other cases can be understood in terms of their deviation from that norm or under entirely separate headings, such as as cases of “tradition,” or “development.”5 Postcolonial theory is part of a long tradition of exposing different kinds of “false universalisms” that can be found in Marx’s critique of “ruling ideas” as “the ideas of the ruling class.”6 The critique of false universalism is central to the feminist tradition, as well as to later critiques of feminist arguments circulating as general but based primarily on the experience of Western middle-­ class white women.7 While Marxist and feminist critiques of false universalism initially tended to assume a national or global context for the circulation of social science knowledge without theorizing that context, postcolonial theory has added a concern with the history of imperialism and, by doing so, has highlighted the dimension of place. We could trace this back to Du Bois’s transnational account of the invisibility of whiteness and its association with achievements labeled universal.8 In the formulation by Julian Go,

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postcolonial theory involves exposing the “false universalism” involved in the “transposition of narratives, concepts and categories, or theories derived from the standpoint of one location to the rest of the world.”9 Postcolonial approaches usefully highlight some of the ways social scientific production is embedded in a long history of power relations. But in borrowing from cultural theories that try to understand domination and transnational domination more generally, it has not generally paid much attention to processes and practices internal to academic research fields, which may have their own autonomy. The critique of imperialism, colonialism, and racial domination is in principle compatible with a range of theoretical approaches; but in practice, postcolonial theory has often been aligned with macrocultural and discourse-­ theoretical approaches, and has not approached its macrocultural hypothesis in a pluralist manner. Contributions to the debate tend to convey a diagnosis of a relatively unified object of analysis, which is recognizable by problematic assumptions and tendencies, an object that can be gleaned from texts and then related to power. Edward Said uses Foucault’s notion of discourse.10 For Boa­ ventura de Sousa Santos, the problem is “modern Western thinking” or Western science.11 For Walter Mignolo, the problem is “Western epistemology.”12 This unified object is currently underpinned by the notion of “epistemoloy” or of “discourse,” but it closely resembles earlier functionalist ideas about culture and Althusserian notions of ideology. This can tend to reproduce some combination of two tendencies Pierre Bourdieu has described as, on the one hand, “an internal reading of the text which consists in considering the text in itself and for itself,” and, on the other hand, “an external reading which crudely relates the text to society in general,” which field theory, accounts of “social worlds,” and other theories of differentiation have sought to overcome.13 Anglo-­American Institutions and the Inequality among Stand-­Ins A relatively separate conversation has emerged among scholars asking sociological questions specifically about academic knowledge production in view of globalization. Scholars have sought to move beyond methodological nationalism for a critical sociology of the international social sciences. “Internationalization” has been an empirical tendency in the social orga­ nization of research activity; it has also been the agenda of some university administrators and policymakers. Sociologists of science were joined by researchers in different specialities who questioned the biases inherent in current forms of “the international” and “internationalization” and set out to analyze forms of “Anglo-­American” hegemony.

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If the debate inspired by postcolonial theory focuses on history and epistemological concerns, the conversation about uneven internationalization deals with national differences in support for science and the uneven consequences of the use of English as an international language of science. Johan Heilbron analyzes the social sciences as an emerging global field, highlighting the centrality of the US, and of the UK within Europe. Australia and Latin America function as a semiperiphery.14 The inequalities among these fields may to some extent be inequalities in terms of resources or productivity, but they are also inequalities in recognition, as Fernanda Beigel has pointed out.15 These inequalities exist not only among national fields; national fields are symbolically and materially divided in ways that are not superseded by their partial integration into larger spaces, which can be global or regional. National fields are divided between globalizers and those with more local engagements, and among globalizers, between orthodox and heterodox globalizers.16 The main focus in this debate is on inequality among nations, institutions, and positions, not on the content of knowledge. But there are implications for the analysis of the inequality among research objects as well: I suggested in chapter 2 that this discussion of Anglo-­American hegemony reveals the journal system as a major sponsor of some stand-­ins. The status of material research objects in the US and the UK is bolstered by the dominance of English-­ language journals, which are edited in the US and the UK, draw heavily on UK and US reviewers, and are often run by scholars with local—­American or British—­concerns. Scholars who submit to these journals report that reviewers question much more thoroughly why cases from outside the US or the UK might be relevant to general knowledge.17 As cases from central countries are attributed the capacity to generate theory, international inequality in the production and recognition of social scientific knowledge produces a version of the industry of application, discussed in chapters 1 and 5. Raewyn Connell originally called attention to this phenomenon, noting the proliferation of papers framed as “X in Australia” in Australian sociology in the 1970s and 1980s.18 Papers facilitated by this logic involve authors working in noncentral contexts with noncentral cases, linking their data to what has already been found by a central author about a central case.19 Starting from Material Research Objects Postcolonial theory and the critical sociology of the social sciences have highlighted the role of place in the production and dissemination of social

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scientific knowledge. With that, they establish the ground on which to surpass a reflection that assumes either a national or a global context without problematizing it. The focus of these conversations—­on colonial power, on the inequality among institutions and positions—­has meant that insights on the level of research sites and objects have been a byproduct of writings rather than the main target of analysis. Speaking from within a project that is concerned with inequality among material research objects, one might say that these scholars have rushed ahead with important findings. I would like to go back and take questions about tools and objects of research and places of knowledge production as a starting point for discussions of global knowledge. A sociomaterial approach invites closer attention to the question of what it is exactly that circulates when “ideas” circulate20 or when “theory” travels.21 A discourse-­theoretical orientation tends to assume that circulation is seamless, carried by power (or resistance). But ideas and texts do not travel by themselves.22 Not only do they need an infrastructure for traveling—­journals, books, job opportunities, prizes, translations23—­they also carry “stuff ” with them; in the case of empirical studies, they usually carry some combination of research object, place, method, and writing. For the remainder of this chapter, I will show that starting from material research objects reveals a logic whose effects on what we think we know are relatively independent of the inequality of epistemologies and institutions. I will, firstly, look at the specific material research objects behind general notions of modernity, which are somewhat imprecisely labeled “Eurocentrism.” I will ask, secondly, about the model cases and paradigmatic examples of postcolonial theory itself, arguing that it has not been exempt from some of the tendecies of other approaches toward application. Thirdly, I will sketch an anal­ ysis of area-­specific knowledge in terms of the privileged stand-­ins of different disciplines. The Specific Stand-­Ins of Modern Institutions What do we mean, concretely, by “Eurocentrism” when it comes to social scientific research? Historically, it is not so much “the West” or “Europe” as a whole that has been the center of attention, but rather is a small set of particular countries and contexts. It is not necessarily clear whether these cases offer a basis for insights into “the West” in general, even if they are reconstituted as cases in the context of their imperial relations. We can argue about the relative importance of different cases for different areas of research, but it is evident that what are now France, England, and

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Germany have been accorded the capacity to produce insights of general interest in “international” or “Anglo-­American” social sciences and humanities more so than Finland, Ireland, Luxemburg, Poland, or Spain. I would suggest that France and England have served as privileged material research objects for the examination of different dimensions of modernization: France has shaped our understanding of political modernity, whereas England has been the model case for discussions about industrialization and class formation and, in a relatively separate conversation, for scholarship on the scientific revolution.24 The French Revolution was recognizable as an important international event even to its contemporaries: it was used by intellectuals in other countries to develop their own positions vis-­à-­vis one another and to discuss the political futures they imagined for themselves.25 In the decades following the event, the legacy of the French Revolution and the twists and turns of its history were closely observed abroad. Via the work of August Comte, Alexis de Tocqueville, Marx, and Durkheim, it found its way into what later became the history of the modern social sciences.26 The French Revolution has served as the model case for revolutions; the French case has shaped sociological and historical studies of state formation, nationalism, and citizenship. This of course does not mean that scholars are in agreement about France as a case or about how and whether France is indeed modern. Rather, France functions as a shared reference point for debate—­a reference that can be presumed to be stable and which can be used to highlight differences in interpretation. Scholars have used the French Revolution, for example, to debate the role of culture and the state more generally.27 Conventions that associate France with political modernity lend authority to arguments based on French materials that seek to contest or reconceptualize notions of modernity. Such arguments can mobilize an “even in France” rhetoric. Eugen Weber has shown that “even in France,” the central state—­and with that, many aspects of political modernity, such as the rule of law, a unified language, a supraregional identity—­was largely absent in the provinces nearly up until the First World War.28 Aspects of Bourdieu’s work can be read as an “even in France” argument, building on expectations of political modernity to question and recast them. His research has shown that even in France, the alleged birthplace of political equality, different forms of privilege assert themselves.29 Even in France, where access to elite education is independent of financial means, schools contribute to the reproduction of inequality.30 While the reception of Bourdieu can oscillate between using his concepts in an abstract way as theory and

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wondering aloud about how “French” his work is, Bourdieu saw France as a particular but privileged case, and he boasted of “the contribution that my research brings to our knowledge of French society and, mutatis mutandis, of all modern societies.”31 Postcolonial theory has also made use of the conventions privileging France and the resulting opportunities for “even in France” kind of arguments. Scholars have shown how imperial ties shaped precisely those countries most associated with political modernity. The Haitian Revolution, closely linked to the French but historically neglected, is by now a recurring example in postcolonial writing.32 If our conceptualization of political modernity has been based on debates about the case of France, by contrast, the reigning understandings of industrialization and class formation have been based on the English case. Marx’s account of capitalism is based on the development of capitalism in England and explicitly noted that primitive accumulation takes its classical form only in England, “which we thus take as an example.”33 The work of later English Marxists, like E. P. Thompson and Raymond Williams, gains its appeal partly by the fact that they describe what seems like the same case.34 Controversies about class formation and class consciousness are often controversies about the English case. In the words of Margaret Somers, “Historians, economists, and sociologists have pushed and prodded early nineteenth-­century English working people into procrustean political positions to support or disconfirm Marx’s predictions of revolutionary class conflict erupting from the contradictions of capitalism.”35 In a critique describing the impact of model case research across research fields, Ira Katznelson writes about E. P. Thompson: “Although Thompson’s approach ‘fits’ the English case, it inhibits comparative analysis because it takes for granted that which elsewhere needs to be explained.”36 Negt and Kluge have argued that this focus on England has left us with an understanding of capitalism that assumes a very rapid and relatively complete separation of people from the land, which is not correct when thinking about Germany and other places.37 This has had momentous consequences for scholarly thinking as well as for “progressive” strategies of mobilizing around the world; within Germany itself, a neglect of “uneven development” and the peas­­ antry has contributed to the rise of fascism.38 In discussions of political modernity, as central a case as the German one is already a deviant case of “delay.” It comes into view as a comparative reference point in the distinction between “Western” and “Eastern” nationalism, for example, and in the distinctions between civic and ethnic conceptions of

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citizenship.39 The notion of “delay,” a trope in discussions of German history, “bears witness to the idea of a clearly defined order, transitions, periods, epochs, formations. . . . The organic process of a historical movement in one country that is assumed as typical, is assumed as nature for the history of other countries.”40 The US may be the unmarked case in many scholarly discussions today, but the early history of the US has not been used for theories of modernity and has shaped sociological theory only in indirect ways, even though the American Revolution was more or less contemporaneous and related to the French Revolution.41 Peter Wagner has argued that from early on, the European sociological tradition bought into the conceit that the US has no history, and treated US modernity as a European experiment that it could own and disown depending on current intellectual or narrative needs in Europe.42 Wagner also notes that, had evidence about the US been taken more seriously on its own terms, theories of modernization as secularization might have been discredited much sooner than they were. American religiosity, he writes, “lets the sociological theory of ‘secularization’ rather appear as a case study of ‘European’ exceptionalism.”43 The Stand-­Ins of Postcolonial Theory Postcolonial theory has raised questions about the particular origins of Western knowledge circulating as general and its consequences. It has expanded the space for non-­Western research objects in general, and it has, more particularly, freed non-­Western research objects from the association with categories of epistemic targets that contained their relevance, such as “development.” Critical work in what is now this tradition opened up new ways for examining the modernity of postcolonial states and politics.44 Postcolonial theory has also generated new perspectives on what one might have considered “Western” research objects by highlighting the ways they are embedded in colonial relations,45 opening up space for “connected histories.”46 As a category that has achieved some degree of institutionalization in the contemporary academic landscape, postcolonial theory itself is not entirely exempt from some of the tendencies we have noted about approach categories in previous chapters. Postcolonial theory can also be associated with particular authors and particular research objects. As an approach, postcolonial theory could be said to have been understood through iconic authors such as Edward Said, Gayatri Spivak, and Homi Bhabha; and through influential groupings such as “subaltern studies,” a movement among historians and scholars in lit­­ erary studies of the 1980s and 1990s and cultural studies in Britain.47

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Each of these authors and groupings has been shaped by particular cases and settings. The original case of subaltern studies more specifically has, in geographical terms, been South Asia, and India more particularly. As a mate­­ rial research object, India has provided historians with a vast archive of docu­ ments produced by the colonial administration that can be studied, problem­ atized, and mined for its absences. Historians of the subaltern studies movement used India, or the “India” produced by colonial discourse, to raise and discuss general question of power and subjectivity, subjugation and agency. Particular theoretical choices and particular properties of the case of colonial rule in South Asia as a material research object have shaped the way colonial power and resistance have been analyzed. As subaltern studies achieved its intellectual impact and a degree of wordly success, the specific features of India as a case were sometimes reflected on, but sometimes not. We can observe some of the frictions that emerge when a particular case of colonial power is used as a basis for formulating theoretical concerns—­a phenomenon David Ludden has called the “globalisation of South Asia”48—­in the conversation between subaltern studies and scholars of and from other regions. Some Latin American scholars, for example, responded enthusiastically to the subaltern studies movement, and grouped some of their own work under the label “Latin American subaltern studies.”49 Others were more skeptical,50 noting the relative displacing of a long tradition of “postoccidentalism” in Latin American thought, as well as of more recent theories of dependency. Scholars noted that to the extent postcolonial theory was based on South Asia, it had been concerned primarily with the second wave of colonialism and confronted only a relatively short period of formal independence51—­in contrast, for example, to the much earlier colonization of Latin America and its experience of longer-­term and to some extent cyclical phenomena of colo­ nization, decolonization, and neoimperialism. The analysis of anti-­and postcolonial politics in postcolonial theory starting from the case of India has tended to focus on the nation and nationalism.52 For Eduardo Mendieta, it is as a result of the lack of a long-­term view, that postcolonial critique starting from South Asian cases “is only able to criticize the effects of colonialism once this mutated into the projects of nation building.”53 In his view, “Postcolonialism has been fastidiously obsessed with the question of nationalism, and its alter ego, the nation, whether this be thought in terms of its fragments, its shadow, its agony, its absence, its failure, or its non-­convergence with the space of a people’s culture.”54 The focus on the nation in postcolonial theory has shaped which themes were considered theoretically relevant in literary studies. The focus on the nation has also shaped how resistance has been conceived and researched in

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history and sociology. This is the case even though, as Frederick Cooper, a historian of Africa, has argued, “politics in a colony should not be reduced to anti-­colonial politics or to nationalism: the imagined communities Africans saw were both smaller and larger than the nation, sometimes in tension with each other, sometimes in repressive antagonism.”55 We might further explore the regional origins of the category of the subal­ tern itself, which, while clearly well suited to raise general issues about power, truth, and agency in a post-­Marxist environment, is also an “intuitively attractive point of departure for South Asianists, given the widely shared perception of social distinction in India as long-­lasting, coercive, and sharply delineated, even when scholars put the bases of social distinction in question.”56 An Invitation to Apply? Contemporary postcolonial theory is not entirely exempt from the tendency toward application rather than comparison, which, as I discussed earlier, accompanies the institutionalization of approaches and theories more generally. Once institutionalized as a category and a grouping or a set of groupings, approach labels can be used to clear the slate of previous scholarship, including of its own predecessors (some of whom might be brought back as consecrated authors).57 Approaches can expand by adding new sites and cases according to a logic of coverage, which encourages contributors to focus on demonstrating that the work of their immediate predecessors can be applied and that it is superior to competing approaches. This is in tension with a progressive development of the approach’s conceptual framework. The exercise of application involves a decontextualization of the material research object in the service of the approach in all approaches. In the particular case of postcolonial theory, it contrasts with an explicit insistence on the situatedness of all knowledge. Somewhat paradoxically, postcolonial theory in this way again limits the kind of issues scholars and cases from and within the “Global South” are encouraged to speak to. In terms of theorists, the approach has tended to favor a poststructuralist reading of earlier thinkers. Writing on Said’s interpretation of Frantz Fanon, Henry Louis Gates has commented on the irony that, “while calling for a recognition of the situatedness of all discourses, the critic delivers a Fanon as a global theorist in vacuo; in the course of an appeal for the specificity of the Other, we discover that his global theorist of alterity is emptied of his own specificity; in the course of a critique of identitarian thought, Fanon is conflated with someone who proved, in important respects, an ideological antagonist.”58 In terms of empirical investigation, the theory can tend to incorporate “the

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diversity of colonial experiences under the same rubric” and tie “their fates together within the same unilineal narrative of History and social emancipation.”59 The approach tends to provide a particular interpretation of politics in the Global South: an interpretation that emphasizes the colonial tie and/ or its continuing legacy over and above other aspects of the political context. It can thereby underemphasize the complexity of anticolonial alliances and compromises, as well as other aspects of people’s struggles. We find in some contemporary work echoes of Cooper’s early diagnosis that “even as subtle and interactive an argument as Homi Bhabha’s treatment of mimicry, in which the colonized person’s acting as if ‘white but not quite’ destabilizes the colonizer’s view of boundaries and control, relies on detaching the dyad of colonizer/colonized from anything either subject might be engaged in except their mutual confrontation.”60 In Chetan Bhatt’s words, we see a temporal oscillation “from the high colonial past to the diasporic present, a flattening, flattering conception of historical time.”61 Postcolonial Theory and Anglo-­American Hegemony Walter Mignolo, an Argentinian based in the US, has asked: “Why is it that certain kinds of ‘Third World’ models for subaltern studies are more convincing than others? . . . Why do we privilege Indian subaltern studies over intellectuals living and thinking in Latin America?”62 He adds, “I suspect that if we look for answers as to why certain ‘third world’ theoretical models are attractive while others are not, we could find it in the complicities between languages, colonialism, and cultures of scholarship,” and suggests that “we should be cautious in celebrating Indian subaltern studies because we risk falling into an epistemological universalism founded in global networking and a new kind of cosmopolitanism.”63 Mignolo here diagnoses a homology between institutions related by former colonial ties and the English language at the expense of those who use national and international languages other than English. “The globalization of South Asia” clearly went via the US and the UK; postcolonial studies was applied to other cases by scholars with links to elite institutions, and it is often imported to other contexts via Western academia. There are tensions between the decontextualizing impetus of approaches and diverse cases in all approaches, as discussed. This tension is not in itself resolved within postcolonial theory by simply shifting from one model case to another, such as Latin America. There are tensions between the association of the “Global South” with a specific theoretical orientation, or with specific proposals by individual scholars

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at the level of epistemology, and what scholars in and from a region actually want to work on. It is not always clear how scholars with research agendas of their own who are from or in a region feature in evocations of alternative “epistemologies” on the one hand and the “subaltern” on the other hand. Scholars in and of the Global South might wish to engage with local political issues in depth, or they might wish to make their material directly relevant to general concerns about a larger category of objects without the detour of a critique of other hegemonic Western forms of knowledge. Some of these scholars may see their work rejected by some prestigious Western journals as not of enough “general interest” and then see their work rejected by other prestigious Western journals as “not critical enough” or, in what can be code for the same thing, as “not theoretical enough.”64 As a scholar of comparative literature, Gayatri Spivak has had harsh words for some of the work associated with ethnic and cultural studies in the UK, which she has accused of a “diversified, metropolitan nationalism.” She has described “academic ‘Cultural Studies’ ” as a “metropolitan phenomenon originating on the radical fringes of national language departments,” which is limited by “metropolitan language-­based presentist and personalist political convictions, often with visibly foregone conclusions that cannot match the implicit political cunning of Area Studies at their best.”65 Spivak’s comments remind us that another conversation is relevant here, beyond the conversation about postcolonial theory and the conversation about the globalization of the social sciences: the conversation about the precarious status of the humanities and the cuts specifically to foreign language and literature programs and departments of comparative literature across the world. Spivak noted that the biggest winner of the rise of postcolonial literary studies in the US has been “global English.”66 Postcolonial literary studies has pushed the study of French and English literature to include novels produced in India and the Caribbean, but it can exclude Indian novels not published in English. Application of the approach is more difficult for cases from Japan, China, or Turkey. Of course, postcolonial studies should not be blamed more than any other approach for the general trend toward a loss of language skills in postgraduate students in the US and the UK and elsewhere. Given its contribution to broadening the horizon of nationally oriented social sciences, it should certainly be blamed less. But the trend itself is not addressed by postcolonial studies, which can be made to stand in for a fuller range of possible international engagements. In view of the UK and US’s role in global academia, an engagement with the British Empire or the Global Atlantic is international only in a very specific way.

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The Intra-­academic Dynamic of Orientalism I have examined stand-­ins of object categories that are unmarked in regional terms but shaped by regional stand-­ins. How do scholars produce knowledge labeled as regional? What do they use as stand-­ins for these regional categories, and do they use privileged stand-­ins? Our critical reflection on “regional knowledge” has drawn on some cases more than others, privileging the analysis of knowledge of the East in France and the UK in the nineteenth century as discussed by Edward Said, and the case of “area studies” in the United States, a way of institutionalizing knowledge about the outside world influenced by Cold War–­era foreign policy concerns.67 Edward Said’s study Orientalism emphasizes the close links between orientalism as a form of knowledge and as a mode of governing, that is he discusses orientalism as a form of imperial power. Orientalism, he writes, is “the corporate institution for dealing with the Orient, dealing with it by making statements about it, authorizing views of it, describing it, by teaching it settling it, ruling over it: in short, Orientalism as a Western style for dominating restructuring, and having authority over the Orient.”68 Having cautioned against the invitation to simply apply outstanding work on particular objects to other objects, I am suggesting that it is useful to consider the particular choices made by Said in light of alternatives cases and approaches. I have discussed the not-­necessary alliance between postcolonial theory and discourse analysis. Suzanne Marchand’s book-­length study of German orientalism can be taken as a starting point for envisaging other approaches and additional questions: Commenting on the theoretical approach taken, she contrasts Said’s focus on discourse with an approach that focuses on practices. She writes, “All too often, it seems to me, those who followed Said’s lead and adopted the Foucauldian tactic of analyzing only the surfaces of the texts they study end up simply reiterating what we know, namely that people make representations for their own purposes; too rarely do they ask about the variety of those purposes, or about the rootedness of those representations in weaker or stronger interpretations of original sources.”69 In her empirical analysis, Marchand provides an in-­depth examination of German scholarship on the Orient in the nineteenth century. While acknowledging her debt to Said and discussing imperial entanglements, exoticization, and antisemitism, she focuses more narrowly on scholarly practices and emphasizes the roots of German orientalism in the study of ancient languages. Marchand highlights the way scholars of the Orient, such as Justus Olshausen or Theodor Nöldeke, were inspired by disputes within the university, and

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were defending and developing their interests in India, Turkey, and Persia partly in opposition to those who thought only Greek, Latin, and Hebrew were important. Marchand suggests that through their opposition to theology within the humanities, some orientalists did at times create genuine intellectual openings and “furnished at least some of the tools necessary”70 for constructing postimperialist worldviews. The Stand-­Ins of Regional Categories Though even the most critical scholars implicitly value place-­specific exper­ tise, there has been little sustained comparative research about how such knowledge is produced and circulated, in a way that reflects the multisited nature of knowledge production in the world today. For a global analysis of the problem of global knowledge, further research is needed to include the range of combinations of knowing community and regional epistemic targets. The empirical focus of critical studies of regional knowledge has been on the US,71 the UK,72 and to some extent France, adding other Western cases of knowing communities, such as Germany, more slowly.73 We can add to the analysis of French, British, German, and American orientalism the analysis of “fringe orientalisms,” as Trüper and Lindstedt have recently suggested. In a call for papers, they write: This may mean to look at the representations of peripheral areas (e.g., in Central Asia, East Africa, Southeast Asia, etc.), as well as on peripheral themes (obscure languages or archives, strange choices of “going native,” etc.). And it may mean to look at peripheral actors in the overall transnational environment of orientalism. Such actors can either be from marginal research or artistic communities whose small size prevented them from developing highly recognizable national profiles (orientalism in Finland might be a case in point); or they can be from larger traditions, in which they occupied marginal places of some sort (e.g. female orientalisms, or Jewish orientalisms).74

Though very engaged with non-­Western knowledge production in a specific way, the literature inspired by postcolonial theory has not usually considered the social scientific production in non-­Western countries as objects of comparative investigation.75 We can inquire into how different European or Western contexts have been researched and theorized in Africa, China, Latin America, and South Asia; and how Africa and China have been researched and theorized in China, Africa, Latin America, and South Asia.76 How do particular academic communities, Western or non-­Western, develop implicit or explicit regional categories, what do they use as stand-­ins

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for these regional categories, and do they use privileged stand-­ins? Here I can only hint at some parts of the hypothesis that can structure such an inquiry. Despite the tension between what in the US is called “area studies” and the traditional disciplines, I note that we can understand the clichés of area studies in this broader sense better if we also understand the role of clichés of the disciplines that make up area studies. The body of work addressing the uneven internationalization of US social science highlights the benefits of comparing knowledge produced in a single knowing community about a range of target areas.77 When we ask about geographic areas, different disciplines are important in different areas, and each discipline has its own pattern of selective attention. Making a broad compar­ ison across different areas of area studies in Western scholarly inquiry, it is clear that there remains a division between those areas that have a heritage in programs based on the mastery of language and classical literature, and those that do not. South Asian studies, scholarship on China and Japan, and to some extent Middle Eastern studies have a long history in German scholarship of the nineteenth century, which prioritized language training and extensive knowledge of classical texts. Studies of Africa, Latin America, and what is now the post-­Soviet region are, for better or worse, relatively unencumbered by such a heritage. The case of Middle Eastern studies shows that there are debates as well about what to call the region, depending on disciplinary focus and intellectual and national traditions: Islamic Studies and religious studies target the “Islamic world” through a heavy focus on the eighth century in Saudi Arabia. Literature discusses traditions categorized by languages such as Arabic, Persian, Turkish, and Hebrew. Archeology focuses on the “near East” through Israel and Egypt. Political science uses the categories Middle East, MENA (Middle East and North Africa), and sometimes Turkey. Anthropology uses both “Islam” and “Middle East,” with Morocco featuring prominently in the former category but not a good fit for the latter. Consider table 6.1 as an example of what a focus on disciplines and their model cases might mean if we ask about knowledge production in a particular area. It sketches a set of hypotheses about Anglo-­American knowledge of Latin America. Different epistemic targets lead different disciplines to different cases and different countries. Literature is led by outstanding literary contributions; anthropologists have at least historically been drawn to countries with prominent indigenous populations, rather than Argentina. Political scientists, on the other hand, do focus on Argentina, which provides the classic case for populism. We can and should add to the complexity of this chart considerations of

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ta b l e 6 . 1 Anglo-­American area studies: Latin America

Discipline

Specimen

Literature

A copy of 100 Years of Solitude Observations with a particular community at a specific time A particular set of archival sources

Anthropology

Political science

Discipline-­specific epistemic object

Ultimate epistemic target

Country

Region

100 Years of Solitude

Magical realism

Style

Colombia

Latin America

Amazonia

Indigenous population

Culture

Brazil

Latin America

Peronism

Populism

Form of government

Argentina

Latin America

Discipline-­ specific model case

nationally distinct research traditions and emphases. American social scientists might observe Mexico and Central America more closely than European social scientists, for example; Italian social scientists, in contrast, have historically given a prominent role to Argentina. We can also ask the reverse question, inquring into how specific marked national contexts have shaped specific discipline, a point that Michael Kennedy makes by raising the important role Poland has played for American sociology.78 Conclusion In many knowledge communities, attention to material research objects in areas that are marked in geographical terms is very limited overall. It is also limited in terms of the epistemic targets these objects are made to speak to. Thinking about the stand-­ins of both regionally unmarked and regionally marked categories highlights the range of objects that simply do not feature in scholarly conversations. Some stand-­ins are neglected, and some combinations of stand-­ins and epistemic targets are also neglected. Postcolonial theory has highlighted some of these neglected stand-­ins and neglected combinations. Starting from material research objects highlights additional neglected material research objects and additional neglected combinations of categories and material research objects. In relating this analysis to concrete choices for individual academics and academic communities, it may be helpful to make explicit the normative stakes that feature in the discussion about global knowledge, and more particularly to make explicit the different normative stakes that are invoked. We might try to pursue some of these at the same time, but they cannot neces­

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sarily be maximized at the same time. How we place the emphasis with regard to these aims might depend not just on our values, but on what is at stake and what can be achieved in concrete situations. We might want to counteract the effects of colonial power on public self-­ understandings within former colonial powers; we might counteract the effects of colonial history on academic knowledge, or revise our understanding of “central” and other epistemic targets based on a critique of Anglo-­American hegemony. We might want to serve domestic and/or global political agendas. We might want to draw on the full range of cases and possibilities in the pursuit of the best collective use of scarce resources for producing the best scientific knowledge. We might want to allocate jobs and recognition in a fairer manner. We might want to reduce inequalities among academics within countries, and we might want to reduce inequalities across countries. Wherever we place the emphasis in these terms, a tension might reappear between producing good knowledge about specific locales and specific groups—­including specific forms of colonial oppression and resistance against it and other forms of domination—­on the one hand, and producing general knowledge on the other hand.

What we need more of

What we have enough of

Studies of neglected cases of modernity

Noncomparative work on the US or the UK

Attention to non-Western contexts that are not postcolonial Comparisons of knowledge produced about the full range of areas marked as regional in different contexts of  knowledge production Work on neglected combinations of areas and disciplinary concerns

Work that applies insights from the West to non-­Western cases Arguments that use concepts derived from particular cases as metaphors to describe other cases but that do not compare the different cases

Conclusion

The sociologist of science Susan Leigh Star has noted that “so much of the sciences is about the backstage use of materials later represented as formalized theorizing.”1 This is not less true of the social sciences, and I have drawn inspiration from inquiries by sociologists, anthropologists, and historians into the tools, practices, and places of the natural sciences for questions about the social sciences, focusing specifically on the material research objects behind what we take to be our knowledge of general social phenomena. I have argued that scholars in sociology, political science, and anthropology, like biologists and literary scholars, use stand-­ins to examine broader sets of objects. I distinguished between material research objects and epi­ stemic research objects, and suggested that some material research objects are studied repeatedly and shape the understanding of more general categories in disproportionate ways. Material research objects are not exactly “hidden” in social scientific debates, but they tend to be obscured by a number of practices that are part and parcel of everyday academic life. They are obscured when scholars connect their contributions in a conversation framed around epistemic targets, or when observations about particular objects travel as “theory” across contexts. They are also obscured when subfield labels structure scholarly conversations, serving as shortcuts to knowledge based on a range of objects. Material research objects are also obscured by some of the ways in which we have structured our metaconversations—­the conversations that take social scientific knowledge as an object of concern, and which we would expect to provide us with some measure of reflexivity. They are obscured when reflection on social scientific production is focused on camps and positions construed based on abstraction into epistemological terms, be they precise

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proposals or general catchphrases, such as “analytical” or “scientific,” or “critical” or “interesting.” I would like to claim a place for my project and for a practice-­oriented sociology of the social sciences more generally among metaconversations, alongside the philosophy of the social sciences, methodology, and other forms of “theory.” A focus on material research objects allows us to sketch a distinctive map of the social scientific landscape, starting from field sites, objects, and examples. This map shows a variegated landscape that is nevertheless not totally chaotic, a map on which the distinctions I developed here offer some purchase: the distinction between material research objects and epistemic research objects; between material research objects and privileged material research objects; between different logics of valuing stand-­ins; and between categories of epistemic research objects and categories of approaches. These distinctions can be used to analyze some of the issues that the debate about global knowledge has already raised. They highlight the inequality among sites and cases in addition to inequalities among researchers, institutions, and epistemologies. Though a sociology of sociology requires a sustained focus on empirical questions, the analysis presented here can be a basis for engaging some normative questions. What follows from the observations about patterns con­­ cerning research objects for choices facing individual researchers and research communities? Beyond Getting It Right Much explicit discussion about how we should do research is still focused on “getting it right” factually, methodologically, or by political implications. In this view, scholarship proceeds on a narrow path toward the right kind of knowledge (or the right kind of critique) with crocodiles on each side. We do need to also get it right, but, recognizing the range of objects, tools, and relations that go into research studies, rightness has many dimensions; we need to recognize the range of values that are at stake, including some that are in tension with one another.2 Philosophers of science have begun to acknowledge the range of criteria for “good science” and possible trade-­offs between them, even within what is sometimes called “epistemic,” or “cognitive,” value (as opposed to the more commonly discussed trade-­offs between pure science and application, or societal benefits). Thomas Kuhn lists “accuracy, consistency, broad scope, simplicity, and fruitfulness”; Helen Longino adds “empirical adequacy, novelty, ontological heterogeneity, complexity of interaction, applicability to human

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needs, and decentralization of power.”3 In practice, researchers also already use a range of criteria to assess contributions, praising them as particularly original, and as Guetzkow and colleagues have highlighted, as original in different ways, as well as as topical, materially sophisticated, a good version of x, or “a challenge that x had coming.”4 Some of these criteria are already relational in that they invite us to evaluate work in the context of what other work is doing.5 The design of research projects can benefit from a sustained analysis of collective patterns in research conducted that goes beyond what individuals routinely do to strategically frame a contribution. The analysis of collective patterns in the production of knowledge puts on the agenda questions of collective methods in addition to questions of individual methods. Patterns of Overproduction I have suggested that when we compare the sum of actual research papers to the space of possible research papers, we can identify patterns wherein there are clusters and gaps. The main clusters I have discussed are clusters of papers on privileged material research objects and clusters of papers applying the insights gained from one material research object to another. I have identified factors that foster these papers relatively independently of their scholarly merit; these factors include the factors that sponsor certain stand-­ins, such as convenience; discipline-­specific and general schemas; and macrohistoricism and microhistoricism. Papers are also a byproduct of the national, disciplinary, and subdisciplinary segmentation of scholarly conversations. The need for some measure of diversity along approach and object categories creates opportunities for positions and publications that explain an approach x to an audience brought together by object y, or that assert the importance of an approach or an object to a locally or regionally defined group, such as a department. These publications might have some level of originality, but they often do not require it to be solicited, published, and rewarded. Is this clustering of papers a problem, and if so, in what sense? It is not necessarily a problem for individual papers, which as individual papers are methodologically not in principle better or worse than other papers. Tempted as I am to call for a moratorium on PhD theses about the French Revolution or gentrification in New York City, this kind of conclusion would cost us some excellent contributions—­many contributions that turn out to be important are not original in their case selection—­and would prevent us from building on the existing concentration of research on specific cases.6 But from a collective perspective, this clustering is a problem on two

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grounds. Firstly, there is the issue of reflexivity: factors that sponsor stand-­ins shape our knowledge in a way that is not acknowledged or reflected, which affects the quality of the knowledge we think we have. Conventions about privileged material research objects are not explicit and are not reflected as a matter of collective method. Researchers largely do not address the variation among instantiations of material research objects, which means we are not really able to exploit the advantages of a concentration of attention. Secondly, there are opportunity costs associated with the duplication involved in these clusterings. In between outright “plagiarism,” “duplicate publication,” and the issue of “multiple discoveries” is the mundane reality of what we can call “pseudo contributions.”7 If it is true that we produce a lot of duplicate papers with little original scholarly content, this means we could improve on our use of resources toward pursuing collective goals, including a range of scholarly collective goals, as well as toward other goals, such as pedagogic or political goals. Cumulation and the Space of Research Possibilities What are our collective goals as scholars? Prominent within discussions about collective goals that are specifically research-­related is the idea of cumulation—­ that is, the idea that separate research projects, through coordination and accountability, build on one another and lead to the growth of knowledge as a whole, to the elimination of falsehoods, and to progress in science. In what follows, I want to briefly discuss cumulation and some of its alternatives, with the ultimate aim to argue that duplication and lack of reflexivity are detrimental to whichever collective goals you think are most important or most achievable. This idea of cumulation features in accounts of the logic of model system research from biology, such as the following, which I quoted earlier: “Model system research allows for particular study systems to be studied in great detail and breadth, and paves the way for synergies through the accumulation and sharing of large datasets, tools, infrastructure, standardised research protocols and knowledge from multiple disciplines.”8 Note that cumulation is not necessarily the same as generalization: we can also think from particular to particular. Yet as critics have pointed out, the idea of cumulation is based on assuming a range of fulfilled preconditions that are not necessarily fulfilled even in the natural sciences. The idea of cumulation assumes clear communication among research projects—­an assumption that tends to minimize and/or trivialize the role of language in framing research problems and findings. Using theoretical physics as

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a case, Kuhn has highlighted that ruptures redefine problems over time; this means cumulation is possible, if at all, within paradigms.9 Evelyn Fox Keller has shown that concepts such as the “gene” are understood in very different ways by different research communities within the life sciences, raising questions about how findings can speak to one another.10 In the social sciences, the obstacles to cumulation may be even greater: concepts may be even less standardized—­indeed, some argue that they are unstandardizable.11 Specimens of research objects in the social sciences are not standardized, as I have suggested in chapter 3. Social scientists have long complained that good ideas are forgotten, and conversely that bad ideas do not die.12 There is an alternative guiding value for the evaluation of collective work, which is useful to discuss here as a contrast to cumulation: We might call this the principle of “scientific conservation.” Here, scholars acknowledge and embrace the fact that much of scientific knowledge production is actually reproduction of existing knowledge, and they acknowledge the cyclical aspects of knowledge production over time. Scientific conservation can be endorsed based on humanist or aestheticist notions of “the best works” and of “culture” (which can come in a culturally conservative or a critical flavor, or can combine both, as critique can be conservative); it can also entail an emphasis on intellectual and methodological diversity as a value that is itself worth maintaining. Addressing diversity as a value, Andrew Abbott has spoken about a principle of “not letting anything be forgotten for too long.”13 The principle of scientific conservation highlights that knowledge cannot be taken for granted once created, that we need specific people to keep it alive over time; if we want a range of scholarly approaches and specializations, we need specific people who embody diverse traditions. In the terms of one of the previous chapters, this suggests we actually need “ambassadors.” The pursuit of scientific diversity does not have to be limited to what is already there. I would redefine scientific conservation not with a view to the past, but with a view to what is possible. The pursuit of diversity is the pursuit of filling in the space of possible research strategies, in particular with regard to research objects and the combination of research objects and approaches in hope of truth and discovery. In that sense, diversity in reproduction can lead to discovery and new ideas. I have expressed my skepticism toward gestures by individuals or by particular theoretical schools that claim to get us out of the dilemmas raised by these debates. Having bracketed questions belonging to the philosophy of the social sciences, I have no specific grounds for arguing for one guiding value

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over the others. Based on attention to research practices and papers, however, I do not think the choice is as stark as it can be made out to be by ideologically driven accounts of cumulation and some of the responses to it. I take seriously the evidence about the empirical challenges for the project of cumulation, and I do not want to have to defend a very strong idea of cumulation (and the new) in the abstract; nor do I want to subscribe to the strong idea that there is no new idea under the sun and that therefore the best we can hope for is what we have had. I would like to assert that duplication and failure to reflect is limiting for both cumulation and conservation or filling in the space. Reflection can help avoid error and highlight space to be filled. Nonduplication frees up resources for both cumulation and for filling in the space. Exploiting Strengths, Mitigating Weaknesses Based on the analysis presented above, we can identify opportunities to either further exploit the concentration of attention on specific material research objects, or to mitigate the damage that this might do. My notes on “what we need more of ” at the end of each chapter have identified underutilized opportunities in these two directions. If we take seriously evidence that people understand categories through privileged members and that social scientists’ concentrate attention on some cases, we can make this more explicit. There are collective advantages to knowing some cases well: Material reserch objects owned by a scholarly tradition can allow us to make theoretical differences visible and debate them in an accountable manner. Model case research in general might try to rely less on the implicit legitimacy of using a model case, and instead justify the case explicitly within the full range of possible cases, make use of all the previous research on the case, and reflect on variation among specimens. This also applies for the cases that, in fact, underlie quantitative studies working with samples of “populations.” Researchers working with representative samples of populations in specific countries might acknowledge and exploit the fact that they are working on specific countries, drawing on a range of insights and methods. Model system research highlights the fact that qualitative knowledge of a single case helps in reading quantitative studies, including the qualitative knowledge that emerges from reading different kinds of quantitative studies together. The concentration of attention and the way objects, categories, and approaches do and do not get linked also leaves many unused possibilities. There are neglected material research objects and neglected combinations of

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objects and approaches, some of which might be fruitful to explore. The issues become especially clear when we consider the extremely selective ways that marked geographical and historical—­“the past” and “foreign countries”—­are taken up in contemporary scholarship. There are objects we rarely study or study rarely with a view to producing general insight; there are objects we study only with regard to some categories, and not others. There are combinations of objects and approaches we rarely pursue. As a result, we might not have knowledge that is relevant to particular contexts. We also do not exploit all the variation in the world for our theory-­building. Of course, individuals will have different views in terms of the overarching collective goals of research: if you are drawn toward a cumulative ideal of social science, it might be that you think you are more interested in exploiting the existing concentration of attention for accountable epistemic gain. It might be thought that the study of neglected cases is primarily useful toward mitigation. But I would encourage you to also think about the path in between, to consider how paths less traveled can add to cumulation, even if it means adopting a less dogmatic view of cumulation and even if it means placing paths less traveled in the full context. Medium Specificity for the Social Sciences We might do well to consider the range of functions our work has beyond “original contributions to research,” in relationship to the range of forms our work takes and could take. I want to suggest that the principle of “medium specificity” (more commonly used among art critics) can be adapted to clarify how we judge what it means to do good work in the social sciences. I would argue that some of what is currently published as a contribution to research might be better served in its virtues by another form. The principle of “medium specificity” is derived in part from an essay by the Enlightenment philosopher Gotthold Ephraim Lessing. In this essay, “On Laocoon,” Lessing starts from considering a well-­known Hellenistic marble sculpture and invites us to judge art works by the ways they do or do not exploit the affordances of each specific medium, be it marble sculpture, pencil etching, or oil painting.14 We might train our judgment to consider something like media specificity when we plan and design scholarly work and when we judge it. Social scientists already have a range of forms for their output. These include the research article, monograph, handbook, interview, edited collection, translation, public-­facing book, textbook, blog post, book review, peer

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review, review essay, and published lecture notes. Scholars also produce or could produce films, exhibitions, photo essays, diagrams, or music.15 We deliver seminars, lectures, exam questions, public events, podcasts, small conferences, conference papers, and one-­on-­one conversations with students or between colleagues. Social scientists also have a range of aims besides producing original research. We might thus discuss how to best match forms to aims, or aims to forms. There is already some (but by no means universal) recognition that some applications of concepts to new cases can remain in the classroom or in our virtual learning environments and that not every set of lectures needs to be a book. There is also some recognition that journal articles are not in fact the best way to reach broader audiences with political aims—­a recognition reflected in the foundation of specific journals such as Discover Society or Contexts, for example, which help sociologists communicate with the public. Allow me for a moment to bracket the discussion of teaching and of broader political and cultural aims that tend to be, for good reasons, on the forefront of scholars’ minds and which are already discussed in a range of disciplinary and interdisciplinary conversations. Some of the overproduced papers I have discussed in preceding chapters seem to involve a range of aims related to communication among scholars themselves, which we have less of a collective conversation about. I would suggest that a share of communications among colleagues is not in fact original research but should be considered and valued as a form of teaching. There are many good reasons as to why scholars should want to teach one another as well as students. This includes a dynamic of mentorship between experienced colleagues and more junior colleagues, but is not limited to it. Generational turnover and the segmentation of conversations among national, regional, and subdisciplinary lines create opportunities for teaching peers by reminding them of old ideas and by bridging literatures, for example. If we recognize the teaching of colleagues as an important function and one that is the implicit justification of many publications, we might find again that the journal article, or indeed the handbook article, may not always be the best form to use. Some of these functions may be better served by interviews, for example, by the republication of existing texts, or by the retweeting of old ideas. Consider two unusual recent interventions into sociological debate that embrace the function of reminding colleagues of old ideas and involve good use of their medium: In 2007, French scholars staged a debate between Gabriel Tarde and Émile Durkheim, originally held in 1903, with Bruno Latour

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cast as Tarde.16 In 2019, John Hall performed Max Weber’s “Politics as a Vocation” in front of students and colleagues at the University of California Santa Cruz.17 Both of these contributions do not involve the writing of any new text, yet they assemble a new combination of an old text, a specific audience, and the current concerns that that audience brings. As extreme examples, they highlight the performative dimension to creative reproduction, which we should also value.

Acknowledgments

I could and would not have written this book without Michael Guggenheim. Michael set off a conversation about sociology’s canon of cases by telling me about Mary Poovey’s discussion of literary studies and biology; he also shaped this project as a coauthor of an article that the book is based on: Michael Guggenheim and Monika Krause, “How Facts Travel: The Model Systems of Sociology,” Poetics 40 (2012): 101–­17. This book also exists because of two institutions that bring individuals from different disciplines together and allow them to learn from one another: The ZiF (Center for Interdisciplinary Research) at Bielefeld University and the Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies. Conversations with colleagues and mentors at these institutions as well as at Goldsmiths College and at the London School of Economics have shaped this book. I also benefited from feedback from participants at the workshop Cultures of Circulation, organized by Melissa Aaronczyk and Ailsa Craig and funded by the Canadian Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC). I learned from members and guests of the network in the sociology of sociology funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG). I am grateful to the generosity of the participants of the “soon-­to-­be-­author-­meets-­ noncritics” workshop, organized by Wayne Brekhus, Thomas DeGloma, and Eviatar Zerubavel. The book and I owe much to the late Doug Mitchell, who built a community around a love of monographs and helped me believe in this project. I thank Elizabeth Branch Dyson, Mollie McFee, and their colleagues at the University of Chicago Press, as well as five anonymous reviewers, for their support and their ideas. I am grateful also to Melissa Aaronczyk, Andrew Abbott, Danah Abdullah, Fabien Accominotti, Hillary Angelo, Claudio Benzecry, Chetan Bhatt, Craig

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acknowledgments

Calhoun, Neal Caren, Jill Conte, Will Davies, Christian Dayé, Claire Deco­ teau, Timothy Dowd, Rebecca Elliot, Ivan Ermakoff, Sina Farzin, Christian Fleck, Martina Franzen, Carrie Friese, Thomas Gieryn, Julian Go, Michael Goebel, Peter Haan, Suzi Hall, Elina Hartikainen, Michael Hechter, Christo­ pher Hill, Stefan Hirschauer, Daniel Hirschman, Robert Jansen, Jane Jones, Ann Kelly, Michael Kennedy, Lars Kuchinke, Christoph Küffer, Javier Lezaun, Ilkka Lindstedt, Omar Lizardo, Eeva Luhtakallio, Noortje Marres, Charlie Masqualier, Linsey McGoey, Michael McQuarrie, Daniel Menchik, Sibille Merz, Mary Morgan, Kate Nash, Fran Osrecki, Britta Padberg, Aaron Panofsky, Jörg Potthast, Arvind Rajagopal, Isaac Reed, Johanna Rosenbohm, Marsha Rosengarten, Sara Salem, Salla Sariola, Mike Savage, Anna Schabel, Richard Sennett, Hyun Bang Shin, Mario Luis Small, Lisa Stampnitzki, Barbara Sutter, Iddo Tavory, Henning Trüper, Stephen Turner, Minna-Kerttu Vienola, Judy Wajcman, Leon Wansleben, Tobias Werron, William Wootten, and Barbie Zelizer. I thank Michael, Hani, and Yossi for moving to Finland and for spending their lockdowns with me.

Notes

Introduction 1. Gerald M. Rubin and Edward B. Lewis, “A Brief History of Drosophila’s Contributions to Genome Research,” Science 287, no. 5461 (2000): 2216–­18; Robert E. Kohler, Lords of the Fly: Drosophila Genetics and the Experimental Life. Chicago (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994); Evelyn Fox Keller, “Drosophila Embryos as Transitional Objects,” Historical Studies in the Physical and Biological Sciences 26, no. 2 (1996): 313–­46. 2. Karen Rader, Making Mice: Standardizing Animals for American Biomedical Research, 1900–­ 1955 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004); Joan H. Fujimura, Crafting Science: A Sociohistory of the Quest for the Genetics of Cancer (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996); Klaus Ammann, “Menschen, Mäuse und Fliegen,” Zeitschrift für Soziologie 23, no. 1 (1994): 22–­40. 3. On proteins, see Hans-­Jörg Rheinberger, Towards a History of Epistemic Things (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1997). On viruses, see Angela N. H. Creager, The Life of a Virus: Tobacco Mosaic Virus as an Experimental Model, 1930–­1965 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002). 4. Christoph Kueffer, Petr Pyšek, and David M. Richardson, “Integrative Invasion Science: Model Systems, Multi-­site Studies,” New Phytologist 200, no. 3 (2013): 615−33. 5. Michael Guggenheim and Monika Krause, “How Facts Travel: The Model Systems of Sociology,” Poetics 40, no. 2 (2012): 101–­17. 6. Robert K. Merton, “Three Fragments from a Sociologist’s Notebooks: Establishing the Phenomenon, Specified Ignorance, and Strategic Research Materials.” Annual Review of Sociology 13 (1987): 1–­29; Winfried Löffler, “Vom Schlechten des Guten: Gibt es schlechte Interdisziplinarität?” in Interdisziplinarität: Theorie, Praxis, Probleme, ed. Michael Jungert et al. (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2010), 157–­72. 7. Robert S. Jansen, Revolutionizing Repertoires: The Rise of Populist Mobilization in Peru (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017). 8. For reflection on this, see Lyn Spillman, Solidarity in Strategy: Making Business Meaningful in American Trade Associations (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012). 9. See Monika Krause, “On Reflexivity” (Lewis A. Coser Lecture, American Sociological Association Annual Meeting, 2020). 10. See, for example, Stephen Park Turner and Jonathan H. Turner, The Impossible Science: An Institutional Analysis of American Sociology (Newbury Park, London, New Delhi: Sage,

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1990); and Christian Fleck, “Für eine soziologische Geschichte der Soziologie.” Österreichische Zeitschrift für Soziologie 24, no. 2 (1999): 52–­65. 11. For an overview, see Charles Camic, Neil Gross, and Michèle Lamont, eds., Social Knowledge in the Making (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011). I have been particularly influenced by the context provided by work in the UK on the “social life of methods,” as well as by conversations in the DFG Network on the sociology of sociology; see, for example, John Law, Evelyn Ruppert, and Mike Savage, “The Double Social Life of Methods” (CRESC Working Paper Series Working Paper No. 95, Open University, 2011); Evelyn Ruppert, John Law, and Mike Savage, “Reassembling Social Science Methods: The Challenge of Digital Devices,” Theory, Culture & Society 30, no. 4 (2013): 22–­46; Mike Savage, Identities and Social Change in Britain since 1940: The Politics of Method (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010); and Martina Franzen et al., “Das DFG-­Netzwerk ‘Soziologie soziologischen Wissens,’ ” Soziologie 48, no. 3 (2019): 293–­308. 12. See Mario Wimmer, Archivkörper: Eine Geschichte historischer Einbildungskraft (Konstanz: Konstanz University Press, 2012); and Anne Kwaschik and Mario Wimmer, Von der Arbeit des Historikers: Ein Wörterbuch zur Theorie und Praxis (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2014). 13. See Thomas F. Gieryn, “City as Truth-­Spot,” Social Studies of Science 36, no. 1 (2006): 5–­38; and Thomas F. Gieryn, Truth-­Spots: How Places Make People Believe (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2018). 14. See Mike Michael, “On Making Data Social: Heterogeneity in Sociological Practice,” Qualitative Research 4, no. 1 (2004): 5–­23; Javier Lezaun, “A Market of Opinions: The Political Epistemology of Focus Groups,” Sociological Review 55, no. 2 (2007): 130–­51; Javier Lezaun and Nerea Calvillo, “In the Political Laboratory: Kurt Lewin’s ‘Atmospheres,’ ” Journal of Cultural Economy (2013): 434–­57; and Raymond Lee, “ ‘The Most Important Technique . . .’: Carl Rogers, Hawthorne, and the Rise and Fall of Nondirective Interviewing in Sociology,” Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences 47, no. 2 (2011): 123–­46. 15. See Sarah E. Igo, “Subjects of Persuasion: Survey Research as a Solicitous Science; or, The Public Relations of the Polls,” in Social Knowledge in the Making, eds. Charles Camic, Neil Gross, and Michèle Lamont (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2011), 285–­307. 16. See Akhil Gupta and James Ferguson, Anthropological Locations: Boundaries and Grounds of a Field Science (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1997); and Robert E. Kohler, Inside Science: Stories from the Field in Human and Animal Science (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2019). 17. Merton, “Three Fragments,” 2. 18. See Kohler, Lords of the Fly; Robert Kohler, Landscapes and Labscapes: Exploring the Lab–­Field Border in Biology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002); Bruno Latour and Steve Woolgar, Laboratory Life: The Construction of Scientific Facts (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1986); and Karin Knorr-­Cetina, The Manufacture of Knowledge: An Essay on the Constructivist and Contextual Nature of Science (Oxford: Pergamon Press, 1981). See also Michael E. Lynch, “Material Work and Critical Inquiry: Investigations in a Scientific Laboratory,” Social Studies of Science 12, no. 4 (1982): 499–­533; and Susan Leigh Star, Regions of the Mind (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1989). 19. Mario Biagioli, “From Relativism to Contingentism,” in The Disunity of Science: Boundaries, Contexts, and Power, ed. Peter Galison and David J. Stump (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996), 189–­206. 20. Willard Van Orman Quine, Word and Object (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1960); Bruno Latour, Pandora’s Hope: Essays on the Reality of Science Studies (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999).

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21. See Peter Galison and David J. Stump, eds., The Disunity of Science: Boundaries, Contexts, and Power (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1996); and Karin Knorr-­Cetina, “Epistemic Cultures: Forms of Reason in Science,” History of Political Economy 23, no. 1 (1991): 105−22. For a link between this insight and the sociology of sociology, see Michael Lynch and David Bogen, “Sociology’s Asociological ‘Core’: An Examination of Textbook Sociology in Light of the Sociology of Scientific Knowledge,” American Sociological Review 62, no. 7 (1997). 22. Theodor Adorno et al., The Positivist Dispute in German Sociology (London: Heinemann, 1976). On current debates in German sociology, see Stefan Hirschauer, “Der Quexit: Das Mannemer Milieu im Abseits der Soziologie,” Zeitschrift für theoretische Soziologie 7: 153–­167. 23. See Karin Knorr Cetina, “Social and Scientific Method or What Do We Make of the Distinction between the Natural and the Social Sciences?,” Philosophy of the Social Sciences 11(1981): 335–­59. 24. Angela N. H. Creager, Elizabeth Lunbeck, and M. Norton Wise, Science without Laws (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007); and Peter Howlett and Mary S. Morgan, How Well Do Facts Travel? The Dissemination of Reliable Knowledge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010). 25. See Michael Schwab, Experimental Systems: Future Knowledge in Artistic Research (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2013); and Mary Poovey, “The Model System of Contemporary Literary Criticism,” Critical Inquiry 27, no. 3 (2001): 408–­38. 26. See John Forrester, “If p, Then What? Thinking in Cases,” History of the Human Sciences 9, no. 3 (1996): 1–­25; Forrester, “The Psychoanalytic Case: Voyeurism, Ethics, and Epistemology in Robert Stoller’s Sexual Excitement,” in Science without Laws: Model Systems, Cases, Exemplary Narratives, ed. Angela N. H. Creager, and Elizabeth Lunbeck, and M. Norton Wise (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 189–­212. 27. Eleanor H. Rosch, “On the Internal Structure of Perceptual and Semantic Categories,” in Cognitive Development and the Acquisition of Language, ed. Timothy E. Moore (New York and London: Academic Press, 1973), 111–­44; George Lakoff, Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things: What Categories Reveal about the Mind (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987). 28. Eleanor Rosch et al., “Basic Objects in Natural Categories,” Cognitive Psychology 8, no. 3 (1976): 382–­439. 29. Lakoff, Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things, 86−87; Per Hage and Wick R. Miller, “ ‘eagle’ = ‘bird’: A Note on the Structure and Evolution of Shoshoni Ethnoornithological Nomenclature,” American Ethnologist 3, no. 3 (1976): 481–­88. 30. See Alfred Schütz, The Phenomenology of the Social World (Evanston, IL: Northwestern University Press, 1967); Erving Goffman, Frame Analysis: An Essay on the Organization of Experience. Boston: Northeastern University Press, 1974); Eviatar Zerubavel, The Fine Line: Making Distinctions in Everyday Life (Chicago: Chicago, 1993); Karen A. Cerulo, ed., Culture in Mind: Toward a Sociology of Culture and Cognition (New York: Routledge, 2002); and Wayne Brekhus, Culture and Cognition: Patterns in the Social Construction of Reality (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2015). 31. Wayne Brekhus, “The Rutgers School: A Zerubavelian Culturalist Cognitive Sociology,” European Journal of Social Theory 10, no. 3 (2007): 450. See also Eviatar Zerubavel, Social Mindscapes: An Invitation to Cognitive Sociology (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999). 32. For research in psychology, see Amos Tversky and Daniel Kahneman, “Belief in the Law of Small Numbers,” Psychological Bulletin 76, no. 2 (1971): 105–­10; Jill Larkin et al., “Expert and Novice Performance in Solving Physics Problems,” Science 208, no. 4450 (1980): 1335–­42; Michelene T. H. Chi, Paul J. Feltovich, and Robert Glaser, “Categorization and Representation

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of Physics Problems by Experts and Novices,” Cognitive Science 5 (1981): 121–­52; Michelene T. H. Chi, Robert Glaser, and Marshall J. Farr, The Nature of Expertise (Hillsdale NJ: Lawrence Erlbaum, 1980); and Hoffman, The Psychology of Expertise: Cognitive Research and Empirical AI. For research in sociology, see Paul J. DiMaggio, “Culture and Cognition,” Annual Review of Sociology 23, no. 1 (1997): 263–­87; Gerard P. Hodgkinson and Mark P. Healey, “Cognition in Organizations,” Annual Review of Psychology 59 (2008); Tanya Beer and Julia Coffman, “How Shortcuts Cut Us Short: Cognitive Traps in Philanthropic Decision Making,” Center for Evaluation Innovation, May 2014, https://www.evaluationinnovation.org/publication/how-­shortcuts-­cut-­us -­short-­cognitive-­traps-­in-­philanthropic-­decision-­making/); Eviatar Zerubavel, Social Mindscapes (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999); and Wayne Brekhus, “A Sociology of the Unmarked: Redirecting Our Focus,” Sociological Theory 16, no. 1 (1998): 34–­51. 33. Stephen Vaisey, “Motivation and Justification: A Dual Process Model of Culture in Action,” American Journal of Sociology 114, no. 6 (2009): 1675–­7 15; Omar Lizardo et al., “What Are Dual Process Models? Implications for Cultural Analysis in Sociology,” Sociological Theory (2016) 34 (4) 287–­310. 34. Paul E. Griffiths and Karola Stotz, “Experimental Philosophy of Science,” Philosophy Compass 3, no. 3 (2008): 507–­21. 35. Ronald N. Giere, “The Cognitive Structure of Scientific Theories,” Philosophy of Science 61, no. 2 (1994): 276–­96. 36. For the notion of “materialized schema,” see Fernando Domínguez Rubio, “Preserving the Unpreservable: Docile and Unruly Objects at MoMA,” Theory and Society 43, no. 6 (2014): 617–­64; see also Marshall A. Taylor, Dustin Stolz, and Terence McDonnell, “Binding Significance to Form: Cultural Objects, Neural Binding and Cultural Change,” Poetics 73 (2019): 1–­16. 37. Craig Calhoun, Critical Social Theory (Oxford: Blackwell, 1995). 38. David Bloor, Knowledge and Social Imagery (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991). Chapter One 1. See Aristotle, Metaphysics, VI, 1. See also Winfried Löffler, “Vom Schlechten des Guten: Gibt es schlechte Interdisziplinarität?” in Interdisziplinarität: Theorie, Praxis, Probleme, ed. Michael Jungert et al. (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2010), 157–­72. 2. Hans-­Jörg Rheinberger, An Epistemology of the Concrete (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010); Hans-­Jörg Rheinberger, “Über den Eigensinn epistemischer Dinge,” in Vom Eigensinn der Dinge, ed. Hans-­Peter Hahn (Berlin: Neofelis Verlag, 2015), 147–­62; Karin Knorr-­Cetina, “Sociality with Objects: Social Relations in Postsocial Knowledge Societies,” Theory, Culture & Society 14, no. 4 (1997): 1−30; Löffler, “Vom Schlechten des Guten”; Franz-­Xaver Kaufmann, “Interdisziplinäre Wissenschaftspraxis: Erfahrungen und Kriterien,” in Interdisziplinarität, Praxis—­Herausforderungen—­Ideologie, ed. Jürgen Kocka (Frankfurt: Suhrkamp, 1987), 63–­81; Britta Padberg, “The Center for Interdisciplinary Research (ZiF)—­Epistemic and Institutional Considerations,” in University Experiments in Interdisciplinarity, ed. Peter Weingart and Britta Padberg (Bielefeld: Transcript Verlag, 2014), 95−113. 3. Merton, Three Fragments, 10–­24. 4. See Löffler, “Vom Schlechten des Guten”; Kaufmann, “Interdisziplinäre Wissenschaftspraxis”; and Padberg, “The Center for Interdisciplinary Research (ZiF).” 5. Hans-­Jörg Rheinberger, “Epistemic Objects/Material Objects,” in Epistemic Objects (Berlin: Max Planck Institute für Wissenschaftsgeschichte, 2009), 93–­98. See also the critique by

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David Bloor, “Toward a Sociology of Epistemic Things”; and Rheinberger’s response, “A Reply to David Bloor,” both published in Perspectives on Science 13, no. 3 (2005). Bloor’s critique is illuminating without being, in my view, fully on target. 6. Rheinberger, An Epistemology of the Concrete. 7. See Derek Lessing and Nancy M. Bonini, “Maintaining the Brain: Insight into Human Neurodegeneration from Drosophila Mutants,” Nature Review Genetics 10, no. 6 (2009): 359–­70. 8. See Charles C. Ragin, “Introduction: Cases,” in What Is a Case? Exploring the Foundations of Social Inquiry, ed. Charles Ragin, Howard Saul Becker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 1–­18; Jennifer Platt, “Cases of Cases . . . of Cases,” in What Is a Case?, 21–­52; Jörg R. Bergmann, “Der Fall als epistemisches Objekt,” in Der Fall: Studien zur epistemischen Praxis professionellen Handelns, ed. Bergmann, Ulrich Dausendschön-­Gay, Frank Oberzaucher (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2014), 423–­41; Susann Wagenknecht and Jessica Pflüger, “Making Cases: On the Processuality of Casings in Social Research,” Zeitschrift für Soziologie 47, no. 5 (2018): 289–­305; and Iddo Tavory and Stefan Timmermans, “Two Cases of Ethnography: Grounded Theory and the Extended Case Method,” Ethnography (2009) 10:1–­21. 9. See Dorit Geva, Conscription, Family, and the Modern State: A Comparative Study of France and the United States (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013). 10. Platt, “Cases of Cases . . . of Cases,” in What Is a Case? Susan Peck MacDonald has made the argument that for the literary disciplines, the epistemic target is relatively open to individuals, who start from an interest in a specific texts. “In the process of moving upwards toward more abstract classification . . . interpreters may choose abstract categories relatively unconstrained by any prior professional or disciplinary agreements. . . . In . . . social science writing, by contrast, the abstract conceptual terms are likely to be defined from the outset by the academic community.” With this, she highlights an important variable that could be examined further; I would highlight here that the way she formulates her hypothesis or anticipates findings about different disciplines is shaped by the context of undergraduate writing rather than research, as she herself would acknowledge, Susan Peck MacDonald, “Data-­Driven and Conceptually Driven Academic Discourse,” Written Communication 6, no. 4 (1989): 414. 11. Joan H. Fujimura, “Standardizing Practices: A Socio-­history of Experimental Systems in Classical Genetic and Viriological Cancer Research, ca. 1920–­1978,” History and Philosophy of the Life Sciences (1996): 287. See also Hans-­Jörg Rheinberger, “Difference Machines.” Configurations 23, no. 2 (2015): 165–­76. 12. Rheinberger, “Historische Epistemologie,” in Von der Arbeit des Historikers: Ein Wörterbuch zur Theorie und Praxis, ed. Anne Kwaschik and Mario Wimmer (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2014), 103–­6. 13. James W. McAllister, “The Virtual Laboratory: Thought Experiments in Seventeenth-­ Century Mechanics,” in Collection, Laboratory, Theater, ed. Helmar Schramm, Ludger Schwarte, and Jan Lazardzig (Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 2005), 35–­56; Ray A. Sorensen, Thought Experiments (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999); Mary S. Morgan, “The Curious Case of the Prisoner’s Dilemma: Model Situation? Exemplary Narrative?,” in Science without Laws: Model Systems, Cases, Exemplary Narratives, ed. Angela N. H. Creager, Elizabeth Lunbeck, and M. Norton Wise (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 157–­186. 14. Sina Farzin and Henning Laux, Gründungsszenen soziologischer Theorie (Wiesbaden: Springer, 2014); Lolle W. Nauta, “Historical Roots of the Concept of Autonomy in Western Philosophy,” Praxis International 4, no. 4 (1984): 363–­77; Jens Ruchatz, Stefan Willer, and Nicolas Pethes, “Das Beispiel,” Epistemologie des Exemplarischen (Berlin: Kulturverlag Kadmos, 2007).

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15. Rheinberger uses the same term in a different way; see chapter 3. 16. However, see Ankeny and Leonelli for observations about self-­serving overuse of the term “model systems.” While they seek to insist on the distinction in normative terms, my aim is to use it to ask about socially attributed privilege. Rachel A. Ankeny and Sabina Leonelli, “What’s So Special about Model Organisms?,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Science 42, no. 2 (2011): 313–­23. 17. Scott F. Gilbert, “The Adequacy of Model Systems for Evo-­Devo: Modeling the Formation of Organisms/ Modeling the Formation of Society,” in Mapping the Future of Biology, ed. Anouk Barberousse, Michel Morange, and Thomas Pradeu (Dordrecht, Netherlands: Springer, 2009), 57. 18. Ankeny and Leonelli, “What’s So Special about Model Organisms?” 19. Kueffer, Pyšek, and Richardson, “Integrative Invasion Science.” 20. See Guggenheim and Krause, “The Model Systems of Sociology” 21. Frank Kermode, Pleasure and Change: The Aesthetics of Canon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004); John Guillory, Cultural Capital: The Problem of Literary Canon Formation (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993). 22. Poovey, “The Model System of Contemporary Literary Criticism.” 23. Jennifer Robinson, Ordinary Cities: Between Modernity and Development (London: Routledge, 2006). 24. Gieryn, “City as Truth-­Spot.” 25. Gieryn, 10–­11. 26. See Robert E. Park, Ernest W. Burgess, and Roderick D. McKenzie, The City (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1925); Louis Wirth, “Urbanism as a Way of Life,” American Journal of Sociology 44, no. 1 (1938); William J. Wilson, The Declining Significance of Race (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978); Wilson, The Truly Disadvantaged: The Inner City, the Underclass, and Public Policy (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987); Wilson, When Work Disappears: The World of the New Urban Poor (New York: Knopf, 1996); Loïc Wacquant, Body & Soul: Ethnographic Notebooks of An Apprentice Boxer (New York: Oxford University Press, 2004); Wacquant, Urban Outcasts: A Comparative Sociology of Advanced Marginality (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2008); Sudhir A. Venkatesh, American Project: The Rise and Fall of a Modern Ghetto (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000); Venkatesh, Off the Books: The Underground Economy of the Urban Poor (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006); and Eric Klinenberg, Heat Wave: A Social Autopsy of Disaster in Chicago (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012). 27. Mario L. Small, “Is There Such a Thing as ‘the Ghetto’?,” City 11, no. 3 (2007): 413–­21; Mario L. Small, “No Two Ghettos Are Alike,” Chronicle of Higher Education 17 (2014). 28. See Michael J. Dear and J. Dallas Dishman, eds., From Chicago to L.A.: Making Sense of Urban Theory (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2002), particularly Michael J. Dear and Steven Flusty, “The Resistible Rise of the L.A. School,” in From Chicago to L.A.: Making Sense of Urban Theory, ed. Dear and Dallas J. Dishman, (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2002) 3–­16; and Dennis R. Judd and Dick W. Simpson, The City, Revisited: Urban Theory from Chicago, Los Angeles, and New York (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2011). 29. Michael J. Dear and Nicholas Dahmann, “Urban Politics and the Los Angeles School of Urbanism,” Urban Affairs Review 44, no. 2 (2008): 280. 30. Dear and Dahmann, “Urban Politics,” 268 (my emphasis). 31. Robinson, Ordinary Cities, 2. 32. Robinson, Ordinary Cities. See also Abdu Maliq Simone, For the City Yet to Come: Urban Life in Four African Cities (Durham, NC: Duke University Press 2004); Abdu Maliq Simone, Improvising Lives: Afterlives of an Urban South (Cambridge: Polity, 2018).

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33. See, for example, Matthew Gandy, “Learning from Lagos,” New Left Review 33 (2005): 37–­53. 34. Mathieu Hilgers, “Contribution à une anthropologie des villes secondaires,” Cahiers d’Etudes Africaines 1, no. 205 (2012): 29–­55. 35. Philipp Oswalt, Shrinking Cities, Volume 1: International Research (Ostfildern-­Ruit, Germany: Hatje Cantz, 2005). 36. Herbert Gans, “Some Problems of and Futures for Urban Sociology,” City & Community 8, no. 3 (2009): 211–­19; Monika Krause, “The Ruralization of the World,” Public Culture 25, no. 2 (2013): 233–­48. 37. Daniel Brook, “Slumming It,” Baffler, no. 25, July 2014, https://thebaffler.com/salvos /slumming-­it; Kalpana Sharma, Rediscovering Dharavi (New Delhi: Penguin Books, 2000); Roma Chatterji, “Plans, Habitation and Slum Redevelopment: The Production of Community in Dharavi, Mumbai,” Contributions to Indian Sociology 39, no. 2 (2005): 197–­218; Madhurima Nandy, “Harvard Students Get Lessons on Dharavi,” Livemint, March 23, 2010; Edward Glaeser, Triumph of the City: How Our Greatest Invention Makes Us Richer, Smarter, Greener, Healthier, and Happier (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 2011); Mark Jacobson, “Dharavi: Mumbai‘s Shadow City,” National Geographic, May 2007; Lisa Weinstein, The Durable Slum: Dharavi and the Right to Stay Put in Globalizing Mumbai (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2014). 38. Adam Smith, The Wealth of Nations: An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations (1776; Petersfield: Harriman House, 1976), 3–­4. See also Jean-­Louis Peaucelle, “Adam Smith’s Use of Multiple References for His Pin Making Example,” European Journal of the History of Economic Thought 13, no. 4 (2006): 489–­512. 39. Pierre Rôle, “Compte Rendu de lecture sur La revolution automobilique,” Sociologie du travail 21, no. 3 (1968). 40. See Anne-­Sophie Perrieux, Renault et les Sciences Sociales, 1948–­1991 (Paris: Seli Arslan, 1999); and Gwenaëlle Rot, Sociologie de l’atelier: Renault, le travail ouvrier et le sociologue (Toulouse, France: Octarès, 2006). I thank Jörg Potthast for alerting me to these studies. 41. Rot, Sociologie de l’atelier, 17 (my translation). 42. See, for example, Daniel Mothé, Militant chez Renault (Paris: Edition du Seuil, 1965); Mothé, Les O. S. Paris: Cerf, 1972; and Jacques Fremontier, Renault, la “forteresse ouvrière” (Paris: Fayard, 1971), discussed in Rot, Sociologie de l’atelier, 24ff. 43. Gieryn, “City as Truth-­Spot,” 10–­11. 44. Touraine cited in Rot, Sociologie de l’atelier, 17 (my translation). 45. Laure Pitti, “Renault, la ‘forteresse ouvrière’ à l’épreuve de la guerre d’Algérie,” Vingtième Siècle: Revue d’histoire 83, no. 3, (2004): 131 (my translation). 46. Pitti, “Renault, la ‘forteresse ouvrière,’ ” 132 (my translation). 47. Rot, Sociologie de L’atelier. 48. Flins, a more modern factory, founded in 1951, features in Jean Marie Konczyk, Gaston, L’aventure d’un ouvrier (Paris: Éditions Git-­Le-­Coeur, 1971). 49. Volvo: Nicole Dhome, “L’enrichissement du travail humain dans le groupe Volvo,” Revue francaise des affaires sociales, no. 3, 1976; Volvo and Fiat: Henri Douard, “Innovation industrielle et changement social: Volvo et Fiat,” Esprit, n.s., no. 448, 1975; Citroën: Robert Linhart, The Assembly Line, trans. Margaret Crosland (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1981). 50. See, for example, Pascale Trompette, “ ‘Un rayon de soleil dans l’atelier . . .’: Le quotidien du travail dans une usine nucléaire,” Terrain: Anthropologie & sciences humaines 39 (2002): 49–­ 68; William E. Thompson, “Hanging Tongues: A Sociological Encounter with the Assembly

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Line,” Qualitative Sociology 6, no. 3 (1983) 215–­37; Hannah Meara, “Honor in Dirty Work: The Case of American Meat Cutters and Turkish Butchers,” Sociology of Work and Occupations 1, no. 3 (1974): 259–­83; Rachel Sherman, Class Acts: Service and Inequality in Luxury Hotels (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007); Karen Ho, Liquidated: An Ethnography of Wall Street (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2009); and Darren Thiel, “Class in Construction: London Building Workers, Dirty Work and Physical Cultures,” British Journal of Sociology 58, no. 2 (2007): 227–­251. 51. See Nona Y. Glazer, “Servants to Capital: Unpaid Domestic Labor and Paid Work,” Review of Radical Political Economics 16, no. 1 (1984): 60–­87; Ruth Schwartz Cowan, More Work for Mother: The Ironies of Household Technology from the Open Hearth to the Microwave (New York: Basic Books, 1985); Michael Palm, Technologies of Consumer Labor (London: Routledge, 2016); Tiziana Terranova, “Free Labour: Producing Culture for the Digital Economy,” Social Text 18, no. 2 (2000): 33–­58; and Laura Lee Downs, “War Work,” in The Cambridge History of the First World War, ed. Jay Winter (Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 2014), 3:72–­95. 52. The focus on the car industry leads the author of one review article to note: “The aim of this chapter is to consider the rise, development and decline of Fordism, and the alternatives to Fordism, namely neo-­Fordism and post-­Fordism, primarily with reference to car production since this was the source and the main focus of research that utilizes these concepts.” Stephen Edgell, The Sociology of Work: Continuity and Change in Paid and Unpaid Work (London: Sage, 2011), 91. 53. Recent work on studio studies references laboratories, not shop floors; see Ignacio Farias and Alex Wilkie, Studio Studies (London: Routledge, 2016). 54. For an initial formulation of this analysis, compare to Guggenheim and Krause, “The Model Systems of Sociology.” 55. Mary S. Morgan and Margaret Morrison, Models as Mediators: Perspectives on Natural and Social Science (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); Mary Morgan, The World in the Model: How Economists Work and Think (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012). 56. Stefan Bargheer, “Taxonomic Morality,” Social Science History Association (SSHA) 34th Annual Meeting, Long Beach, California, November 2009. 57. Krzysztof Pomian, Collectors and Curiosities: Paris and Venice, 1500–­1800 (Cambridge: Polity Press, 1990); Nicholas Thomas, Entangled Objects: Exchange, Material Culture, and Colonialism in the Pacific (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991); John Elsner and Roger Cardinal, The Cultures of Collecting (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1994); Paula Findlen, Possessing Nature: Museums, Collecting, and Scientific Culture in Early Modern Italy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994); Arthur MacGregor, Curiosity and Enlightenment: Collectors and Collections from the Sixteenth to the Nineteenth Century (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007). 58. Michael D. Coe, “From Huaquero to Connoisseur: The Early Market in Pre-­Columbian Art,” in Collecting the Pre-­Columbian Past: A Symposium, ed. Elizabeth Hill Boone (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1993), 279–­81; Roger Atwood, Stealing History: Tomb Raiders, Smugglers, and the Looting of the Ancient World (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2004); Fiona Rose-­Greenland, “Looters, Collectors, and a Passion for Antiquities,” Journal of Modern Italian Studies 19, no. 5 (2014); Philippa Levine, The Amateur and the Professional: Antiquarians, Historians and Archaeologists in Victorian England, 1838–­1886 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008); Stephen L. Dyson, In Pursuit of Ancient Pasts: A History of Classical Archaeology in the Nineteenth and Twentieth Centuries (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008).

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59. Alain Besson, “Private Medical Libraries,” in Thornton’s Medical Books, Libraries and Collectors, ed. Besson (Aldershot: Gower Publishing Group, 1990). 60. Tony Bennett, The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics (London: Routledge, 1995); Ken Arnold, Cabinets for the Curious: Looking Back at Early English Museums (London: Routledge: 2006). 61. Anke te Heesen and Emma C. Spary, Sammeln als Wissen: Sammeln und seine wissenschaftsgeschichtliche Bedeutung (Goettingen: Wallstein Verlag, 2001); Findlen, Possessing Nature; Stephen T. Asma, Stuffed Animals and Pickled Heads: The Culture and Evolution of Natural History Museums (New York: Oxford University Press, 2001); Robert E. Kohler, “Finders, Keepers: Collecting Sciences and Collecting Practice,” History of Science 45, no. 4 (2007): 428–­54, History of Science 45, no. 4 (2007); Bargheer, “Taxonomic Morality.” 62. See, for example, Michael L. Draney and Jeffrey W. Shultz, “Harvestmen (Opiliones) of the Savannah River Site, South Carolina,” Southeastern Naturalist 15, no. 4 (2016). 63. See, for example, Hong-­Zhang Zhou and Xiao-­Dong Yu, “Rediscovery of the Family Synteliidae (Coleoptera: Histeroidea),” Coleopterists Bulletin 57, no. 3 (2003); and Joanna Zalewska-­Gałosz, “Potamogeton × subrufus Hagstr.,” Annales Botanici Fennici 47, no. 4 (2010). 64. Henrika Kuklick and Robert E. Kohler, “Science in the Field,” Osiris 11 (1996): 6. 65. Adam Kuper, “Postmodernism, Cambridge and the Great Kalahari Debate,” in Among the Anthropologists: History and Context in Anthropology, ed. Kuper (London: Athlone, 1999), 20. 66. Andrew Lawler, “Neglected Civilization Grabs Limelight,” Science 302, no. 5647 (2003): 979. 67. Paul Voosen, “Jilted Again, Venus Scientists Pine for Their Neglected Planet,” Science 355, no. 6321 (2017): 116. 68. See Frederick W. Gibbs and Daniel J. Cohen, “A Conversation with Data: Prospecting Victorian Words and Ideas,” Victorian Studies 54, no. 1 (2011). 69. Bargheer, “Taxonomic Morality.” 70. See Jeanne Fahnestock and Marie Secor, “The Rhetoric of Literary Criticism,” in Textual Dynamics of the Professions, ed. Charles Bazerman and James G. Paradis (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1991), 76–­96. I thank Minna-Kerttu Vienola for work on a research project on the epistemic targets in publications of major journals in literary studies. 71. On the debate in geography, see Manuel Aalbers, “Creative Destruction through the Anglo-­American Hegemony,” Area 36, no. 3 (2004): 319–­22. 72. For a discussion of the proliferation of analyses of all kinds of sites as “laboratories,” see Mi­ chael Guggenheim, “Laboratizing and De-­laboratizing the World: Changing Sociological Concepts for Places of Knowledge-­Production,” History of the Human Sciences 25, no. 1 (2012): 99−118. 73. Raewyn Connell, Southern Theory: The Global Dynamics of Knowledge in Social Science (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2007), 81. 74. Julian Go, “For a Postcolonial Sociology,” Theory and Society 42, no. 1 (2013), 25–­55. 75. Creager, Lunbeck, and Wise, Science without Laws, 2. 76. Mark Ventresca, “When States Count: Institutional and Political Dynamics in Modern Census Establishment, 1800–­1993,” PhD diss., Stanford University, 1995; Evelyn Ruppert, “Becoming Peoples: Counting Heads in Northern Wilds,” Journal of Cultural Economy 2, nos. 1–­2 (2009): 11–­31; Ruppert, “Population Objects: Interpassive Subjects,” Sociology 45, no. 2 (2011): 218–­33. 77. Educational research, for example, sometimes examines data about all schools in En­ gland, or all schools in Texas, or all secondary schools in Finland. For a review of studies of the association between school size and success, see Garrett et al., Secondary School Size: A Systematic Review (London: EPPI-­Centre, 2004).

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78. See John Logan and Mark Schneider, “Racial Segregation and Racial Change in American Suburbs, 1970–­1980,” American Journal of Sociology 89, no. 4 (1984): 874–­88. 79. Mike Savage and Roger Burrows, “The Coming Crisis of Empirical Sociology,” Sociology 41, no. 5 (2007): 885–­99. 80. See, for example, Hadas Mandel and Moshe Semyonov, “Going Back in Time? Gender Differences in Trends and Sources of the Racial Pay Gap, 1970 to 2010,” American Sociological Review 81, no. 5 (2016): 1039–­68. 81. See Joscha Legewie and Merlin Schaeffer, “Contested Boundaries: Explaining Where Ethnoracial Diversity Provokes Neighborhood Conflict,” American Journal of Sociology 122, no. 1 (2016): 125–­61. 82. Peter M. Blau and Otis Dudley Duncan, The American Occupational Structure (New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1967). 83. Mary S. Morgan and Tarja Knuuttila, “Models and Modelling in Economics,” in Philosophy of Economics: Handbook of the Philosophy of Science 13, ed. Uskali Mäki (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 2012), 49–­87. 84. Mary S. Morgan and Marcel Boumans, “Secrets Hidden by Two-­Dimensionality: The Economy as a Hydraulic Machine,” in Models: The Third Dimension of Science, ed. Soraya de Chadarevian and Nick Hopwood (Palo Alto, CA: Stanford University Press, 2004), 369–­401. See also Morgan, The World in the Model. 85. Creager, Lunbeck, and Wise, Science without Laws, 2. See also Evelyn Keller Fox, “Models Of and Models For: Theory and Practice in Contemporary Biology,” Philosophy of Science 67 (2000): S72–­S86. 86. See Klaus Ammann, “Menschen, Mäuse und Fliegen,” Zeitschrift für Soziologie 23, no. 1 (1994): 22–­40; and Hugo J. Bellen, Chao Tong, and Hiroshi Tsuda, “100 Years of Drosophila Research and Its Impact on Vertebrate Neuroscience: A History Lesson for the Future,” Nature Reviews Neuroscience 11, no. 7 (2010): 514–­22. 87. Morgan and Knuuttila in “Models and Modelling in Economics” ultimately argue that there is no such distinction between statistical and mathematical modeling as in complex statistical work, and that the testing of models also involves artefacts that take on a life of their own. 88. Peter S. Bearman, James Moody, and Katherine Stovel, “Chains of Affection: The Structure of Adolescent Romantic and Sexual Networks,” American Journal of Sociology 110, no. 1 (2004): 44−91. 89. Krause, “The Ruralization of the World.” 90. See Oswalt, Shrinking Cities. 91. See Theda Skocpol, States and Social Revolutions: A Comparative Analysis of France, Russia, and China (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979); Skocpol, “Cultural Idioms and Political Ideologies in the Revolutionary Reconstruction of State Power,” Journal of Modern History 57, no. 1 (1985): 86–­96; and William H. Sewell, “Ideologies and Social Revolutions,” Journal of Modern History 57, no. 1 (1994): 57–­85. Chapter Two 1. Ian Hacking, “The Looping Effects of Human Kinds,” in Symposia of the Fyssen Foundation: Causal Cognition: A Multidisciplinary Debate, ed. D. Sperber, D. Premack, and A. J. Premack (New York: Clarendon Press/Oxford University Press, 1995), 351–­94. 2. Merton, Three Fragments, 10ff.

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3. Frederic L. Holmes, “The Old Martyr of Science: The Frog in Experimental Physiology,” Journal of the History of Biology 26, no. 2 (1993): 311–­28. 4. Merton, Three Fragments, 20; Robert K. Merton, Mass Persuasion: The Social Psychology of a War Bond Drive (1946; New York: Howard Fertig Publishers, 2004). See also Peter Simonson, “The Serendipity of Merton’s Communication Research,” International Journal of Public Opinion Research 17, no. 3 (October 2005): 277–­97. 5. Pierre Bourdieu and Jean-­Claude Passeron, Reproduction in Education, Society and Culture (London: Sage, 1990). 6. Michael Hechter, Steven Pfaff, and Patrick Underwood, “Grievances and the Genesis of Rebellion: Mutiny in the Royal Navy, 1740 to 1820,” American Sociological Review 81, no. 1 (2016): 165−89. See also Ivan Ermakoff, Ruling Oneself Out: A Theory of Collective Abdication (Chapel Hill, NC: Duke University Press, 2008). 7. Charles C. Ragin and Howard S. Becker, eds., What Is a Case? Exploring the Foundations of Social Inquiry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992); Michael Burawoy, “The Extended Case Method,” Sociological Theory (1998): 4–­33; Jean-­Claude Passeron and Jacques Revel, Penser par Cas (Paris: Ecoles des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, 2005); Bent Flyvbjerg, “Five Misunderstandings about Case-­Study Research,” Qualitative Inquiry 12, no. 2 (2006): 219–­ 45; Katherine K. Chen, “Using Extreme Cases to Understand Organizations,” in Handbook of Qualitative Organizational Research: Innovative Pathways and Methods, ed. Kimberly D. Elsbach and Roderick M. Kramer (New York, NY: Routledge, 2015), 33–­44; Ivan Ermakoff, “Exceptional Cases: Epistemic Contributions and Normative Expectations,” European Journal of Sociology 55, no. 2 (2014): 223–­43; Iddo Tavory and Stefan Timmermans. Abductive Analysis. Theorizing Qualitative Research (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2014). For an overview, see John Gerring and Lee Cojocaru, “Selecting Cases for Intensive Analysis: A Diversity of Goals and Methods,” Sociological Methods and Research 45, no. 3 (2016): 392–­423. 8. Michel Wieviorka, “Case Studies: History or Sociology?,” in What Is a Case? Exploring the Foundations of Social Inquiry, ed. Charles C. Ragin and Howard S. Becker (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 159–­73. 9. Simonson, “The Serendipity of Merton’s Communication Research,” 10–­11. 10. See Robert K. Merton, “The Bearing of Sociological Theory on Research,” American Sociological Review 13 (5) 1948: 505–­15; and Robert Merton and Elinor Barber, The Travels and Adventures of Serendipity: A Study in Sociological Semantics and the Sociology of Science (Prince­ ton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004). 11. Merton, Three Fragments, 2. 12. Hans Krebs, “The August Krogh Principle: ‘For Many Problems There Is an Animal on Which It Can Be Most Conveniently Studied,’ ” Journal of Experimental Zoology 194, no. 1 (1975): 221–­26. On the importance of specific examples, see Thomas Huxley, “Letter on Agriculture,” Yorkshire Herald, April 1891, last accessed February 7, 2019, https://mathcs.clarku.edu/huxley /UnColl/PMG/PMGetal/Agri.html. 13. August Krogh, “The Progress of Physiology,” American Journal of Physiology 90, no. 2 (1929): 247. For an account of epistemological shifts between Krogh and Krebs, see Cheryl Logan, “Before There Were Standards: The Role of Test Animals in the Production of Empirical Generality in Physiology,” Journal of the History of Biology 35, no. 2 (2002): 329–­63. 14. Harriet Zuckerman and Jonathan R. Cole, “Research Strategies in Science: A Preliminary Inquiry,” Creativity Research Journal 7, nos. 3–­4 (1994): 391–­405. 15. Zuckerman and Cole, “Research Strategies in Science,” 400.

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16. Krogh, “The Progress,” 247 (my emphasis). 17. Cheryl Logan, “ ‘[A]re Norway Rats . . . Things?’ Diversity versus Generality in the Use of Albino Rats in Experiments on Development and Sexuality,” Journal of the History of Biology 34, no. 2 (2001): 287. 18. “Why Use the Worm in Research?,” Yourgenome, last updated June 19, 2015, https://www .yourgenome.org/facts/why-­use-­the-­worm-­in-­research. 19. Firebaugh, for example, writes: “After determining what you want to study, you need to determine whom to study. First you need to determine what target population your results are meant to describe.” Glenn Firebaugh, Seven Rules for Social Research (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008), 18 (emphasis in the original). 20. Joe Kunkel, “What Makes a Good Model System?,” Joe Kunkel’s Web Page: Biological Research & Development, September 22, 2006, https://www.bio.umass.edu/biology/kunkel/modelsys.html. 21. Kueffer, Pyšek, and Richardson, “Integrative Invasion Science,” 618. 22. Adele E. Clarke and Joan H. Fujimura, “What Tools? Which Jobs? Why Right?,” in The Right Tools for the Job: At Work in Twentieth-­Century Life Sciences, ed. Clarke and Fujimura, 9. 23. Fujimura, “Standardizing Practices”; Joan H. Fujimura, “Constructing ‘Do-­able’ Problems in Cancer Research: Articulating Alignment,” Social Studies of Science 17, no. 2 (1987): 257–­93. Rheinberger discusses what Fujimura calls standardized package on similar terms as an “experimental system.” Hans-­Jörg Rheinberger, Experimental Systems: Entry Encyclopedia for the History of the Life Sciences., last accessed September 30, 2019, https://vip.mpiwg-­berlin.mpg.de /refences?id=enc19 2004; and Rheinberger, Towards a History of Epistemic Things. 24. Bonnie Clause, “The Wistar Rat as a Right Choice: Establishing Mammalian Standards and the Ideal of a Standardized Mammal,” Journal of the History of Biology 26, no. 2 (1993): 330. 25. Karen Rader, “ ‘The Mouse People’: Murine Genetics Work at the Bussey Institution, 1909–­1936,” Journal of the History of Biology 31, no. 3 (1998): 351; Barbara Kimmelman, “Organisms and Interests in Scientific Research: R. A. Emerson’s Claims for the Unique Contribution of Agricultural Genetics,” in The Right Tools for the Job: At Work in Twentieth-­Century Life Sciences, ed. Adele. E. Clarke and Joan H. Fujimura (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992): 223. 26. See Kohler, Lords of the Fly; and Rader, “ ‘The Mouse People.’ ” 27. Joe Kunkel, “The Cockroach: A Model System for Biologists,” Joe Kunkel’s Web Page: Biological Research & Development, November 11, 1995, last updated November 24, 1996, http:// www.bio.umass.edu/biology/kunkel/blattari.html. 28. Claudio D. Stern, “The Chick: A Great Model System Becomes Even Greater,” Developmental Cell 8, no. 1 (2005): 9–­17. 29. Adele E. Clarke, “Research Materials and Reproductive Science in the United States, 1910–­1940,” in Physiology in the American Context, 1850–­1940, ed. G. L. Geison (Bethesda: American Physiological Society, 1987), 323–­50. 30. Kimmelman, “Organisms and Interests in Scientific Research,” 212. 31. Evelyn Fox Keller, A Feeling for the Organism: The Life and Work of Barbara McClintock (New York: Henry Holt, 1983). 32. Dave W. Burt, “Emergence of the Chicken as a Model Organism: Implications for Agriculture and Biology,” Poultry Science 86 (7): 1460–­7 1. 33. See Ronald J. Troyer and Gerald E. Markle, Cigarettes: The Battle over Smoking (New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 1983). 34. See Evelyn Fox Keller, “Climate Science, Truth, and Democracy,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Biological and Biomedical Sciences 64 (2017) 106–­22.

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35. See Linsey McGoey, “Profitable Failure: Antidepressant Drugs and the Triumph of Flawed Experiments,” History of the Human Sciences 23, no. 1 (2010): 58–­78. 36. Linsey McGoey and Emily Jackson, “Seroxat and the Suppression of Clinical Trial Data: Regulatory Failure and the Uses of Legal Ambiguity,” Journal of Medical Ethics 35, no. 2 (2009): 107–­12; John P. Swann, Academic Scientists and the Pharmaceutical Industry: Cooperative Research in Twentieth-­Century America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1988). 37. See Mike Allen and Nancy Burrell, “Comparing the Impact of Homosexual and Heterosexual Parents on Children: Meta-­analysis of Existing Research,” Journal of Homosexuality 32, no. 2 (1996): 19−35; Judith Stacey and Timothy Biblarz, “Does the Sexual Orientation of Parents Matter?,” American Sociological Review 66, no. 22 (2001): 159−83; and Russell Jacoby and Naomi Glauberman, eds., The Bell Curve Debate: History, Documents, Opinions (New York: Times Books, 1995). 38. Daniel Hirschman, “Stylized Facts in the Social Sciences,” Sociological Science, July 19, 2016. See also Mary Morgan, “Glass Ceilings and Sticky Floors: Drawing New Ontologies,” in Cultures without Culturalism in the Making of Scientific Knowledge, ed. K. Chemla and E. Fox Keller (Chapel Hill: Duke University Press, 2017), 145–­70. 39. See Gavin Yamey, “The World’s Most Neglected Diseases. Ignored by Pharmaceutical Industry and by Public-­Private Partnerships,” British Medical Journal 325 (2002): 176−77; Belen Pedrique et al., “The Drug and Vaccine Landscape for Neglected Diseases (2000−11): A Systematic Assessment,” Lancet 1, no. 6 (2013): 371−79. We also know, more subtly, that within well-­researched diseases there are neglected forms; for example, some malarias are neglected malarias. See Ann H. Kelly and Uli Beisel, “Neglected Malarias. The Frontlines and Backalleys of Global Health,” BioSocieties 6, no. 1 (March 2011): 71–­87. 40. Rachel Kahn Best, “Disease Politics and Medical Research Funding: Three Ways Advocacy Shapes Policy,” American Sociological Review 77, no. 5 (2012): 780−803. 41. For a formal mapping, see James Moody and Ryan Light, “A View from Above: The Evolving Sociological Landscape,” American Sociologist (2006): 67–­86. 42. Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish (New York: Penguin, 1979); David Garland, “The Criminal and His Science. A Critical Account of the Formation of Criminology at the End of the Nineteenth Century,” British Journal of Criminology 25, no. 2 (1985): 109–­37. 43. Novick reports that American historians in the late nineteenth century were watching closely as classicists and the Modern Language Association organized to make claims on pupils and urged one another on to do the same: “How long are we to stand idle and see history neglected in the schools. . . . You must see that the graduate work in history in universities is dependent on a recognition by the schools of the fact that trained men are needed for teaching the subject. Where would German universities be if they were not engaged in preparing gymnasium teachers.” Andrew C. McLaughlin, cited in Peter Novick, That Noble Dream: The “Objectivity Question” and the American Historical Profession (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989), 70. 44. Karen Hausen, “Die Nicht-­Einheit der Geschichte als historiografische Herausforderung: Zur historischen Relevanz und Anstößigkeit der Geschlechtergeschichte,” in Die Bielefelder Sozialgeschichte. Klassische Texte zu einem geschichtswissenschaftlichen Programm und seinen Kontroversen, ed. Bettina Hitzer and Thomas Weslkopp (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2010), 371−93; Peter Geiss, “ ‘Wozu brauche ich das alles im Unterricht?‘—­Geschichtswissenschaft in der Lehrerbildung,” in Fachkulturen in der Lehrerbildung, ed. Geiss, Roland Ißler, and Rainer Kaenders with support from Victor Henri Jaeschke (Göttingen: Wissenschaft und Lehrerbildung, 2016), 61−94.

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45. See American Historical Association, “Affiliated Societies,” n.d., last accessed August 15, 2020, https://www.historians.org/about-­aha-­and-­membership/affiliated-­societies. 46. William M. Johnston, Celebrations: The Cult of Anniversaries in Europe and the United States Today (London: Transaction Publishers, 1991). 47. Hew Strachan, The First World War. A New History (Simon and Schuster: 2014); Justus D. Doenecke, Nothing Less than War: A New History of America’s Entry into World War I (Lexington: The University of Kenturcky Press, 2011); Emily Mayhew, Wounded. A New History of the Western Front in World War I (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013); Ian Senior, Home Before the Leaves Fall. A New History of the German Invasion of 1914 (Oxford: Osprey) 48. See Donald Fisher, “American Philanthropy and the Social Sciences in Britain, 1919−1939: The Reproduction of a Conservative Ideology,” Sociological Review 28, no. 2 (1980): 277−315; Fisher, “The Role of Philanthropic Foundations in the Reproduction and Production of Hegemony: Rockefeller Foundations and the Social Sciences,” Sociology 17, no. 2 (1983): 206−33; Fisher, “Philanthropic Foundations and the Social Sciences: A Response to Martin Bulmer,” Sociology 18, no. 4 (1984): 580−87; and Martin Bulmer and Joan Bulmer, “Philanthropy and Social Science in the 1920s: Beardsley Ruml and the Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial, 1922−29,” Minerva 19 (1981): 347−407. But see also Jennifer Platt, “Has Funding Made a Difference to Research Methods?,” Sociological Research Online 1, no. 1 (1996); and Martin Bulmer, “Philanthropic Foundations and the Development of the Social Sciences in the Early Twentieth Century: A Reply to Donald Fisher.” Sociology 18, no. 4 (1984): 572−79. 49. See George Steinmetz, “American Sociology before and after World War II: The (Temporary) Settling of a Disciplinary Field,” in Sociology in America, ed. Craig Calhoun (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 314–­66; and Julian Go, “Sociology’s Imperial Unconscious: The Emergence of American Sociology in the Context of Empire,” in Sociology and Empire: Entanglements of a History, ed. George Steinmetz (Chapel Hill, NC: Duke University Press, 2013), 83–­105. 50. Savage and Burrows, “The Coming Crisis of Empirical Sociology.” 51. Jeffrey Jensen Arnett, “The Neglected 95%: Why American Psychology Needs to Become Less American,” American Psychologist 63, no. 7 (2008): 604; Joseph Heinrich, Steven J. Heine, and Ara Norenzayan, “The Weirdest People in the World,” Behavioural and Brain Science 33, nos. 2–­3 (2010): 1–­23. See also the commentaries to Heinrich, Heine, and Norenzayan in Behavioural and Brain Science 33, nos. 2–­3 (2010). 52. Paul Rozin, “What Is Really Wrong with A Priori Claims of Universality? Sampling, Validity, Process Level, and the Irresistible Drive to Reduce,” Behavioural and Brain Science 33, nos. 2–­3 (2010): 48. 53. The estates of James Joyce and Sylvia Plath (the latter controlled by Ted Hughes during his lifetime) are notorious examples; see, for example, Jacqueline Rose, “This Is Not a Biography,” London Review of Books 24, no. 16 (August 22, 2002). See also the warning by the heir to Louis Zukofsky to researchers: “I urge you to not work on Louis Zukofsky, and prefer that you do not. Working on LZ will be far more trouble than it is worth.” “Copyright Notice by PZ,” Z-­ site: A Companion to the Works of Louis Zukofsky, September 17, 2009, https://web.archive.org /web/20120219114302/http:/www.z-­site.net/copyright-­notice-­by-­pz/. 54. See, for example, Arash and Andrea Nekoei Weber, “Does Extending Unemployment Benefits Improve Job Quality?,” American Economic Review, 107, no. 2 (2017): 527–­61. 55. Simon Collinson and Allan M. Rugman, “Case Selection Biases in Management Research,” European Journal of International Management 4, no. 5 (2010): 441–­63. 56. See, for example, Renée C. Fox, “Medical Humanitarianism and Human Rights: Reflec-

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tion on Doctors without Borders and Doctors of the World,” Social Science and Medicine 41, no. 12 (1995): 1607–­16; Didier Fassin, “Inequalities of Lives, Hierarchies of Humanity: Moral Commitments and Ethical Dilemmas of Humanitarianism,” in In the Name of Humanity: The Government of Threat and Care, ed. I. Feldman and M. Ticktin (Durham, NC: Duke University Press 2010), 238–­55; and Peter Redfield, Life in Crisis: The Ethical Journey of Doctors Without Borders (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2013). 57. For critical reflection on this and other cases, see Michaela Benson and Karen O’Reilly, “From Lifestyle Migration to Lifestyle in Migration: Categories, Concepts and Ways of Thinking,” Migration Studies 4, no. 1 (2016): 20–­37; Michaela C. Benson, The British in Rural France: Lifestyle Migration and the Ongoing Quest for a Better Way of Life (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2011); Adrian Favell, Eurostars and Eurocities: Free Movement and Mobility in an Integrating Europe (Malden: Blackwell, 2008); Claire Brickell, “Geographies of Contemporary Christian Mission(aries),” Geography Compass, December 6, 2012, 725–­39; and Lucy Williams. Global Marriage: Cross-­Border Marriage Migration in Global Context (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010). 58. Pierre Bourdieu, Pascalian Meditations (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000). 59. Colin J. Beck, “The Comparative Method in Practice: Case Selection and the Social Science of Revolution,” Social Science History 43, no. 3 (2017): 533–­54. 60. Jürgen Roth and Rayk Wieland, Öde Orte: Ausgesuchte Stadtkritiken: Von Aachen bis Zwickau (Leipzig: Reclam, 2001). 61. See, for example, Marilyn Strathern, ed., Audit Cultures. Anthropological Studies in Accountability, Ethics and the Academy (London: Routledge, 2000); and Wendy Espeland and Michael Sauder, Engines of Anxiety: Academic Rankings, Reputation, and Accountability (New York: Russell Sage Foundation, 2016). 62. Dipesh S. Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe. Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000), 7. 63. Hermann Bausinger, Volkskultur in der technischen Welt (Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 1961); Johannes Fabian, Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object (New York: Columbia University Press, 2014); Edwin Ardener, “Remote Areas: Some Theoretical Considerations,” HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 2, no. 1 (2012): 519−533. 64. See Richard Sennett, The Corrosion of Character (New York: W. W. Norton, 1998). 65. See Manuel Aalbers, “Creative Destruction through the Anglo-­American Hegemony: A Non-­Anglo-­American View on Publications, Referees and Language,” Area 36, no. 3 (2004): 319–­22; Fernanda Beigel, “Current Tensions and Trends in the World Scientific System,” Current Sociology, 62 (2014): 617–­25; Syed F. Alatas, “Academic Dependency and the Global Division of Labour in the Social Sciences.” Current Sociology, 51, no. 6 (2003): 599–­613; Wiebke Keim, Ercüment Çelik, and Veronika Wöhrer, eds., Global Knowledge Production in the Social Sciences: Made in Circulation (London: Ashgate, 2014). 66. Gerald Wolters, “Globalized Parochialism: Consequences of English as Lingua Franca in Philosophy of Science,” International Studies in the Philosophy of Science 29, no. 2 (2015): 189–­200. 67. Beigel, “Current Tensions and Trends,” 617. 68. S. Meriläinen et al., “Hegemonic Academic Practices: Experiences of Publishing from the Periphery,” Organization, 15 (2008): 584–­97; Tereza Stöckelová, “Frame against the Grain: Asymmetries, Interference and the Politics of EU Comparison,” in Joe Deville, Michael Guggenheim, and Zuzana Hrdliĉková, Practising Comparison: Logics, Relations, Collaboration (Manchester: Mattering Press, 2015); Pierre Bourdieu and Loïc Wacquant, “On the Cunning of

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Imperialist Reason,” Theory, Culture and Society 16, no. 1 (1999): 41–­58; Michael Kennedy and Miguel Centeno, “Internationalism and Global Transformations in American Sociology,” in Sociology in America: A History, edited by Craig Calhoun (Chicago: University of Chicago Press 2007). 69. Kennedy and Centeno, “Internationalism and Global Transformations in American Sociology,” 671. 70. Jim Johnson [Bruno Latour], “Mixing Humans and Nonhumans Together: The Sociology of a Door-­Closer,” Social Problems 31 (1988): 35. 71. Joan Acker, “Women and Social Stratification: A Case of Intellectual Sexism,” American Journal of Sociology 48, no. 4 (1973): 943. Reference in the original is made to Blau and Duncan, The American Occupational Structure. 72. Rebecca M. Shansky, “Are Hormones a ‘Female Problem’ for Animal Research?,” Science 364, no. 6443 (May 31, 2019): 825–­26. See also Caroline Criado Perez, Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men (London: Chatto and Windus, 2019). 73. Carole Pateman, The Sexual Contract. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1988. 74. But see Brekhus on sociology’s tendency to have subfields labeled around marked versions of more general unmarked categories: Brekhus, “Sociology of the Unmarked.” 75. See, for example, Judith Stacey, Brave New Families: Stories of Domestic Upheaval in Late Twentieth-­Century America (New York: Basic Books, 1990). 76. Eviatar Zerubavel, Hidden in Plain Sight: The Social Structure of Irrelevance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015). 77. Lucy Suchman, Plans and Situated Actions. The Problem of Human-­Machine Interaction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987); Christian Heath, Hubert Knoblauch, and Paul Luff, “Technology and Social Interaction: The Emergence of ‘Workplace Studies,’ ” British Journal of Sociology 51, no. 2 (2000): 299−320. 78. Ian R. Cook and Kevin Ward, “Relational Comparisons: The Assembling of Cleveland’s Waterfront Plan,” Imagining Urban Futures Working Paper, University of Manchester, 2010, 16. Reference in the original is made to Stephen Ward, “ ‘Cities Are Fun!’ Inventing and Spreading the Baltimore Model of Cultural Urbanism,” in Culture, Urbanism and Planning, ed. J.-­F. Monclús and M. Guardia (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 271–­85. Chapter Three 1. See Guggenheim and Krause, “The Model Systems of Sociology.” 2. Clause, “The Wistar Rat as a Right Choice”, 330. 3. Clause, 331. 4. Ian Hacking, “The Self-­Vindication of the Laboratory Sciences,” in Science as Practice and Culture, ed. A. Pickering (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 48. 5. Robert G. Kirk, “A Brave New Animal for a Brave New World: The British Laboratory Animals Bureau and the Constitution of International Standards of Laboratory Animal Production and Use, Circa 1947−1968,” Isis 101, no. 1 (2010): 62−94; Clarke, “Research Materials and Reproductive Science”; Fujimura, “Standardizing Practices.” 6. C. Logan, Before There Were Standards; Philip J. Pauly, Controlling Life: Jacques Loeb and the Engineering Ideal in Biology (New York: Oxford University Press, 1987); Susan Leigh Star, “Craft vs. Commodity, Mess vs. Transcendence: How the Right Tool Became the Wrong One in the Case of Taxidermy and Natural History,” in The Right Tools for the Job: At Work

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in Twentieth-­Century Life Sciences, ed. Adele. E. Clarke and Joan H. Fujimura (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 257–­86; Fujimura, “Standardizing Practices”; Daniel Todes, “Pavlov’s Physiology Factory.” Isis 88, no. 2 (1997): 205–­46. 7. Clause, “The Wistar Rat as a Right Choice.” Clause also points out the institutional interests behind the production and promotion of the Wistar Rat: the Wistar Institute was a small institution looking for a new identity in the context of a changing scientific environment. Clause, 333–­34. 8. Kirk, “A Brave New Animal”; Tone Druglitro and Robert G. W. Kirk, “Building Transna­ tional Bodies: Norway and the International Development of Laboratory Animal Science, ca. 1956–­1980,” Science in Context 27, no. 2 (2014): 333–­57. 9. Kohler, Lords of the Fly, 71. 10. Fujimura, “Standardizing Practices,” 14. 11. Clause, “The Wistar Rat as a Right Choice,” 344. 12. See also Sabina Leonelli, “Circulating Evidence across Research Contexts: The Locality of Data and Claims in Model Organism Biology,” LSE Working Papers on the Nature of Evidence: How Well Do ‘Facts’ Travel?, no. 25/08, 2008. 13. Fujimura, “Standardizing Practices,” 12. 14. See, for example, Chris Smith, “The Conceptual Incoherence of Culture in American Sociology,” American Sociologist 47, no. 4 (2016): 388–­415. 15. Ammann, “Menschen, Mäuse und Fliegen,” 30 (my translation). See also Hannah Landecker, “It Is What It Eats: Chemically Defined Media and the History of Surrounds.” Studies in History and Philosophy of Biology and Biomedical Sciences 57 (2016): 148–­60. 16. Fujimura, “Standardizing Practices,” 287. 17. Fujimura, “Constructing ‘Do-­able’ Problems.” 18. Hacking, “The Self-­Vindication of the Laboratory Sciences.” 19. Rheinberger, “Experimental Systems,” 8. See also Rheinberger, Towards a History of Epi­ stemic Things. 20. See, for example, Charles Rossmann, “ ‘The New Ulysses: The Hidden Controversy,” New York Review of Books 35 (1988); Gary Taylor and Michael Warren, eds., The Division of the Kingdoms: Shakespeare’s Two Versions of “King Lear”, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983); Ruediger Nutt-­Kofoth et al., Text und Edition: Positionen und Perspektiven (Berlin: Erich Schmidt, 2000); and Grégoire Mallard, “Interpreters of the Literary Canon and their Technical Instruments: The Case of Balzac Criticism,” American Sociological Review 70, no. 6 (2005): 992–­1010. 21. Rossmann, “The New Ulysses.” 22. Mallard, “Interpreters of the Literary Canon,” 1000–­1001. 23. V. N. Anisimov, S. V. Ukraintseva, and A. I. Yashin, “Cancer in Rodents: Does It Tell Us about Cancer in Humans?,” Nature Reviews Cancer 5 (2005): 807–­19; J. Caldwell, “Problems and Opportunities in Toxicity Testing Arising from Species Differences in Xenobiotic Metabolism,” Toxicology Letters, nos. 64–­65, December 1992, 651–­59; D. F. Horrobin, “Modern Biomedical Research: An Internally Self-­Consistent Universe with Little Contact with Medical Reality?,” Nature Reviews Drug Discovery 2 (2003): 151–­54; A. Knight, J. Bailey, and J. Balcombe, “Animal Carcinogenicity Studies: 1. Poor Human Predictivity,” Alternatives to Laboratory Animals 34 (2006): 19–­27; R. Wall and M. Shani, “Are Animal Models as Good as We Think?,” Theriogenology 69 (2008): 2–­9; M. Goodyear, “Learning from the TGN1412 Trial,” British Medical Journal 332, no. 7543 (2006): 677–­78; N. Shanks et al., “Animals and Medicine: Do Animal Experiments Predict Human Response?,” Skeptic 13 (2007): 44–­51. 24. Ankenny and Leonelli, “What’s So Special.”

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25. Ammann, “Menschen, Mäuse und Fliegen,” 29 (my translation; emphasis in the original). 26. David A. Leavens, Kim A. Bard, and William D. Hopkins. “Bizarre Chimpanzees Do Not Represent ‘the Chimpanzee,’ ” Behavioural and Brain Sciences 32, no. 2 (2010): 100–­101. 27. Harald Weinrich cited in Stefan Willer, Jens Ruchatz, and Nicolas Pethes, “Zur Systematik des Beispiels,” in Das Beispiel: Epistemologie des Exemplarischen, edited by Jens Ruchatz, Stefan Willer, and Nicolas Pethes (Berlin: Kadmos, 1997), 22. 28. Dieter Wellershof cited in Willer, Ruchatz, and Pethes, “Zur Systematik des Beispiels,” 22. 29. Weinrich cited in Willer, Ruchatz, and Pethes, 22. 30. Keith MacDonald, The Sociology of the Professions, (London: Sage 1995). They are at least the second example, as in the telling title of Robert Dingwall and Philip S. C. Lewis, The Sociology of the Professions: Lawyers, Doctors and Others (London: Macmillan, 1983). 31. Robert Dingwall, introduction to The Sociology of the Professions: Lawyers, Doctors and Others, ed. Dingwall and Philip S. C. Lewis (London: Macmillan, 1983), 2. 32. See Talcott Parsons, “The Professions and Social Structure,” Social Forces 17, no. 4 (1939): 457–­67. Parsons had some involvement in a study of medical practices in the Boston area; see Dingwall, introduction to The Sociology of the Professions, 2. 33. Everett Hughes, “The Professions,” Daedalus 92, no. 4 (1963): 655. 34. Dingwall, introduction to The Sociology of the Professions, 6. 35. Dieter Rueschemeyer, “Professional Autonomy and the Social Control of Expertise,” in The Sociology of the Professions: Lawyers, Doctors and Others, ed. R. Dingwall and P. S. C. Lewis (London: Macmillan, 1983), 38–­59. 36. See Renée C. Fox, Experiment Perilous: Physicians and Patients Facing the Unknown (Piscataway, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 1959); Charles Bosk, Forgive and Remember: Managing Medical Failure (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1979); and Frederic W. Hafferty, Into the Valley: Death and the Socialization of Medical Students (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1991). I thank Daniel Menchik for sharing his expertise on the sociology of medicine. 37. See Howard S. Becker et al., Boys in White: Student Culture in Medical School (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1961); and Renée R. Anspach, Deciding Who Lives: Fateful Choices in the Intensive-­Care Nursery (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993). 38. See Robert K. Merton, George G. Reader, and Patricia L. Kendall, eds., The Student Physician: Introductory Studies in the Sociology of Medical Education (Oxford: Harvard University Press, 1957); and Anselm Strauss et al., Psychiatric Ideologies and Institutions (New York: Free Press, 1965) 39. Ragin, “Introduction: Cases of ‘What Is a Case,’ ” 12; see also Platt, “Cases of Cases . . . of Cases,” 21–­52. 40. McAllister, “The Virtual Laboratory”; Morgan, “The Curious Case of the Prisoner’s Dilemma.” 41. Stephen Stich, “Philosophy and Weird Intuition,” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 33, nos. 2–­3 (2010):110–­11; Jonathan M. Weinberg, Shaun Nichols, and S. Stich. “Normativity and Epistemic Intuitions,” Philosophical Topics 29 1/2 (2001): 429–­60; Shaun Nichols, Stephen Stich, and Jonathan M. Weinberg, “Meta-­skepticism: Meditations on Ethno-­epistemology,” in The Skeptics, ed. S. Luper (London: Ashgate 2003), 227–­47. 42. Michael Burawoy, “Revisits: An Outline of a Theory of Reflexive Ethnography.” American Sociological Review 68 (2003): 645–­79; Karen O’Reilly, “Ethnographic Returning, Qualitative Longitudinal Research and the Reflexive Analysis of Social Practice,” Sociological Review 60, no. 3 (2012): 518–­36. 43. See, for example, Chris Phillipson, “Community Studies and Re-­studies in the 21st Cen-

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tury: Methodological Challenges and Strategies for the Future,” Sociological Review 60, no. 3 (2012): 537–­49. 44. Some features of anthropology have made peaceful collaboration across restudies more difficult in that field; see Robert Redfield, Tepoztlán—­a Mexican Village. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1930); Oscar Lewis, Life in a Mexican Village: Tepoztlán Revisited (1951; Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1963); and Margaret Mead, Coming of Age in Samoa (William Morrow Paperbacks, 1928). For a discussion of reasons for this, see chapter 5. 45. Peter Skalník, “Anthropology of Europe and Community Re-­studies: Proposal for a New Concerted Research Initiative,” in Changes in the Heart of Europe: Recent Ethnographies of Czechs, Romas, Slovaks and Sorbs, ed. Timothy McCajor Hall and Rosie Read (Stuttgart: Ibidem, 2012), 313–­39. See also Franciszek Bujak, “Maszkienice, rozwoj wsi od r. 1900 do 1911,” Rozprawy PAU 2, no. 3 (1915); and Bujak, Maszkienice, wid powiatu brzeskiego (Stosunki gospodarcze, 1901). 46. See also Marie Jahoda, Paul F. Lazarfeld, and Hans Zeisel, Marienthal: The Sociography of an Unemployed Community (London: Tavistock Publications, 1972); Skalník, “Anthropology of Europe and Community Re-­studies”; Michael Freund, Janos Marton, and Flos Birgit, Marien­ thal 1930–­1980: Rückblick und sozialpsychologische Bestandaufnahme in einer ländlichen Industriegemeinde (Jubiläumsfond der Österreichischen Nationalbank: Vienna: 1982); and Skalník, “Anthropology of Europe and Community Re-­studies.” 47. See Colin Bell and Howard Newby, Community Studies (London: Unwin, 1971); Michael Dunlop Young and Peter Willmott, Family and Kinship in East London (Glencoe, IL: Free Press, 1957); M. Stacey et al., Power, Persistence and Change: A Second Study of Banbury (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1975); Graham Crow, “Community Re-­studies: Lessons and Prospects,” Sociological Review 60, no. 3 (2012): 405–­20; and Savage, Identities and Social Change in Britain, chapter 6. 48. See Robert Lynd and Helen Lynd, Middletown: A Study in Contemporary American Culture (London: Constable, 1929); Robert Lynd and Helen Lynd, Middletown in Transition: A Study in Cultural Conflicts (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Company, 1937); Luke Eric Lassiter, Hurley Goodall, Elizabeth Campbell, and Michelle Natasya Johnson, eds., The Other Side of Middletown: Exploring Muncie’s African American Community (Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press, 2004); and Luke Eric Lassiter, “ ‘To Fill in the Missing Piece of the Middletown Puzzle’: Lessons from Re-­studying Middletown,” Sociological Review 60, no. 3 (2012): 421−37. 49. W. Lloyd Warner, “The Modern Community as a Laboratory,” in The Sociology of Community: A Selection of Readings, ed. C. Bell and H. Newby (London: Frank Cass, 1974), 273–­81. 50. Nickie Charles and Graham Crow, “Community Re-­studies and Social Change,” Sociological Review 60, no. 3 (2012): 400. Reference in the original is made to Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London: Verso 1983); Stephanie Jones, “ ‘Still a Mining Community’: Gender and Change in the Upper Dulais Valley” (PhD diss., University of Wales Swansea, 1997); and Jones, “Supporting the Team, Sustaining the Community: Gender and Rugby in a Former Mining Village,” in Welsh Communities: New Ethnographic Perspectives, ed. C. A. Davies and S. P. Jones. (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2003). 51. Dawn Lyon and Graham Crow, “The Challenges and Opportunities of Re-­studying Community on Sheppey: Young People’s Imagined Futures,” Sociological Review (2012): 498−517. 52. Stefan Schwarzkopf, “Magic Towns: Creating the Consumer Fetish in Market Research Test Sites,” Research in Consumer Behaviour 20 (2019): 121–­35. 53. Joe Kunkel, “What Makes a Good Model System?,” Joe Kunkel’s Web Page: Biological Research & Development, created November 18, 1995, last updated September 22, 2009, https:// www.bio.umass.edu/biology/kunkel/modelsys.html.

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54. Bertolt Brecht, “Theatre for Pleasure, Theatre for Instruction,” in Brecht on Theatre (London: Bloomsbury, 2015), 109–­17. 55. Following Thrasher cited in Gieryn, Truth-­Spots, 19. 56. Lynd and Lynd, Middletown, 9. 57. Sarah Igo, The Averaged American (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008); Igo, “From Main Street to Mainstream: Middletown, Muncie, and ‘Typical America.’ ” Indiana Magazine of History 101, no. 3 (2005): 239–­66. 58. Luke Eric Lassiter, Hurley Goodall, Elizabeth Campbell, and Michelle Natasya Johnson, eds. The Other Side of Middletown: Exploring Muncie’s African American Community. (Lanham, MD: AltaMira Press, 2004). 59. Lassiter et al., The Other Side of Middletown; Lassiter, “ ‘To Fill in the Missing Piece of the Middletown Puzzle.’ ” 60. See Lynd and Lynd, Middletown in Transition. 61. Norman Dennis, Fernando Henriques, and Clifford Slaughter, Coal Is Our Life: Analysis of a Yorkshire Mining Community (New York: Tavistock, 1969); Dennis Warwick and Gary Littlejohn, Coal, Capital and Culture: A Sociological Analysis of Mining Communities in West Yorkshire (London: Routledge, 1992), discussed in Crow, “Community Re-­studies.” 62. Edward Simpson, “Trials and Tribulations of Community Restudies: Social Change and Anthropological Knowledge in Rural India,” Economic and Political Weekly (2016): 33–­42. 63. Charlotte Davies and Nickie Charles, “The Piano in the Parlour: Methodological Issues in the Conduct of a Restudy,” Sociological Research Online 7, no. 2 (2002). See also Crow, “Community Re-­studies.” 64. Hacking, “The Self-­Vindication of the Laboratory Sciences,” 48. 65. Craeger, Lunbeck, and Wise, Science without Laws, 2. See also Mary Morgan, “Exemplification and the Use-­Values of Cases and Case Studies,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Science 78 (2019): 5–­13. 66. Mary S. Morgan, “Afterword: Reflections on Exemplary Narratives, Cases, and Model Organisms,” in Science without Laws: Model Systems, Cases, Exemplary Narratives, ed. Angela N. H. Creager, Elizabeth Lunbeck, and M. Norton Wise (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2007), 264–­75. 67. Craeger, Lunbeck and Wise, Science without Laws, 2. 68. See Forrester, “If p, Then What?” 69. Mary Morgan, “ ‘If p? Then What?’ Thinking within, with and from Cases,” History of the Human Sciences 33 (2020). 70. Monika Krause and Michael Guggenheim, “The Couch as a Laboratory? The Knowledge-­ Spaces of Psychoanalysis between the Sciences and the Professions,” European Journal of Sociology 54, no. 2 (2013): 187–­210. But for a contribution that notes differences among case-­based approaches while also developing the idea of case-­based reasoning as a separate mode of reasoning on terms different than Forrester’s, see Morgan, “ ‘If p? Then what?’ ” Chapter Four 1. For published versions, see Robert W. Friedrichs, A Sociology of Sociology (New York: Free Press, 1970); Alvin W. Gouldner, The Coming Crisis of Western Sociology (New York: Basic Books, 1970); and Michael Burawoy, “For Public Sociology,” American Sociological Review 70, no. 1 (2005): 4–­28. See also survey responses in Ilana Redstone Akresh, “Departmental and

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Disciplinary Divisions in Sociology: Responses from Departmental Executive Officers,” American Sociologist 48, nos. 3–­4 (2017): 541–­60. 2. See Stephen Park Turner, “The Origins of ‘Mainstream Sociology’ and Other Issues in the History of American Sociology,” Social Epistemology 8 (1994): 41−67; Craig Calhoun and Jonathan VanAntwerpen, “Orthodoxy, Heterodoxy, and Hierarchy: ‘Mainstream’ Sociology and Its Challengers,” in Sociology in America: A History, ed. Calhoun (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007), 367–­411; Craig Calhoun, Troy Duster, and Jonathan VanAntwerpen, “The Visions and Divisions of American Sociology,” in The ISA Handbook of Diverse Sociological Traditions, ed. Sujata Patel (London: Sage, 2010), 114–­25; Karl-­Siegbert Rehberg, “The Various Traditions and Approaches of German Sociology,” in The ISA Handbook of Diverse Sociological Traditions, ed. Sujata Patel (London: Sage, 2010), 81–­93; George Steinmetz, “Scientific Autonomy and Empire, 1880–­1945: Four German Sociologists,” in German Colonialism in a Global Age, ed. Bradley Naranch and Geoff Eley (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014), 46–­73; George Steinmetz, “Odious Comparison. Incommensurability, the Case Study and Small Ns in Sociology,” Sociological Theory, 22–­3 (2004), 371–­400; and Christian Dayé, “ ‘A Fiction of Long Standing’: Techniques of Prospection and the Role of Positivism in US Cold War Social Science, 1950–­65,” History of the Human Sciences 29, 4–­5 (October 1, 2016): 35–­58. 3. In Germany, a new sociological association was formed in 2017 distancing its members from the established professional association on these terms; see Hirschauer, “Der Quexit.” 4. But see Charles L. Cappell and Thomas M. Guterbock, “Visible Colleges: The Social and Conceptual Structure of Sociology Specialties,” American Sociological Review 57, no. 2 (April 1992): 266–­73; and Andreas Schmitz et al., “In welcher Gesellschaft forschen wir eigentlich? Struktur und Dynamik des Feldes der deutschen Soziologie,” Zeitschrift für theoretische Soziologie 8, no. 2 (2020): 245–­79. Schmitz and colleagues include subfields in field-­theoretical analysis and show, for example, that in Germany, the sociology of youth and children has less field-­ specific capital than the sociology of stratification. 5. Daryl E. Chubin, “State of the Field: The Conceptualization of Scientific Specialties,” Sociological Quarterly 17, no. 4 (Autumn 1976): 448–­76. 6. The departure is announced explicitly, for example, in Karin Knorr-­Cetina, “Scientific Communities or Transepistemic Arenas of Research? A Critique of Quasi-­economic Models of Science,” Social Studies of Science 12, no. 1 (1982): 101–­30. For a critique of the neglect of disciplinary groupings in science and technology studies, see Peter Keating, Alberto Cambrosio, and Michael Mackenzie, “The Tools of the Discipline: Standards, Models, and Measures in the Affinity/Avidity Controversy in Immunology,” in The Right Tools for the Job: At Work in Twentieth-­ Century Life Sciences, ed. Adele. E. Clarke and Joan H. Fujimura (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992), 312–­54. 7. See James G. Ennis, “The Social Organization of Sociological Knowledge: Modeling the Intersection of Specialties,” American Sociological Review 57, no. 2 (April 1992): 259–­65; Steven Morris and Betsy Van der Veer Martens, “Mapping Research Specialties,” Annual Review of Information Science and Technology 42, no. 1 (2008): 213–­95; Andrea Scharnhorst, Katy Börner, and Peter van den Besselaar, eds., Models of Science Dynamics (Berlin and Heidelberg: Springer Berlin Heidelberg, 2012); and Nadine Rons, “Bibliometric Approximation of a Scientific Specialty by Combining Key Sources, Title Words, Authors and References,” Journal of Informetrics 12, no. 1 (February 2018): 113–­32. 8. Nico Stehr and Lyle E. Larsson, “The Rise and Decline of Areas of Specializations,” American Sociologist 7, no. 7 (1972): 3–­7; Jonathan Cole and Harriet Zuckerman, “The Emergence of

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a Scientific Speciality: The Self-­Exemplifying Case of the Sociology of Science,” in The Idea of Social Structure: Papers in Honor of Robert K. Merton, ed. Lewis Coser (New York: Harcourt, Brace & Jovanovich, 1975), 139–­74; Scott Frickel and Neil Gross, “A General Theory of Scientific/ Intellectual Movements,” American Sociological Review 70, no. 2 (2005): 204–­32; Neil McLaughlin, “Why Do Schools of Thought Fail? Neo-­Freudianism as a Case Study in the Sociology of Knowledge,” Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences 34, no. 2 (1998): 113–­34. 9. In discussing approaches, we are of course discussing something like “paradigms,” the term associated most prominently with Thomas Kuhn. But we need not assume that approaches have the power or the coherence that Kuhn ascribes to paradigms. This assumption has been questioned for the social sciences as well as the natural sciences. For a useful overview of sociological concepts for scientific groupings, see Christian Dayé, “Soziologische Konzeptualisierungen von wissenschaftlichen Kollektiven und ihr Einsatz in der Soziologiegeschichte,” in Handbuch Geschichte der deutschsprachigen Soziologie, ed. Stephan Moebius and Andrea Ploder (Wiesbaden: Springer VS, 2016), 1−18. 10. Richard Fardon, ed., Localizing Strategies: Regional Traditions of Ethnographic Writing (Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1990); Michael Herzfeld, “The Horns of the Mediterraneanist Dilemma,” American Ethnologist 11, no. 3 (1984): 439–­54; Rena Lederman, “Anthropological Regionalism,” in A New History of Anthropology, ed. Henrika Kuklick, 310–­25 (Malden: Blackwell, 2008). 11. See Kathleen Davis, Periodization and Sovereignty: How Ideas of Feudalism and Secularization Govern the Politics of Time (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008); Reinhart Koselleck, Futures Past: On the Semantics of Historical Time (New York: Columbia University Press, 2004); Antonis Kotsonas, “Politics of Periodization and the Archaeology of Early Greece,” American Journal of Archaeology 120, no. 2 (April 2016): 239–­70; David Matthews, Medievalism: A Critical History (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2015); and Jürgen Osterhammel, The Transformation of the World: A Global History of the Nineteenth Century, trans. Patrick Camiller. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2014). 12. Giere, “Cognitive Structure of Scientific Theories”; Lakoff, Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things; Rosch, “Perceptual and Semantic Categories”; Rosch et al., “Basic Objects in Natural Categories.” 13. We could also investigate the schemas of disciplinary categories; see Andrew Abbott, Methods of Discovery: Heuristics for the Social Sciences (New York: Norton, 2004), 5. See also Brekhus, “Sociology of the Unmarked.” Lederman has suggested that Melanesia as a whole has functioned as a prototype for anthropology. Rena Lederman, “Globalization and the Future of Culture Areas: Melanesianist Anthropology in Transition,” Annual Review of Anthropology 27 (1998): 428–­29. 14. Brekhus, “Sociology of the Unmarked.” 15. But see Michael Guggenheim, “The Laws of Foreign Buildings: Flat Roofs and Minarets,” Social and Legal Studies 19, no. 4 (2010): 441–­60. 16. Kuhn has highlighted the role of key works; see Thomas S. Kuhn, Structure of Scientific Revolutions, 2nd ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970), 10. 17. See Roderick Nash, Wilderness and the American Mind (1973; New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2001). 18. See William Cronon, Nature’s Metropolis: Chicago and the Great West (New York: W. W. Norton, 1991). 19. See Jared Diamond, Guns, Germs, and Steel: The Fates of Human Societies (New York:

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Norton, 1997); and Ian G. Simmonds, An Environmental History of Great Britain: From 10,000 Years Ago to the Present (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2001). 20. Cole and Zuckerman, “Emergence of a Scientific Speciality,” 141. See also Frickel and Gross, “A General Theory of Scientific/Intellectual Movements.” 21. Craig Calhoun, “The Rise and Domestication of Historical Sociology,” in The Historic Turn in the Human Sciences, ed. Terrence J. McDonald (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1996), 315. 22. Calhoun, “Rise and Domestication of Historical Sociology,” 328. See also George Steinmetz, “Ideas in Exile: Refugees from Nazi Germany and the Failure to Transplant Historical Sociology into the United States, “International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society 23, no. 1 (2010): 1–­27. 23. Jeffrey Alexander and Philip Smith, “The Strong Program in Cultural Theory: Elements of a Structural Hermeneutics,” in Handbook of Sociological Theory, ed. Jonathan H. Turner (New York: Springer, 2001), 135–­50; Craig Calhoun and Richard Sennett, introduction to Practicing Culture, ed. Calhoun and Sennett (Oxford: Routledge, 2007), 1–13. 24. Omar Lizardo, “Beyond the Comtean Schema: The Sociology of Culture and Cognition Versus Cognitive Social Science,” Sociological Forum 29, no. 4 (December 2014): 983–­89. 25. Fran Osrecki, “Glücklich ist, wer Vergisst,” Soziopolis—­Gesellschaft Beobachten, June 27, 2018, https://www.soziopolis.de/verstehen/was-­tut-­die-­wissenschaft/artikel/gluecklich-­ist-­wer-­ver gisst/; Wolfgang Ludwig Schneider and Fran Osrecki, “Zum Gedächtnis wissenschaftlicher Dis­­ ziplinen unter primärer Berücksichtigung der Soziologie.” Zeitschrift für theoretische Soziologie 1 (2020): 122–­44. 26. Fran Osrecki, “Constructing Epochs: The Argumentative Structures of Sociological Epochalisms,” Cultural Sociology 9, no. 2 (June 2015): 131–­46; Osrecki, Die Diagnosegesellschaft: Zeitdiagnostik zwischen Soziologie und Medialer Popularität (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2011); Mike Savage, “Against Epochalism: An Analysis of Conceptions of Change in British Sociology,” Cultural Sociology 3, no. 2 (July 2009): 217–­38. 27. Andrew Abbott, Chaos of Disciplines (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001), 10. 28. Categories of objects and of approaches are not dichotomous variables like the one Abbott focuses on, and they cannot easily be conceived of as matters of “more” or “less.” The reproduction of selfsame units goes on as long as there is an institutional reason for it, not to an infinite degree. In that sense, the reproduction is fractal like in a real broccoli stalk, not like in a mathematical equation. 29. Ezra W. Zuckerman, “The Categorical Imperative: Securities Analysts and the Illegitimacy Discount,” American Journal of Sociology 104, no. 5 (March 1999): 1401. 30. Greta Hsu and Michael T. Hannan, “Identities, Genres, and Organizational Forms,” Organization Science 16, no. 5 (September–­October 2005): 474–­90; Zuckerman, “The Categorical Imperative”; Ezra Zuckerman, “Focusing the Corporate Product: Securities Analysts and De-­diversification,” Administrative Science Quarterly 45, no. 3 (September 2000): 591–­619; Ezra Zuckerman and Tai-­Young Kim, “The Critical Trade-­Off: Identity Assignment and Box-­ Office Success in the Feature Film Industry,” Industrial and Corporate Change 12, no. 1 (2003): 27–­67. 31. Zuckerman, “The Categorical Imperative,” 1401. 32. Anthony Grafton, The Footnote: A Curious History (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997). See the clear overview of the extensive literature in a useful table in María-­ del-­Mar Camacho-­Miñano and Manuel Núñez-­Nickel, “The Multilayered Nature of Reference

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Selection,” Journal of the American Society for Information Science and Technology 60, no. 4 (April 2009): 763–­77. 33. Arthur L. Stinchcombe, “A Structural Analysis of Sociology,” American Sociologist 10, no. 2 (May 1975): 60. 34. See Marieke van den Brink and Yvonne Benschop, “Gender Practices in the Construction of Academic Excellence: Sheep with Five Legs,” Organization 19, no. 4 (July 2012): 507–­24. 35. See Joya Misra, Ivy Kennelly, and Marina Karides, “Employment Chances in the Academic Job Market in Sociology: Do Race and Gender Matter?,” Sociological Perspectives 42, no. 2 (June 1999): 215–­47. 36. See Lauren A. Rivera, “When Two Bodies Are (Not) a Problem: Gender and Relationship Status Discrimination in Academic Hiring,” American Sociological Review 82 (6) 2017: 1111–­38; and Thomas Plümper and Frank Schimmelfennig. “Wer wird Prof—­und Wann? Berufungsdeterminanten in der Deutschen Politikwissenschaft,” Politische Vierteljahresschrift 48, no. 1 (March 2007): 97–­117. 37. See Philippe Combes, Laurent Linnemer, Michael Visser, “Publish or Peer-­Rich? The Role of Skills and Networks in Hiring Economics Professors,” Labour Economics 15, no. 3 (2008): 423–­41; and Christiane Gross, Monika Jungbauer-­Gans, and Peter Kriwy, “Die Bedeutung meritokratischer und sozialer Kriterien für wissenschaftliche Karrieren—­Ergebnisse von Expertengesprächen in ausgewählten Disziplinen,” Beiträge zur Hochschulforschung 30, no. 4 (2008): 7–­32. 38. Julian Hamann and Stefan Beljean, “Career Gatekeeping in Cultural Fields,” American Journal of Cultural Sociology, 2019. 39. Misha Teplitskiy, “Frame Search and Re-­search: How Quantitative Sociological Articles Change during Peer Review,” American Sociologist 46, no. 3: 42pp. 40. Neil Gross, “Becoming a Pragmatist Philosopher: Status, Self-­Concept, and Intellectual Choice,” American Sociological Review 67, no. 1 (2002): 52–­76. 41. See Fardon, Localizing Strategies; Herzfeld, “Horns of the Mediterraneanist Dilemma”; and Lederman, “Anthropological Regionalism.” 42. Roger Bastide, The African Religions of Brazil: Toward a Sociology of the Interpenetration of Civilizations (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978). 43. Arjun Appadurai, “Putting Hierarchy in Its Place,” Cultural Anthropology 3, no. 1 (1988): 36–­49. 44. Appadurai, “Putting Hierarchy in Its Place,” 46. 45. See, for example, George Boas, “Historical Periods,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 11, no. 3 (1952): 248–­54; and Ernst Gombrich, “The Renaissance—­Period or Movement,” in Background to the English Renaissance, ed. J. B. Trapp, (London: Wiley, 1974), 1–­30. 46. See, for example, Lawrence Besserman, ed., The Challenge of Periodization: Old Paradigms and New Perspectives (New York: Garland, 1996); Koselleck, Futures Past; Kotsonas, “Politics of Periodization”; and Osterhammel, Transformation of the World. 47. Eviatar Zerubavel, “Language and Memory: ‘Pre-­Columbian’ America and the Social Logic of Periodization,” Social Research 65, no. 2 (1998): 315–­30. 48. Kotsonas, “Politics of Periodization.” 49. Kotsonas. 50. Henri Focillon, The Life of Forms in Art, trans. Charles B. Hogan and George Kubler (New York: Zone Books, 1989). 51. Michèle Lamont, How Professors Think: Inside the Curious World of Academic Judgment (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009).

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52. See Tatiana Fumasoli and Gaële Goastellec, “Global Models, Disciplinary and Local Patterns in Academic Recruitment Processes,” in Academic Work and Careers in Europe: Trends, Challenges, Perspectives, ed. Fumasoli, Goastellec, and Barbara M. Kehm (Dordrecht: Springer, 2015), 69–­93; Christine Musselin, “European Academic Labor Markets in Transition.” Higher Education 49, nos. 1–­2 (January 2005): 135–­54; Musselin, The Market for Academics (New York: Routledge, 2010). Chapter Five 1. See Jacques Rancière, The Philosopher and His Poor (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2004). 2. See Annemarie Mol, “I Eat an Apple: On Theorizing Subjectivities,” Subjectivity, 22, 28–­37, referencing Nauta, “Historical Roots of the Concept of Autonomy.” 3. See Giorgio Agamben, The Signature of All Things: On Method (New York: Zone Books, 2009); and Sina Farzin, “Paradigmatologisches Denken—­Die vielen Gründungsszenen des Michel Foucault’s,” in Gründungsszenen soziologischer Theorie, ed. Farzin and Henning Laux (Wiesbaden: Springer, 2014), 175−86. 4. See Sieglinde Hoheisel et al., “Gewerkschaftspolitik in Italien—­gesellschaftliche Rahmenbedingungen und ‘gewerkschaftliche Erneuerung,’ ” in Einfuehrung in die internationale Gewerkschaftspolitik, ed. Werner Olle (Berlin: Olle and Wolter, 1978), 2:49–­78. 5. Fabien Accominotti, “Consecration as a Population-­Level Phenomenon,” American Behavioral Scientist 1, no. 16 (2018): 1. 6. Alfred Schütz, “The Stranger,” in American Journal of Sociology 49, no. 6 (1944): 499–­507; Schütz, On Phenomenology and Social Relations (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1970). See also Bourdieu’s emphasis on schemas of action as well as schemas of perception: Pierre Bourdieu, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977). 7. See Conal Condran, The Status and Appraisal of Classic Texts (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1985). 8. Alex Golub, “Is There an Anthropological Canon? Evidence from Theory Anthologies,” Sav­ age Minds: Notes and Queries in Anthropology (blog), April 6, 2014, https://savageminds.org/2014 /04/06/is-­there-­an-­anthropological-­canon-­evidence-­from-­theory-­anthologies/. But see George E. Marcus, “A Broad(er) Side to the Canon: Being a Partial Account [ . . . ],” Cultural Anthropology 6, no. 3 (1991): 385−405. 9. See, for example, Steven Seidman, The Postmodern Turn (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Raewyn Connell, “Why Is Classical Theory Classical?,” American Journal of Sociology 102, no. 6 (1997): 1511−57; Connell, Southern Theory; Michalis Psalidopolous, ed., The Canon in the History of Economics: Critical Essays (London: Routledge, 2002); Innes M. Keighren, Christian Abrahamsson, and Veronica della Dora, “On Canonical Geographies,” Dialogues in Human Geography 2, no. 3 (2012): 296–­312; Gurminder K. Bhambra, “A Sociological Dilemma: Race, Segregation and US Sociology,” Current Sociology 62, no. 4 (2014): 472−92; Craig Calhoun, “Whose Classics? Which Readings? Interpretation and Cultural Difference in the Canonization of Sociological Theory,” in Social Theory and Sociology: The Classics and Beyond, ed. Stephen P. Turner (Oxford: Blackwell, 1996), 70−96; David Parker, “Viewpoint: Why Bother with Durkheim? Teaching Sociology in the 1990s,” Sociological Review 45, no. 1 (1997): 122−46; and Richard C. Powell, “Notes on a Geographical Canon? Measures, Models and Scholarly Enterprise,” Journal of Historical Geography 49 (2015): 2−8. See also the Global Social Theory website, curated by Gurminder K. Bhambra: https://globalsocialtheory.org/.

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10. A paper by Robert Alun Jones, “Myth and Symbol among the Nacirema Tsigoloicos,” exemplifies this approach and highlights its theoretical heritage. Drawing on Horace Miner’s defamiliarizing account of American (“Nacirema”) life, Jones presents a satirical account of the sacredness of sacred texts among American sociologists. Jones works very closely with quotations from Durkheim’s Elementary Forms of the Religious Life, thus constructing an analogy between the totem and the classic as symbols of group identity. See R. A. Jones, “Myth and Symbol among the Nacirema Tsigoloicos: A Fragment,” American Sociologist 15, no. 4 (1980): 207−12. 11. Jeffrey Alexander, “Sociology and Discourse: On the Centrality of the Classics,” in Structure and Meaning, ed. Alexander (New York: Columbia University Press, 1989), 27. This emphasis on the cultural, integrative role of the canon is shared in some way by all those who make an analogy between sociological practices with regard to privileged texts and religious practices or practices of collective memory, which, as Baehr and O’Brien have pointed out, is embedded in the very use of the term “cannon.” Peter Baehr and Michael O’Brien, “Founders, Classics and the Concepts of a Canon,” Current Sociology 42, no. 1 (1994): 1−151. See also, for example, Gerhard Wagner, “The Imitation of Science: On the Problem of the Classics in Sociology,” in Transnationale Vergesellschaftungen. Verhandlungen des 35: Kongresses der Deutschen Gesellschaft für Soziologie in Frankfurt am Main 2010, ed. Hans-­Georg Soeffner, 111–­23 (Wiesbaden: Springer VS, 2013); Stefan Bargheer, “The Invention of Theory: A Transnational Case Study of the Changing Status of Max Weber’s Protestant Ethic Thesis,” Theory and Society 46, no. 6 (2017): 1−45; and Jennifer Platt, “The United States’ Reception of Durkheim’s ‘The Rules of Sociological Method,’ ” Sociological Perspectives 38, no. 1 (1995): 77−105. 12. Alexander, “Sociology and Discourse,” 27. 13. Arthur L. Stinchcombe, “Should Sociologists Forget Their Mothers and Fathers,” American Sociologist 17, no. 1 (1982): 4–­6; Nicos Mouzelis, “In Defence of the Sociological Canon: A Reply to David Parker,” Sociological Review 45, no. 2 (1997): 244−53. 14. See, for example, Charles Lemert, “A Classic from the Other Side of the Veil: Du Bois’s Souls of Black Folk,” Sociological Quarterly 35 (1994): 385−96; Lynn McDonald, The Women Founders of the Social Sciences (Montreal: Carleton University Press, 1998); and Bhambra, “A Sociological Dilemma.” 15. Connell, “Why Is Classical Theory Classical”; Parker, “Viewpoint”; Nicole Curato, “A Sociological Reading of Classical Sociological Theory,” Philippine Sociological Review 61, no. 2 (July–­December 2013): 265−87. Equally functionalist and cultural but critical in a different way is Wagner’s argument that the canon prevents sociology from being a proper science; see Wagner, “The Imitation of Science.” 16. For recent works that echo long-standing phenomonological and practice-­theoretical po­ sitions on this issue, see Vaisey, “Motivation and Justification”; Omar Lizardo et al., “What Are Dual Process Models?”; and Colin Jerolmack and Shamus Khan, “Talk Is Cheap: Ethnography and the Attitudinal Fallacy,” Sociological Methods & Research 43, no. 2 (2014): 178–­209. 17. See Connell, “Why Is Classical Theory Classical”; and Bargheer, “The Invention of Theory.” 18. Compare “A translation brings actors together; it ‘induces two mediators into coexisting’ (Latour 2005: 108). In the case of (social) science, this usually implies a (social) scientist and an epistemic object, it is here that translation implies a form of practice that changes the object (and the researcher).” Michael Guggenheim, “The Media of Sociology: Tight or Loose Translations?,” British Journal of Sociology 66, no. 2 (2015): 351. Reference in the original is made

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to Bruno Latour, Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-­Network Theory (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005). 19. See Connell, Southern Theory. 20. Connell, “Why Is Classical Theory Classical,” 1514. Reference in the original is made to Charles Letourneau, Sociology Based upon Ethnography (London: Chapan and Hall, 1881). 21. Connell, “Why Is Classical Theory Classical,” 1537. 22. Accominotti, “Consecration.” 23. Platt, “The United States’ Reception of Durkheim,” 86. 24. Connell, “Why Is Classical Theory Classical,” 1539–­40. Reference in the original is made to H. H. Gerth and C. Wright Mills. trans. and eds., From Max Weber: Essays in Sociology. New Yok: Oxford University Press, 1946); and Talcott Parsons, Essays in Sociological Theory (Glencoe, IL: Free Press, 1949). 25. Donald Levine, Visions of the Sociological Tradition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1955), 63, cited in Connell, “Why Is Classical Theory Classical,” 1539. 26. Bargheer, “The Invention of Theory.” 27. Monika Krause, “Theory as an Anti-­subfield Subfield,” Perspectives 34, no. 2 (2012): 6−12; Omar Lizardo, “The End of Theorists,” Lewis Coser Memorial Lecture and Salon, Annual Meeting of the American Sociological Association, 2014, available at http://akgerber.com /OpenBook0. 28. For an attempt to tease out different explicit definitions, see Gabriel Abend, “The Meaning of ‘Theory,’ ” Sociological Theory 26 (2008): 173−99. 29. Baehr highlights concepts as stand-­ins of theories in terms that similarly highlight cognitive processes of association. Peter Baehr, “The Honored Outsider: Raymond Aron as Sociologist,” Sociological Theory 31, no. 2 (2013): 93−115. 30. Lutz Bornmann et al., “Identifying Seminal Works Most Important for Research Fields: Software for the Reference Publication Year Spectroscopy (RPYS),” CollNetJournal of Scientometrics and Information Management 10, no. 1 (2016): 125−40. For a case where “texts” follow “author,” see Daniel R. Huebner, “The Construction of Mind, Self, and Society: The Social Process behind G. H. Mead’s Social Psychology,” Journal of the History of the Behavioural Sciences 48, no. 2 (2012): 134−53. See also Filipe Carreira da Silva and Monica Brito Viera, “Books and Canon Building in Sociology: The Case of Mind, Self and Society,” Journal of Classical Sociology 11, no. 4 (2011): 356−77. 31. But see Peter Baehr, Founders, Classics, Canons: Modern Disputes over the Origins and Appraisal of Sociology’s Heritage (London: Routledge, 2017); and Baehr and O’Brian, “Founders, Classics and the Concepts.” 32. Baehr, Founders, Classics, Canons, 113. 33. Bruno Latour, Graham Harman, and Peter Erdelyi, The Prince and the Wolf: Latour and Harman at the LSE. (London: Zero Books, 2011), 2–­3. 34. Krause, “Theory as an Anti-­subfield Subfield.” 35. See Michael Foucault, “What Is an Author?,” in Language, Counter-­memory, Practice, edited by Donald F. Bouchard (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977), 113−38; Roland Barthes, Image, Music, Text (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977); Norbert Elias, Mozart, Zur Soziologie eines Genies (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 1991); and Monika Krause, “Practicing Authorship: The Case of Brecht’s Plays,” in Practicing Culture, ed. Craig Calhoun and Richard Sennett (Oxford: Routledge 2007), 215–­230.

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36. For an analysis of similar issues in the reception and circulation of postcolonial theory, see Nirmal Puwar, “Puzzlement of a Déjà Vu: Illuminaries of the Global South.” Sociological Review 68, no. 3 (2020): 540–­56. 37. Connell, “Why Is Classical Theory Classical.” See also Bhambra, “A Sociological Dilemma.” 38. Baehr notes the differences between the sociological canon and the religious canon, as follows: Firstly, in the Catholic Church, the canon is decided by a formal procedure in a centralized manner. Secondly, once defined, the canon has to be accepted as a whole. Thirdly, it cannot be changed. Fourthly, canonical texts are different (true of classic texts as well), and it is not possible to critique them. Baehr, Founders, Classics, Canons, 166−67. 39. See Lynn McDonald, “Classical Social Theory with the Women Founders Included,” in Reclaiming the Sociological Classics: The State of the Scholarship, ed. Charles Camic (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 1997), 112−41; and McDonald, The Women Founders. 40. See Martin Bulmer, “W. E. B. Du Bois as a Social Investigator: The Philadelphia Negro, 1889,” in The Social Survey in Historical Perspective, 1880–­1940, ed. Bulmer, Kevin Bales, and Kathryn Kish Sklar (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 170−88; Lemert, “A Classic from the Other Side”; Bhambra, “A Sociological Dilemma.” 41. See Christian Borch, “Crowds and Pathos: Theodor Geiger on Revolutionary Action,” Acta Sociologica 49, no. 1 (March 2006): 5−18. 42. See Bryan-­Paul Frost, “Resurrecting a Neglected Theorist: The Philosophical Foundations of Raymond Aron’s Theory of International Relations,” Review of International Studies 23, no. 2 (1997): 143−66. The journal Sociological Theory featured a special issue on “Neglected Theorists”; see, for example, Christopher Adair-­Toteff, “Ferdinand Tonnies: Utopian Visionary,” Sociology Theory 13 (1995): 58–­65; Patricia Lengermann and Jill Niebrugge, “Intersubjectivity and Domination: A Feminist Investigation of the Sociology of Alfred Schutz,” Sociological Theory 13, no. 1 (1995): 25−36; Alan Sica, “Gabel’s Micro/Macro Bridge: The Schizophrenic Process Writ Large.” Sociological Theory 13, no. 1 (1995): 66−99; and Alexander During, “What Did Susanne Langer Really Mean?,” Sociological Theory 12, no. 3 (1994): 254−65. 43. Mouzelis, “In Defence of the Sociological Canon,” 245–­46. 44. See Neil McLaughlin, “How to Become a Forgotten Intellectual,” Sociological Forum 13, no. 2 (1998): 215−46. 45. See Charles Camic, “Reputation and Predecessor Selection—­Parsons and the Institutionalists,” American Sociological Review 57, no. 4 (1992): 421−45. Latour’s selection of Tarde as “his” predecessor is clearly shaped by rivalries within the French field. 46. See McLaughlin, “How to Become a Forgotten Intellectual Movement.” 47. See Donald N. Levine, Ellwood B. Carter, and Eleanor Miller Gorman, “Simmel’s Influence on American Sociology. I.,” American Journal of Sociology 81, no. 4 (1976): 813−41; and Etienne Ollion and Andrew Abbott, “French Connections: The Reception of Sociologists in the USA (1977−2012),” European Journal of Sociology 57, no. 2 (2016): 331−71. 48. See Michèle Lamont, “How to Become a Dominant French Philosopher: The Case of Jacque Derrida,” American Journal of Sociology 94, no. 1 (1987): 79−109. 49. McLaughlin, “How to Become a Forgotten Intellectual Movement, 218. See also Monika Krause, “What Is Zeitgeist? Examining Period-­Specific Cultural Patterns,” Poetics 76 (2019). 50. See, e.g., Ashleigh S. Rosette, Geoffrey J. Leonardelli, and Katherine W. Phillips, “The White Standard: Racial Bias in Leader Categorization,” Journal of Applied Psychology 93, no. 4 (2008): 758−77. 51. Murray S. Davis, “ ‘That’s Classic!’ The Phenomenology and Rhetoric of Successful Social

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Theories,” Philosophy of the Social Sciences 16 (1986): 285−301. See also Condran, The Status and Appraisal of Classic Texts; and Peter McMahan and James Evans, “Ambiguity and Engagement,” American Journal of Sociology 124, no. 3 (November 2018): 860–­912. 52. Baehr, Founders, Classics, Canons, 125. 53. Talcott Parsons, “Revisiting the Classics throughout a Long Career,” in The Future of the Classics, ed. Buford Rhea (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1981), 189−90. 54. Baehr, Founders, Classics, Canons, 126. 55. Joshua Guetzkow, Michèle Lamont, and Grégoire Mallard, “What Is Originality in the Humanities and the Social Sciences?,” American Sociological Review 69, no. 2 (2004): 202. 56. Bargheer, “The Invention of Theory.” 57. Lamont, “How to Become a Dominant French Philosopher.” 58. Stuart Clegg, “How to Become an Internationally Famous British Social Theorist,” Sociological Review 40, no. 3 (2012): 576−98. 59. Adrian Wilson, “Foucault on the ‘Question of the Author’: A Critical Exegesis,” Modern Language Review 99, no. 2 (2004): 339. 60. Nikolas Rose, “Government, Authority and Expertise in Advanced Liberalism,” Economy and Society 22, no. 3 (1993): 283. 61. Christophe Bouton, “The Critical Theory of History: Rethinking the Philosophy of History in the Light of Koselleck’s Work,” History and Theory 55, no. 2 (2016): 163. 62. See Ollion and Abbott, “French Connections.” 63. Pierre Bourdieu, “Concluding Remarks: For a Sociogenetic Understanding of Cultural Works,” in Bourdieu: Critical Perspectives, ed. C. Calhoun, E. LiPuma, and M. Postone (Cambridge: Polity 1993), 270. We might inquire here into the tension between the analysis Bourdieu provides in the first part of the quote, and the universalizing claim toward the end. Bourdieu on the one hand observes how his reception as a theorist leads to a neglect of the specific context of his work. But he then proceeds to at least flirt with the idea that France can stand in for other “modern societies.” 64. Agamben, The Signature of All Things; Farzin, “Paradigmatologisches Denken.” 65. John E. Hobbie et al., “The US Long Term Ecological Research Program,” BioScience 53, no. 1 (2003): 21–­32; Joseph Travis, “Is It What We Know or Who We Know?,” American Naturalist 167, no. 3 (2006): 303–­14. 66. Sina Farzin and Henning Laux, “Was sind Gründungsszenen?,” in Gründungsszenen soziologischer Theorie, ed. Farzin and Laux (Wiesbaden: Springer, 2014), 3–­13. 67. Because of this tendency, this reexamination can sometimes be intended or received as a hostile challenge, as some examples from anthropology show: Margaret Mead has been challenged based on a reexamination of her original site and fieldwork on sexuality in Samoa. See Mead, Coming of Age in Samoa; Derek Freeman, Margaret Mead and Samoa: The Making and Unmaking of an Anthropological Myth (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983); Paul Shankman, “The ‘Fateful Hoaxing’ of Margaret Mead: A Cautionary Tale,” Current Anthropology 54 (2013): 51−70; and Paul Shankman, The Trashing of Margaret Mead: Anatomy of an Anthropological Controversy (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2009). Obeyesekare has challenged Sahlins on the same empirical territory, regarding discussion of Captain Cook’s arrival in Hawai, his being welcomed on a first visit, and his subsequent murder. Gananath Obeyesekare, The Apotheosis of Captain Cook: European Mythmaking in the Pacific (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1992). 68. Nikolas Rose, Pat O’Malley, and Mariana Valverde, “Governmentality,” Annual Review of Law and Social Science 2 (2006): 83–­104.

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69. Guggenheim, “Laboratizing and De-laboratizing.” 70. Andre Kieserling, “Die Soziologie der Selbstbeschreibung: Über Reflexionstheorien der Funktionssysteme und ihre Rezeption der soziologischen Theorie,” in Rezeption und Reflexion: Zur Resonanz der Systemtheorie Nuklas Luhmanns außerhalb Soziologie, ed. H. de Berg and J. F. K. Schmidt (Frankfurt am Main: Suhrkamp, 2000), 38–­93. 71. Guggenheim, “Laboratizing and De-­ laboratizing”; Krause and Guggenheim, “The Couch as a Laboratory?” 72. On schools and the network theoretical basis of citation analysis, see Dayé, “Soziologische Konzeptualisierungen”; and Edward A. Tiryakian, “Sociology, Schools in,” in International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, ed. William A. Derity (Farmington Hills, MI: Macmillan Reference USA/Thomson Gale, 2008), 9−12. 73. Kuper, “Postmodernism, Cambridge and the Great Kalahari Debate,” 20. See also chap­ ter 1 above. 74. Jeanne Fahnestock and Marie Secor, “The Stases in Scientific and Literary Argument,” Written Communication 5, no. 4 (1988): 93−115. 75. Harold Veeser, The New Historicism (London: Routledge, Chapman and Hall, 1989). 76. Quentin Skinner, “Meaning and Understanding in the History of Ideas,” History and Theory 8, no. 1 (1969): 3−53; Skinner, “Some Problems in the Analysis of Political Thought and Action,” Political Theory 2, no. 3 (1974): 277−302. 77. Robert Alun Jones, The Development of Durkheim’s Social Realism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), p. 2 (emphasis in the original). See also Jones, “Our Understanding of the Sociological Classics,” American Journal of Sociology 83, no. 2 (1977): 279−319 and Andreas Hess, “Making Sense of Individual Creativity: An Attempt to Trespass the Academic Boundaries of the Sociology of Ideas and Intellectual History,” in Knowledge for Whom, ed. Christian Fleck and Hess (New York: Routledge, 2016), 27−46. For a critical asessment of historicism, see Stephen Turner, “ ‘Contextualism’ and the Interpretation of the Classical Sociological Texts,” Knowledge and Society: Studies in the Sociology of Culture Past and Present 4 (1983): 273–­91. 78. Sina Farzin, Inklusion/Exklusion: Entwicklungen und Probleme einer systemtheoretischen Unterscheidung (Bielefeld: Transcript, 2006). 79. See Tobias Schlechtriemen, “Die Metapher des Organismus und ihre Funktionen in frühen soziologischen Theorien,” in Matthias Junge, ed., Methoden der Metaphernforschung und -­analyse (Wiesbaden: Springer), 33–­250. 80. See Guggenheim, “The Media of Sociology”; Tobias Schlechtriemen, Bilder des Sozialen: Das Netzwerk in der soziologischen Theorie (Paderborn: Fink, 2014); and Richard Swedberg, “Can You Visualize Theory? On the Use of Visual Thinking in Theory Pictures, Theorizing Diagrams, and Visual Sketches,” Sociological Theory 34, no. 3 (2016): 250–­75. Chapter Six 1. See Edward Said, Orientalism (London: Penguin, 1977); Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe; Connell, “Why Is Classical Theory Classical”; Connell, Southern Theory; V. Y. Mudimbe, The Idea of Africa (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1994); Gurminder K. Bhambra, “Sociology and Post-­colonialism: Another ‘Missing’ Revolution?,” Sociology 41, no. 5 (2007): 871–­84; George Steinmetz, Sociology and Empire: The Imperial Entanglements of a Discipline (Chapel Hill, NC: Duke University Press, 2013); Boaventura de Sousa Santos, Epistemologies of the South:

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Justice against Epistemicide (Boulder, CO: Paradigm Publishers, 2014); and Julian Go, Postcolonial Thought and Social Theory (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015). 2. Immanuel Wallerstein, “Eurocentrism and Its Avatars: The Dilemmas of Social Science,” New Left Review 226 (1997): 93–­108; Go, “For a Postcolonial Sociology.” 3. Aalbers, “Creative Destruction;” Manuel B. Aalbers and Umberto Rossi, “Beyond the Anglo-­American Hegemony in Human Geography: A European Perspective,” GeoJournal 67, no. 2 (2006): 137–­47; Alatas, “Academic Dependency and the Global Division of Labour,” Beigel, “Current Tensions and Trends”; Johan Heilbron, “The Social Sciences as an Emerging Global Field,” Current Sociology 62, no. 5 (2014): 685–­703; Wolters, “Globalized Parochialism”; International Social Science Council, World Social Science Report (Paris: International Social Science Council, 2010); Keim, Çelik, and Wöhrer, Global Knowledge Production in the Social Sciences; Michael Kennedy, Globalizing Knowledge: Intellectuals, Universities, and Publics in Transformation (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2015); Jens Beckert, “Shall I Publish This auf Deutsch or in English?,” Sociologica 13, no. 1 (2019), https://doi.org/10.6092/issn.1971-­8853/9378. 4. This chapter is a heavily revised version of an earlier article, Monika Krause, “Western Hegemony in the Social Sciences: Fields and Model Systems,” Sociological Review 64, no. 2 (2016): 194–­211. 5. Chakrarbarty, Provincializing Europe; Arturo Escobar, Encountering Development: The Making and Unmaking of the Third World (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995). 6. Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, German Ideology (London: International Publishers, 1970), developed most fully by Georg Lukacs, History and Class Consciousness (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1967). See Go, Postcolonial Thought and Social Theory. 7. See, for example, Dorothy Smith, The Everyday World as Problematic (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1987); Sandra Harding, Whose Science? Whose Knowledge? Thinking from Women’s Lives (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2016); Patricia Hill Collins, Black Feminist Thought (London: Routledge, 1990); and bell hooks, Feminist Theory: From Margin to Center (Cambridge, MA: South End Press). 8. See W. E. B. Du Bois, “The Souls of White Folk,” in Darkwater: Voices from within the Veil (New York: Washington Square Press 1920). See also Aldon Morris, “The Souls of White Folk,” Sociology of Race and Ethnicity 4, no. 1 (2018): 158–­59. 9. Go, Postcolonial Thought and Social Theory, 94. 10. Said, Orientialism. 11. Boaventura de Sousa Santo, “Beyond Abyssal Thinking: From Global Lines to Ecologies of Knowledges,” Review 20, no. 1 (2007): 45. 12. Walter Mignolo, “Decolonizing Western Epistemology: Building Decolonial Epistemologies,” in Decolonizing Epistemologies: Latina/o Theology and Epistemology, ed. Ada Maria Isasi-­ Diaz and Eduardo Mendieta (New York: Fordham University Press, 2011), 19. 13. Pierre Bourdieu, “The Political Field, the Social Science Field, and the Journalistic Field,” in Pierre Bourdieu and the Journalistic Field, ed. Rodney Benson and Erik Neveu (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2005), 32–­33. But see George Steinmetz, The Devil’s Handwriting: Precoloniality and the German Colonial State in Qingdao, Samoa, and Southwest Africa (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007) for a field-­theoretical account of colonial social science. 14. Heilbron, “The Social Sciences as an Emerging Global Field.” See also Johan Heilbron, Nicolas Guilhot, and Laurent Jeanpierre. “Toward a Transnational History of the Social Sciences,” Journal of the History of the Behavioral Sciences 44, no. 2 (2008): 146–­60; and Gisèle Sapiro, Johan Heilbron, and Remi Lenoir, Pour une histoire des sciences sociales (Paris: Fayard, 2008). 15. Beigel, “Current Tensions and Trends.”

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16. Marion Fourcade, “The Construction of a Global Profession: The Transnationalization of Economics,” American Journal of Sociology 112, no. 1 (2006): 145–­95; Ulrich Best, “The Invented Periphery: Constructing Europe in Debates about ‘Anglo Hegemony’ in Geography,” Social Geography 4:83–­91. 17. Meriläinen et al., “Hegemonic Academic Practices”; Stöckelová, “Frame against the Grain”; Bourdieu and Wacquant, “On the Cunning of Imperialist Reason”; Kennedy and Centeno, “Internationalism and Global Transformations in American Sociology.” 18. Connell, Southern Theory, 81. 19. Connell, 81. This paper structure is also marked by the requirement to cite “northern” or Anglo-­American authors. Raewyn W. Connell et al., “Toward a Global Sociology of Knowledge: Post-­colonial Realities and Intellectual Practices,” International Sociology 32, no. 11 (2016): 21–­37. 20. Bourdieu, “On the Social Conditions,” 270. 21. Edward Said, “Travelling Theory,” in The World, the Text, and the Critic (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1983), 226–­47; James Clifford, “Notes on Travel and Theory,” Inscriptions 5, no. 5.29 (1989): 11. 22. See Bruno Latour, Science in Action: How to Follow Scientists and Engineers through Society (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1987); and Susan Leigh Star and James Griesemer, “Ecology, Translations and Boundary Objects: Amateurs and Profssionals in Berkeley’s Museum of Vertebrate zoology, 1907–­39,” Social Studies of Science 19 (3): 387–­420. Within the sociology of culture, see, for example, Fred Turner, From Counterculture to Cyberculture: Stewart Brand, the Whole Earth Network, and the Rise of Digital Utopianism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2010); and Wendy Griswold, Gemma Mangione, and Terence McDonnell, “Objects, Words, and Bodies in Space: Bringing Materiality into Cultural Analysis,” Qualitative Sociology 36 (2013): 343–­64; Terence McDonnell, Best Laid Plans: Cultural Entropy and the Unraveling of AIDS Media Campaigns (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2016); Domínguez Rubio, “Preserving the Unpreservable”; and Claudio Benzecry, “Restabilizing Attachment to Cultural Objects: Aesthetics, Emotions and Biography,” British Journal of Sociology 66, no. 4 (2015): 779–­800. 23. Gisèle Sapiro, ed., Translation: Le marché de la traduction en France à l’heure de la mondialisation (Paris: CNRS Editions, 2008). 24. See Robert K. Merton, Science, Technology and Society in Seventeenth-­Century England (1938; Bruges: St. Catherine Press, 1973); Stefan Shapin and Simon Schaffer, Leviathan and the Air-­Pump: Hobbes, Boyle, and the Experimental Life (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press 1985); and Donna Haraway, Modest_Witness@Second_Millenium.FemaleMan©_Meets_Onco Mouse™: Feminism Meets Technoscience (New York and London: Routledge, 1997). 25. Ferenc Fehér, The French Revolution and the Birth of Modernity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990); Ceri Crossley and Ian Small, The French Revolution and British Culture (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989). 26. Robert Nisbet, “The French Revolution and the Rise of Sociology in France,” American Journal of Sociology 49, no. 2 (1943): 156–­64; Christian Borch, The Politics of Crowds: An Alternative History of Sociology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012); Johan Heilbron, The Rise of Social Theory (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2013). 27. See, for example, Skocpol, “Cultural Idioms and Political Ideologies”; and Sewell, “Ideologies and Social Revolutions.” 28. Eugen Weber, Peasants into Frenchmen (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1979). 29. Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste (Cambridge,

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162

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Euro-­America Is Evolving toward Africa,” Anthropological Forum 22, no. 2 (2012): 113–­31; Vrushali Patil, “Sex, Gender and Sexuality in Colonial Modernity: Towards a Sociology of Webbed Connectivity,” in Global Historical Sociology, ed. Julian Go and George Lawson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 124–­41; and Robbie Shilliam, “The Crisis of Europe and Colonial Amnesia: Freedom Struggles in the Atlantic Biotope,” in Global Historical Sociology, ed. Julian Go and George Lawson (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2017), 101–­23. 46. Gurminder Bhambra, Rethinking Modernity: Postcolonialism and the Sociological Imagination (London: Palgrave, 2007), 33, with reference to Sanjay Subrahmanyam, “Connected Histories: Notes towards a Reconfiguration of Early Modern Eurasia,” Modern Asian Studies 31, no. 3 (1997): 735–­62. Both scholars have built on this notion in later work. 47. See Said, Orientalism; Gayatari Spivak, Can the Subaltern Speak? (Basingstoke, UK: Macmillan, 1988); and Homi Bhabha, The Location of Culture (London: Routledge, 1994). See also Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe. 48. David Ludden, Reading Subaltern Studies: Critical Histories, Contested Meanings, and the Globalization of South Asia (New Delhi: Permanent Black Publishers and London: Anthem Press, 2001). 49. See, for example, Latin American Subaltern Studies Group, “Founding Statement,” Boundary 2 20, no. 3 (1993): 110–­21; John Beverley, Subalternity and Representation: Arguments in Cultural Theory (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1999); Horacio Legrás, “Review of The Latin American Subaltern Studies Reader,” Americas 61, no. 1 (2004): 125–­27; Ileana Rodríguez, The Latin American Subaltern Studies Reader (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2001); and Gustavo Verdesio, “Latin American Subaltern Studies Revisited,” Dispositio 25, no. 52 (2005). 50. Verdesio, “Latin American Subaltern Studies Revisited,” 55. 51. Eduardo Mendieta, “Re-­mapping Latin American Studies: Postcolonialism, Subaltern Studies, Postoccidentalism and Globalization Theory,” Dispositio 25, no. 52 (2005): 195–­97, and Mignolo cited therein. 52. Chakrabarty, Provincializing Europe; Partha Chatterjee, The Nation and Its Fragments: Colonial and Postcolonial Histories (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994). 53. Mendieta, “Re-­mapping Latin American Studies,” 197. 54. Mendieta, 197. 55. Frederick Cooper, “Conflict and Connection: Rethinking Colonial African History,” American Historical Review 99, no. 5 (1994): 1519. 56. Cooper, “Conflict and Connection,” 1519. See also Appadurai, “Putting Hierarchy in Its Place.” 57. See Puwar, “Puzzlement of a Déjà Vu.” 58. Henry Louis Gates Jr., “Critical Fanonism,” Critical Inquiry 17, no. 3 (1991): 459 (emphasis in the original). 59. Allen Chun, “Introduction: (Post)Colonialism and Its Discontent, or the Future of Practice,” Cultural Studies 14, nos. 3–­4 (2000): 380. 60. Cooper, “Conflict and Connection,” 1527. 61. Chetan Bhatt, “The Fetish of the Margins: Religious Absolutism, Anti-­racism and Postcolonial Silence,” New Formations, 59 (2006): 98–­115. 62. Walter Mignolo, “Are Subaltern Studies Postmodern or Postcolonial? The Politics and Sensibilities of Geo-­cultural Locations,” Dispositio 19, no. 46 (1994): 53. 63. Mignolo, “Are Subaltern Studies Postmodern or Postcolonial?,” 54. 64. Hyun Bang Shin, paper delivered at the Panel Discussion on Academic Freedom, organized by Esra Özyürek, London School of Economics, November 29, 2019.

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65. Spivak, Death of a Discipline (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 8. 66. Spivak, Death of a Discipline, 7. 67. See Vicente Rafael, “The Culture of Area Studies in the United States,” Social Text 41 (1994): 91–­111; Edward Said, Covering Islam: How the Media and Experts Shape How We See the Rest of the World (London: Vintage, 1997); Masao Miyoshi, Harry Harootunian, and Rey Chow, Learning Places: The Afterlives of Area Studies (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002); David Szanton, The Politics of Knowledge: Area Studies and the Disciplines (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005); David C. Engerman, Know Your Enemy: The Rise and Fall of America’s Soviet Experts (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Jerry Gershenhorn, “ ‘Not an Academic Affair’: African American Scholars and the Development of African Studies Programs in the United States, 1942–­1960,” Journal of African American History 94, no. 1 (2009): 44–­68; and John Patrick Leary, A Cultural History of Underdevelopment: Latin America in the U.S. Imagination (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 2016). 68. Said, Orientalism, 11. 69. Suzanne Marchand, German Orientalism in the Age of Empire: Religion, Race and Scholarship (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), xxi. 70. Marchand, German Orientalism, xx. 71. See n67; see also most recently Osama Khalil, America’s Dream Palace: Middle East Expertise and the Rise of the National Security State (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016); and Negar Razavi, “The Systemic Problem of ‘Iran Expertise’ in Washington,” Jadaliyya, September 4, 2019; https://www.jadaliyya.com/Details/39946. 72. See, for example, Martin Bayly, “The (Re)turn to Empire in IR: Colonial Knowledge Communities and the Construction of the Idea of the Afghan Polity, 1808–­1838,” Review of International Studies 40, no. 3 (2014): 443–­64; and Bayly, Taming the Imperial Imagination: Colonial Knowledge, International Relations, and the Anglo-­Afghan Encounter, 1808–­1878 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018). 73. For historical accounts, see Marchand, German Orientalism; George Steinmetz, The De­ vil’s Handwriting: Precoloniality and the German Colonial State in Qingdao, Samoa, and Southwest Africa (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007); George Steinmetz, “Social Fields and Subfields at the Scale of Empires: Colonial States and Colonial Sociology” in Julian Go and Monika Krause, eds., Fielding Transnationalism, Sociological Review Monograph (London: Wiley 2016), 89–­123; and Henning Trüper, Orientalism, Philology, and the Illegibility of the Modern World (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2020). 74. Henning Trüper and Ilkka Lindstedt, Fringe Orientalisms: Europe’s Other Others in Modern History (conference website), n.d., last accessed September 11, 2020, https://blogs.helsinki.fi /fringe-­orientalisms/. 75. But see Roland Waas, Science in Africa: An Overview (Paris: Institute of Research for Development, 2001); Phillip G. Altbach, “Centers and Peripheries in the Academic Profession: The Special Challenges of Developing Countries,” in The Decline of the Guru: The Academic Profession in Developing and Middle-­Income Countries, ed. Altbach (Chestnut Hill, MA: Boston College Center for International Higher Education, 2002), 1-­22; Sebastien Mosbah-­ Natanson and Yves Gingras, “The Globalization of the Social Sciences? Evidence from a Quantitative Analysis of 30 Years of Production, Collaboration and Citations in the Social Sciences (1980–­2009),” Current Sociology 62 no. 5 (2013): 626–­46; and Sari Hanafi and Riga Arvanitis, Knowledge Production in the Arab World: The Impossible Promise (London: Routledge, 2016).

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76. See, for example, Li Anshan, “African Studies in China in the Twentieth Century: A Historiographical Survey,” African Studies Review 48, no. 1 (2005): 59–­87. 77. See Szanton, The Politics of Knowledge; Kennedy and Centenno, “Internationalism and Global Transformations in American Sociology”; Michael Kennedy, “Area Studies and Academic Disciplines across Universities: A Relational Analysis with Organizational and Public Implications,” in International and Language Education for a Global Future: Fifty Years of Title VI and Fulbright-­Hays Programs, ed. David Wiley and Robert Glew (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 2010), 195–­226; Charles Kurzman, “Scholarly Attention and the Limited Internationalization of US Social Science,” International Sociology 32, no. 6 (2017): 775–­95; and Mitchell L. Stevens, Cynthia Miller-­Idriss, and Senteney Shami, Seeing the World: How US Universities Make Knowledge in a Global Era. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2018). 78. Kennedy, Globalizing Knowledge, chap. 5. Conclusion 1. Star, “Craft vs. Commodity,” 257. 2. Henning Trüper has likened the history produced by historians to a toy seal made from sealskin that used to be a popular byproduct of the seal hunt: “History is an object, albeit one that is dependent on a complex process of transformation during which it becomes composite insofar as the progeny of its components is concerned. History is hybrid; like the toy seal, it integrates portions from the real object with other objects that do not have anything to do with the original animal (stuffing material, thread for sewing, and plastic beads for ‘eyes’).” He uses this comparison to suggest that a metatheoretical conversation about history concerned only with whether the facts are right is analogous with a conversation about the seal toy that checks only whether it is indeed made of sealskin. I would argue that the same is true for other disciplines in the empirical social sciences. See Henning Trüper, “The Flatness of Historicity,” History and Theory, 58, no. 1 (2019): 29. 3. Cited in Martin Carrier, “Values and Objectivity in Science: Value-­Ladenness, Pluralism and the Epistemic Attitude,” Science and Education 22, no. 10 (2013): 2547–­68. See also Thomas S. Kuhn, “Objectivity, Value Judgment, and Theory Choice,” in The Essential Tension: Selected Studies in Scientific Tradition and Change (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1977), 320–­39; Helen E. Longino, “Gender, Politics, and the Theoretical Virtues,” Synthese 104 (1995): 383–­97; and Isaac Levi, Gambling with Truth: An Essay on Induction and the Aims of Science (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1973). 4. Guetzkow, Lamont, and Mallard, “What Is Originality”; Lamont, How Professors Think. 5. Originality has emerged as an addition to Robert Merton’s “CUDO-­norms” (communism, universalism, disinterest, organized skepticism). See John Ziman, Real Science: What It Is, and What It Means (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 182–­245. 6. For interesting contributions that play with the possibility of declaring moratoriums, see McGovern on the notion of “contradiction”: Patrick McGovern, “Contradictions at Work: A Critical Review,” Sociology 48, no. 1 (2013): 20–­37; and Abend on the notion of choice or decision: Gabriel Abend, “Choices and Conceptual Choices,” lecture, London School of Economics, March 27, 2019. 7. For a systematization within the context of the natural sciences, see S. M. Mojon-­Azzi and D. S. Mojon, “Scientific Misconduct: From Salami Slicing to Data Fabrication,” Ophthalmologica 218 (2014): 1–­3; P. Durani, “Duplicate Publications: Redundancy in Plastic Surgery Literature,”

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Journal of Plastic, Reconstructive & Aesthetic Surgery 59, no. 9 (2006): 975–­77; and Ian Norman and Peter Griffiths, “Duplicate Publication and ‘Salami Slicing’: Ethical Issues and Practical Solutions,” International Journal of Nursing Studies 45, no. 9 (2008): 1257–­60. See also Lawrence Souder, “The Ethics of Scholarly Peer Review: A Review of the Literature,” Learned Publishing 24 (2011): 55–­74. 8. Kueffer, Pyšek, and Richardson, “Integrative Invasion Science,” 618. 9. Kuhn, Structure of Scientific Revolutions. 10. Evelyn Fox Keller, Paradigm Shifts and Revolutions in Contemporary Biology, lecture, University of King’s College, Halifax, Canada, October 30, 2012. 11. Smith, “The Conceptual Incoherence”; Anthony Giddens, The New Rules of Sociological Method (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1993). 12. See Pitirim A. Sorokin, Fads and Foibles in Modern Sociology and Related Sciences (Chicago: Henry Regnery, 1956); Herbert Gans, “Sociological Amnesia: The Noncumulation of Normal Social Science,” Sociological Forum 7, no. 4 (1992): 701–­10; William Starbuck, “The Constant Causes of Never-­Ending Faddishness in the Behavioral and Social Sciences,” Scandinavian Journal of Management 25 (2009): 108–­16; and Colin Campbell, Has Sociology Progressed? Reflections of an Accidental Academic (London: Palgrave 2019). 13. Andrew Abbott, “After Cumulation,” Social Life of Methods, CRESC annual conference, Oxford, UK, September 1, 2010. See also Abbott, “Reconceptualizing Knowledge Accumulation in Sociology,” American Sociologist 37, no. 2 (2006): 57–­66. 14. Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, Laocoon (1766; New York: Bobbs-­Merrill Company, 1984); Clement Greenberg, “Towards a Newer Laocoon,” Partisan Review, July–­August 1940. 15. See further Guggenheim, “The Media of Sociology.” 16. See Bruno Latour, “The Tarde Durkheim Debate,” 2011, http://www.bruno-­latour.fr /node/354.html; Eduardo Viana Vargas et al., “The Debate between Tarde and Durkheim,” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 26, no. 5 (2008): 761–­77. 17. This performance by John Hall can be found online: John California, “Max Weber, ‘Politics as a Vocation,’ from 1919 to 2019,” YouTube, March 16, 2019, video, 1:23:55, https://www.you tube.com/watch?v=CyfwF90QI_E.

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Index

Abbott, Andrew, 74, 79, 122, 151n28 academic hiring, 76–­78 Accominotti, Fabien, 85 Acker, Joan, 50 activists, 42, 50–­51, 72, 98 actor-­network theory (ANT), 90, 96 Africa, 21, 76, 78, 80, 110, 114–­15 Alexander, Jeffrey, 86 ambassadors, 78–­79, 83, 93–­94, 97 American Historical Association, 43 American Journal of Sociology, 88 American Revolution, 108 American Society for Eighteenth-­Century Studies, 69 American Sociological Association (ASA), 69, 73, 75 American Sociological Review, 88 Ammann, Klaus, 56, 58 Anderson, Benedict, 63 Anglo-­American hegemony, 27–­28, 46, 102–­4, 111–­12, 160n19 Ankeny, Rachel A., 134n16 anniversaries, 43 Anspach, Renée R., 60 anthropology: canons and classics of, 79–­82, 85, 97, 147n44; collective methods and, 63–­65, 147n44; Kuper on Malinowskian, 25–­26, 97; regional categories and, 79–­82; research on science in, 5–­6; restudies and, 62–­65, 147n44; selection of research objects in, 25, 33, 48, 79–­82, 115–­16; subfield categories and, 69–­72, 76, 79–­82 Aplysia (worm), 1 Appadurai, Arjun, 80–­81 application, 24, 27–­28, 31, 96–­97, 110–­11 approaches: application and, 96–­97, 110–­11; categories of objects vs. categories of approaches,

71–­74, 151n28; imperialism of, 73–­74; paradigms and, 150n9; schemas for, 72–­73, 108, 150n13, 155n29; sponsored approaches, 34, 41–­44 Arabidopsis thaliana (plant), 1, 17 archaeology, 26 area studies, 49, 79, 112–­13, 115, 116 Argentina, 2, 47, 61, 80, 115–­16 Aristotle, 14–­15 Aron, Raymond, 91 Australia, 27–­28, 104 Austria, 46, 63 author, 88–­93 bacteria, 1, 5, 18 Bactria-­Margiana Archaeological Complex, 26 Baehr, Peter, 89–­90, 92, 154n11, 155n29, 156n38 Bargheer, Stefan, 26, 89 Beck, Ulrich, 92 Becker, Howard, 59 Beijing, 21 Beljean, Stefan, 77 Benjamin, Walter, 19 Bentham, Jeremy, 84, 94, 96 Berlin, 2, 19, 79 Bhabha, Homi, 108, 111 Bhatt, Chetan, 111 bias: Eurocentrism and, 4, 48, 101–­3, 105; gender and, 21, 50, 64, 91–­92; toward growth, 31, 48; internationalization of science and, 49–­50, 103; race and, 50, 64, 92; selection, 42, 44, 46, 48, 52, 76, 83; subfield categories and, 76, 83; urban studies and, 19, 21 Bielefeld University, 78 big data, 43–­44 biology: choice of model systems and, 36–­41; collective methods and, 39, 53–­55, 56–­57,

202 biology (cont.) 60, 63, 65–­67, 121; laboratories and, 5–­6, 11, 94, 96; model systems and, 1–­2, 15, 17–­18, 24–­25, 28, 32, 36–­41, 53–­55, 61, 63, 65–­67, 121; specimens and, 53–­55; standardization and, 55, 57–­58 blogs, 124 Bohr, Christian, 36 Bohr, Nils, 36 Boltanski, Luc, 89, 94 boosterism, 40, 43, 85, 93–­94 Bosk, Charles, 59 Boston, 14, 146n32 Boumans, Marcel, 30 Bourdieu, Pierre: education and, 35; global knowledge and, 103, 106–­7, 157n63; logic of application and, 28; scholastic disposition and, 47; social theory and, 86, 89, 92–­98, 157n63 Boys in White (Becker), 59 Brazil, 80 Brechtian Verfremdungseffekt (distancing effect), 64 Bujak, Franciszek, 63 Butler, Judith, 89 Calhoun, Craig, 73 cancer, 1, 42 canon. See textual canons capitalism, 13, 16, 34, 107 casing, 16 categories: approach vs. object categories, 71–­74; categorized opportunities, 74–­79; periods and, 8, 23, 69, 72, 79, 81–­82, 83, 115; regional, 72, 79–­81, 83, 105–­8, 113–­17, 150n11; schemas, and, 7–­8, 50, 70, 72–­73, 75–­78, 80–­82, 91–­92, 155n29, 156n50, 105–­8, 108–­10; sponsored categories, 42–­ 43, 50–­51, 71, 74, 78; subfield categories (see subfield categories); theory and, 88–­89; Zerubavel on, 50–­51; Zuckerman on, 73, 75–­76, 82 categorized opportunities, 74–­79 C. elegans (worm), 17, 38 census data, 29 Chakrabarty, Dipesh, 48 charities, 46 Charles, Nickie, 63, 65 Chicago, 2, 14, 19–­20, 22, 61–­64, 72, 85 chickens, 38, 40–­41 chimpanzees, 58 China, 21, 40, 80, 112, 114–­15 citations, 4, 70, 75, 89, 158n72 Clarke, Adele, 41 classics. See textual canons Clause, Bonnie, 40, 54, 145n7 climate change, 72–­73 clustering, 120–­21 Coal, Capital and Culture (Warwick and Littlejohn), 64

index cockroaches, 40 cognition: cultural schemas and, 7–­8, 46–­47, 50, 72–­73, 91–­92, 155n29; sociology of, 7–­8, 46–­47, 50–­51, 72–­73, 81; subfield categories and, 72–­73; “type 1,” 8 Cold War, 44, 72, 113 Cole, Jonathan, 37, 73 Coleopterists Bulletin (journal), 25 collective methods: anthropology and, 63–­65, 147n44; biology and, 10, 39, 53–­55, 56–­57, 60, 63, 65–­67, 121; birth of, 55–­56; communal use of cases and, 60–­61; funding and, 56; infrastructure of, 56–­57; laboratories and, 54–­58; literary studies and, 57, 67; mice and, 54, 58, 66; model systems and, 53–­56, 58, 61, 63, 65–­67, 121; neglected cases and, 124; paradigms and, 56, 121–­22; representative samples and, 65–­66; restudies and, 62–­65; standardization and, 55–­58, 60–­62, 65–­67; textual canons and, 57–­58 Columbia University, 78, 88 Common Era, 81 communal use, 60–­61 comparative analysis: vs. application, 96–­97, 110–­ 11; as an approach category, 72; of categorized opportunities, 72; of logics of valuing research objects, 24; of regional knowledge, 114–­16 Comte, August, 106 Connell, Raewyn, 27–­28, 87–­88, 104 constructivism, 5 Cooper, Frederick, 110–­11 Corrosion of Character, The (Sennett), 48 Creager, Angela, 28 criminology, 42–­43, 50, 74 Cronon, William, 72 Crow, Graham, 63 culture: conceptions of, 86–­87, 103, 122, 154n11, 154n15; cultural schemas and, 7–­8, 46–­47, 50, 72–­73, 91–­92, 150n13, 155n29; macrocultural analysis and, 47–­49, 85–­87, 103, 122, 154n11, 154n15; sociology of textual canons and, 86–­87; subcultural factors and, 47–­49, 52 cumulation, 32, 53–­68, 121–­24 Dalian, China, 2 Dark Ages, 81–­82 Davies, Charlotte, 65 Davis, Murray S., 92 Deciding Who Lives (Anspach), 60 Diamond, Jared, 73 Dingwall, Robert, 59 Discover Society (journal), 125 disease, 1, 30, 42, 141n39 doctors, 2, 46, 53, 59–­61 Doctors without Borders (Médecins sans frontières), 46 dogs, 1

index Du Bois, W. E. B., 91, 102 Durkheim, Émile, 6, 86, 88, 90–­91, 94, 99, 106, 125–­26, 154n10 Early Iron Age, 81–­82 Eastern Sociological Association (ESA), 69, 75 ecology, 1, 18, 63 Economy and Society (journal), 93 EDF (Électricité de France), 23 education, 18, 35, 43, 141n43 empiricism, 25, 27, 97 English language: global knowledge and, 43, 45, 49, 101, 104, 111–­12; social theory and, 93 environmental history, 73 Environmental History of Britain (Simmons), 73 epistemic research object: categories of, 71–­74; distinction from material research object, 2, 10, 14–­16, 71, 118–­19; literary canons and, 18, 57–­58; Poovey on, 18; subfield categories and, 69–­7 1; theorists and authors as, 88 epistemic target. See epistemic research object epistemology: abstracted, 3–­4, 6, 66–­67, 118–­19; critique of ideology and, 3, 101–­5, 111–­12; differentiation in the social sciences and, 69–­70, 74; distillation of position and, 3, 6; humanities and, 7, 27, 66–­67; Western, 103 Essays in Sociological Theory (Parsons), 88 ethnicity, 46, 65, 76, 107, 112 ethnography: of laboratories, 5; restudies and, 62–­65; translation and, 14 Eurocentrism, 4, 19, 27–­28, 48, 86, 101–­3, 105, 157n63 exclusions, 34, 50–­51, 86 experimental systems: choice of, in biology, 36–­41; distinction from model system, 17, 25, 36; meaning in the work of Rheinberger, 57, 134n14 Experiment Perilous (Fox), 59 factories, 22–­24, 32, 45, 48, 61–­62, 85, 135n48 Fahnestock, Jeanne, 26 Fanon, Frantz, 110 Farzin, Sina, 95, 99 Finland, 81, 106, 114, 137n77 Firebaugh, Glenn, 140n19 Focillon, Henri, 82 Fordism, 23, 136n52 Forgive and Remember (Bosk), 59 formal models, 11, 15, 24, 29–­31 Forrester, John, 67, 148n70 Foucault, Michel, 28, 49, 84, 86, 91, 94, 96, 98, 103 Fox, Renée, 59 framing, 16, 70, 121 France, 13, 22–­23, 35, 82, 105, 113–­14, 157n63 Freidson, Eliot, 59 French Revolution, 27–­28, 32, 61, 106–­8, 120 Friedmann, Georges, 22

203 frogs, 1, 17, 34, 38–­39, 54, 58 fruit flies: collective methods and, 54–­55, 61; as model organisms, 1, 17–­18, 38, 41 Fujimura, Joan, 40, 55–­56 funding: approaches and, 44; categories of research objects and, 42; collective methods and, 56; material research objects and, 18, 23, 33, 40, 45, 51; philanthropy and, 43–­44, 142n48; subfield categories and, 75 Gates, Henry Louis, 110 Geertz, Clifford, 80 Geiger, Theodor, 91 gender, 16, 21, 50, 64, 71–­72, 76, 83 gentrification, 21, 27, 47, 120 German Socio-­Economic Panel, 29, 65 Germany, 49, 63, 78, 81–­82, 92, 94, 106–­7, 114, 149nn3–­4 Giddens, Anthony, 92 Gieryn, Thomas, 19 Global Atlantic, 112 globalization, 16, 101, 103, 109, 111–­12 global knowledge: Anglo-­American hegemony and, 27–­28, 47–­48, 49–­50, 103–­4, 111–­12; an­ thropology and, 79–­82, 115, 116; area studies and, 49, 79, 112–­13, 115, 116; English language and, 43, 45, 49, 101, 104, 111–­12; Eurocentrism and, 4, 48, 101–­3, 105; humanities and, 109, 112, 114; journals and, 49–­50, 101, 104–­5, 112; literary studies and, 109, 112, 115; material research objects and, 102, 104–­10, 113–­16; metrocentrism and, 28, 101; neglected cases and, 107–­8, 116, 117; political science and, 115, 116; postcolonial theory and, 47–­48, 101–­17; subaltern studies and, 108–­12, 162n49 Global South, 20–­21, 48, 110–­12, 156n36 Glossary of Luhmannian Terms, 93 Go, Julian, 102–­3 Google, 52 governmentality, 49, 71, 93, 96 Greece, 81–­82 Griesemer, James, 160n22 Guetzkow, Joshua, 92, 120 Guggenheim, Michael, 2, 96–­97, 143n72, 154n18 Guns, Germs, and Steel (Diamond), 73 Hacking, Ian, 55, 57, 66 Hafferty, Frederic, 59 Haitian Revolution, 107 Hall, John, 126, 165n17 Hamann, Julian, 77 Harlem, New York, 14 Harman, Graham, 90 Harvard University, 88 Hechter, Michael, 35 Hirschman, Daniel, 42

204 HIV/AIDS, 1 Hughes, Everett, 59 Hughes, Ted, 142n53 humanities: abstracted epistemology and, 7, 27, 66–­67; anniversaries and, 43; big data and, 43; choice of material research objects in, 26, 33, 43, 45–­46, 81–­82; cuts to language departments and, 112; epistemic targets and, 16; standardization and, 57–­58; subfield categories and, 72, 74, 79 human rights, 72, 77 Hungarian Studies Association, 43

index

Kant, Immanuel, 74 Karl Marx Handbook, 93 Katznelson, Ira, 107 Keller, Evelyn Fox, 122 Kennedy, Michael, 116 Kimmelman, Barbara, 41 Klinenberg, Eric, 20 Knorr Cetina, Karin, 5, 149n65 Kohler, Robert, 5, 55 Koselleck, Reinhart, 93 Kotsonas, Antonis, 81–­82 Krogh, August, 36–­37 Kuhn, Thomas, 119, 150n9 Kuper, Adam, 25, 97

social theory and, 90, 94, 96; standardization and, 54–­57, 58–­59; studio studies and, 136n53 Laboratory Life (Latour and Woolgar), 5 Lagos, 21 Lakatos, Imre, 97 Landscapes and Labscapes (Kohler), 5 Lassiter, Luke Eric, 64 Latin America: Argentina, 2, 47, 61, 80, 115–­16; Brazil, 80; global knowledge and, 104, 111, 114–­16; Mexico, 116; Peru, 2; subaltern studies and, 109 Latour, Bruno, 5, 27, 49, 89–­90, 92, 94, 125–­26 Laux, Henning, 95 lawyers, 2, 59 Lazarsfeld, Paul, 34–­36 Leftist revolutions, 47 Leonelli, Sabina, 134n16 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 124 Letourneau, Charles, 88 Levine, Donald, 88–­89 LGBTQ activists, 50 life sciences, 1–­2, 7, 65, 67, 122 Lindstedt, Ilkka, 114 literary studies: cuts to language departments and, 112; epistemic research objects and, 18–­19, 57–­ 58; global knowledge and, 109, 112, 115; material research objects and, 18–­19, 26, 133n10, 137n70; model systems and, 18–­19, 67; social theory and, 92, 98–­99; standardization and, 57–­58; subfield categories and, 81; textual canons and, 18–­19, 57–­58, 82 Littlejohn, Gary, 64 Lizardo, Omar, 73 lobbying, 18, 34, 40, 42, 50, 52 logic of application, 24, 27–­28, 31, 96–­97, 110–­11 logic of coverage: global knowledge and, 110; material research objects and, 24–­27, 49; social theory and, 91, 97–­98 logic of empiricism, 27 logic of formal models, 29–­30 logic of representativeness, 28–­29, 65–­66 London School of Economics (LSE), 90 Longino, Helen, 119–­20 Lords of the Fly (Kohler), 5 Los Angeles, 20, 64, 79 Ludden, David, 109 Luhmann, Niklas, 93–­94, 99 Lunbeck, Elizabeth, 28 Luxembourg, 106 Lynd, Helen, 63–­64 Lynd, Robert, 63–­64 Lyon, Dawn, 63

labor, 22–­24, 32, 45, 48, 61–­62, 85, 135n48 laboratories: Bohr on, 36; collective methods and, 54–­58; ethnographies of, 5–­4; field and, 58–­59;

MacDonald, Susan Peck, 133n10 Macedonia, 82 macrohistoricism, 47–­49

IBM, 48 Igo, Sarah, 63–­64 immigrants, 20, 27, 46–­47 imperialism, 73–­74, 86, 102–­3, 109, 114 India, 112, 114 industrialization, 22–­23, 34, 55, 106–­7 inequality, 18, 35, 41, 50, 102–­6, 119 internationalization, 103–­4, 115 International Sociological Association (ISA), 75 Into the Valley (Hafferty), 59 Ireland, 106 Islam, 12, 16, 69–­70, 76, 82, 115 Jacksonville, Florida, 2 Japan, 47, 112, 115 job distribution, 76–­78 Jones, Robert Alun, 63, 99, 154n10 Journal of Nietzsche Studies, 19, 93 Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 45 journals: bias and, 42, 45–­46, 49–­50, 97, 101, 104, 112; as categorized opportunities, 75; as sponsors of material research objects, 49–­50, 104; subfield categories and, 75, 80, 83 Joyce, James, 57, 142n53

index malaria, 141n39 Malinowskian anthropology, 25–­26, 97 Mallard, Grégoire, 57 Malpighi, Marcello, 34, 38 Manufacture of Knowledge, The (Knorr Cetina), 5 Marchand, Suzanne, 113–­14 Marx, Karl: as a classic, 86, 91, 93; critique of false universalism and, 102; material research objects and, 22, 106–­7; Merton on, 34 Marxism: historicism and, 47–­49; paradigmatic examples and, 22, 84, 106–­7; as a subfield category, 71–­72 Maszkienice, Poland, 63 materialized schema, 132n36 material research objects: anthropology and, 2, 25, 33, 48, 79–­82, 115–­16; biology and, 1–­2, 6, 15, 17–­19, 24–­25, 30, 32, 34, 36–­41, 54–­57; cultural schema and, 34, 46–­47, 50, 52; distinction from epistemic research object, 2, 10, 14–­16, 71, 118–­19; distinction from privileged material research objects, 2, 10–­11, 15, 17–­20, 119; ethnography and, 14, 62–­65; funding and, 18, 23, 33, 40, 45, 51; global knowledge and, 104–­10, 113–­16; inequality among, 33–­34, 102–­6; literary studies and, 18–­19, 26, 133n10, 137n70; logic of coverage and, 24–­27, 31, 49; Merton on, 4, 15, 34–­37, 39, 60, 164n5; model systems and, 1–­2, 6, 15, 17–­19, 24–­25, 30, 32, 34, 36–­41, 54–­57; neglected cases and, 21, 25–­26, 32, 42, 123–­24, 141n39, 141n43; obscured, 118–­19; paradigmatic example and, 84–­85, 94–­95, 110–­11; postcolonial theory and, 27–­28, 48, 108–­10; selection of, 2, 24–­28, 33–­52, 78, 79–­82, 90–­93, 102–­10; sociology of work and, 21–­24, 45; standardization and, 53–­62, 140n23; thought experiments, 61–­62, 95; urban studies and, 2, 15, 19–­21, 27, 31, 47, 51, 85 Max Weber Dictionary, 93 Max Weber Studies (journal), 93 McJobs, 23 McLaughlin, Neil, 91 Mead, Margaret, 157n67 Médecins sans frontières (Doctors without Borders), 46 medicine, 43, 59, 146n36 medium specificity, 124–­26 Mendieta, Eduardo, 109 Merton, Robert, 4, 11, 15, 34–­37, 39, 60, 164n5 metrocentrism, 28, 101 Mexico, 116 mice, 1, 17–­18, 38–­40, 54, 58, 66 microhistoricism, 47–­49 microhistory, 72 Middle East, 115 Mignolo, Walter, 103, 111 Miner, Horace, 154n10

205 model case, 18. See also privileged material research objects model organisms. See model systems models. See logic of formal models model systems: biology and, 1–­2, 15, 17–­18, 24–­25, 28, 32, 36–­41, 53–­55, 61, 63, 65–­67; choice of, 36–­41; collective methods and, 53–­56, 58, 61, 63, 65–­67; cumulation and, 32, 53–­68, 121–­24; formal models and, 29–­31; as privileged material research objects, 4, 15, 17–­18, 24, 36, 61, 67; representative samples and, 28–­29, 65–­66, 123; specimens and, 11, 28, 53–­55, 58, 65, 67; US National Institutes of Health and, 18 modernity, 20, 48, 74, 86, 102, 105–­8, 117 Modern Language Association, 141n43 Monaco City, 2 Morgan, Mary, 30, 66 Mormon History Association, 43 Morocco, 115 Mouzelis, Nicos, 91 Mumbai, 2, 21 Nairobi, 21 NASA (National Aeronautics and Space Administration), 26 Nash, Roderick, 72 National Longitudinal Survey of Youth, 29, 65 natural sciences: collective methods and, 53–­54, 56, 121; disunity of, 5–­7; duplicate publications in, 164n7; paradigms in, 56, 121–­22, 150n9; philosophy of the, 5–­7, 119–­20, 120–­21; schemas and, 7–­8; sponsorship and, 41 Nature’s Metropolis (Cronon), 72 neglected cases: global knowledge and, 107, 116, 117; logic of coverage and, 25–­26; material research objects and, 21, 25–­26, 32, 42, 123–­24, 141n39, 141n43; social theory and, 91, 93, 157n63; subfield categories and, 70, 74, 149n6; urban studies and, 19, 21, 47 New Public Management, 27 newsletters, 40 New York, 14, 20, 29, 78, 120 Nobel Prize, 37 Nöldeke, Theodor, 113 nongovernmental organizations (NGOs), 46 Olshausen, Justus, 113 orientalism, 113–­14 Osrecki, Fran, 74 overproduction, 120–­21, 125 overstudying, 4, 47, 61 paradigmatic examples, 84–­85, 94–­95, 110–­11 paradigms, 56, 71–­74, 121–­22, 150n9 Park, Robert, 20 Parsons, Talcott, 59, 88, 91–­92, 146n32

206 period categories, 8, 23, 69, 72, 79, 81–­82, 83, 115 Peru, 2 Pfister, Christian, 73 philanthropy, 43–­44, 142n48 Phillips–­Newlyn model, 30 physics, 5–­6, 66, 90, 121–­22 physiology, 36–­38, 41, 55 Pitti, Laure, 22–­23 Planaria (worm), 1 Plath, Sylvia, 142n53 Plato, 84 Platt, Jennifer, 60, 88 Poland, 63, 106, 116 political economy, 21–­22, 75 political science: activists and, 50–­51; Cold War and, 44, 113; Eurocentrism and, 48, 102–­8, 156n36; material research objects and, 35, 48, 50–­51; populism and, 2, 115, 116; regional categories and, 80, 115, 116; textual canons and, 85 “Politics as a Vocation” (Weber), 126, 165n17 Poovey, Mary, 18, 131n25 populism, 2, 115, 116 positivism, 3, 6, 30, 70 postcolonial theory: application and, 110–­12; critique of false universalism, 102–­3, 111; diagnosis of Eurocentrism, 19, 27, 48, 87, 102–­3; exclusions by, 108–­12, 156n36; global knowledge and, 101–­16, 117; Go and, 102–­3; historicism and, 48; macrocultural emphasis and, 86–­87, 103, 113–­ 14; material research objects and, 27, 48, 102–­3, 108–­10; subfield categories and, 72, 110–­12 postoccidentalism, 109 primate research, 58 privileged material research objects: advantages/ disadvantages of, 3, 30–­31, 53–­68, 119–­24; anthropology and, 79–­81; collective methods and, 57–­63, 67, 69; cultural schemas and, 7–­8, 46–­47, 50, 80, 89; distinction from material research objects, 2, 10–­11, 15, 17–­20, 119; Eurocentrism and, 19, 27, 48, 102–­3; literary studies and, 18–­ 19, 57–­58, 67; model systems, and, 4, 15, 17–­18, 24, 36, 61, 67; patterns of overproduction and, 120–­21; postcolonial theory and, 108–­10; social theory and, 84, 90–­93, 95, 97, 108–­10; sociology of work and, 21–­24; urban studies and, 15, 19–­21, 85 privileged theory objects, 90–­93 production of knowledge, 3, 9, 17, 105, 114, 120, 122 “Professions and Social Structure, The” (Parsons), 59 proteins, 1, 18 Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, The (Weber), 89 prototypes, 7–­8, 50, 80, 89, 150n13 psychoanalysis, 67, 96, 148n70 psychology, 7, 45, 46–­47

index Quine, Willard Van Orman, 5 race: biased framings, 50, 64, 92, 156n50; ethnicity and, 46, 76; segregation and, 14, 101; urban studies and, 20, 64 radio, 34–­36 Ragin, Charles, 60 rats, 1, 18, 38, 53–­54, 145n7 regional categories, 72, 79–­81, 83, 105–­8, 113–­17, 150n11 relativism, 5 religion: in American modernity, 108; Durkheim on, 154n10; Islam/Islamic Studies and, 16, 69, 76, 82, 115; as a metaphor in the analysis of privileged texts, 154n11, 156n38; Weber on, 89 Renault (car manufacturer), 22–­23, 45, 61 research objects, selection of, 24–­28, 36–­42, 90–­93 restudies, 62–­65, 147n44 Rethinking Marx (journal), 19, 93 revolutions: American, 108; French, 27–­28, 32, 61, 106–­8, 120; Haitian, 107; Leftist, 47; model cases and, 27–­28, 32, 106–­7 Rheinberger, Hans-­Jörg, 57, 134n15, 140n23 rice, 41 Robinson, Jennifer, 19 Roman Empire, 81 Rozin, Paul, 45 Said, Edward, 103, 108, 113 Salvador, Bahia, Brazil, 80 samples: of the “best works,” 9, 18–­19, 51, 82; population samples, 29; representative samples, 24, 28–­29, 65–­66, 68, 123; selection of material research object and, 24–­28, 33–­52; of US undergraduate students in psychology, 45 Sartre, Jean-­Paul, 22, 84 Savage, Mike, 74 Schapera, Isaac, 80 Schlechtriemen, Tobias, 99 Schmitz, Andreas, 149n4 Science (journal), 26 science and technology studies (STS), 4, 72–­73, 87, 90, 149n6 scientific conservation, 122 scientific method, 3, 56, 65 Scientology, 52 Secor, Marie, 26 segregation, 14, 101 selection of research objects, 24–­28, 36–­42, 90–­93 selective attention, 4, 115 self-­reflection, 3–­7 Sennett, Richard, 48 Shanghai, 21 Simmel, Georg, 19, 88, 93 Simmons, Ian Gordon, 73 Skalnik, Peter, 63

index slums, 14, 21 Small, Mario, 20 Smith, Adam, 21 snails, 1, 34, 37 social groups, 7, 34, 47, 50, 70 social theory: ambassadors and, 94, 125; anthropology and, 79–­82, 85, 97, 147n44; cognitive schemas and, 91–­92, 155n29, 156n50; comparison vs. application, 96–­98, 110–­11; as an epistemic target, 88; import and export of authors, 92; laboratories and, 90, 94, 96; literary methods and, 98–­99; logic of application and, 96–­97, 110–­11; logic of coverage and, 91, 97–­98; macrocultural analysis of the canon and, 85–­87, 154n11, 154n15; neglected theorists and, 91, 93; new historicism and, 99; paradigmatic examples vs. model case, 84–­85, 94–­98; prerequisites of consecration of authors and, 87–­90, 97, 156n36; race and, 92, 156n50; religion as a metaphor in the analysis of privileged texts, 154n11, 156n38; selection among authors, 90–­93, 156n36; as a subfield category, 89; theorists as epistemic targets and, 89–­93 Society for Military History, 43 Society for the Advancement of Socio-­economic Studies (SASE), 75 Somers, Margaret, 107 Sousa Santos, Boaventura de, 103 South Asia, 48, 80, 109–­11, 114–­15 Southeastern Naturalist (journal), 25 Spain, 82, 106 specimens: biological model systems and, 37, 54–­55, 58, 65, 67; convenient, 44–­45; live, 41; standardization and, 53, 55, 57–­58, 60–­62, 65–­67, 122; textual canons and, 57–­58, 116; underspecified, 59–­60; variation among, 53–­54, 58–­62, 66–­68, 123 Spencer, Herbert, 91 Spivak, Gayatri, 108, 112 sponsored approaches, 34, 41–­44 sponsored categories, 42–­43, 50–­51, 71, 74, 78 sponsored facts, 41–­44 sponsored material research objects: activists and, 50–­51; Anglo-­American journals and, 49–­50, 104; convenience and, 37–­38, 44–­46; Eurocentrism, 19, 27–­28, 48, 86, 101–­3, 105; funders, 40–­ 41; inertia, 40, 78–­79; macrohistoricism and, 47–­49; microhistoricism and, 47–­49; schemas in the popular mind and, 46–­47; subcultural factors and, 47 sponsorship, concept of, 41–­42, 52 standardization: biology and, 53, 55, 57, 60–­62, 65–­ 67, 122, 140n23; collective methods and, 55–­58, 60–­62, 65–­67; laboratories and, 58–­59; limits of, 58–­59; textual canons and, 57–­58 Star, Susan Leigh, 118, 160n22 statistics, 29–­30, 44, 46, 55, 66, 123, 138n87

207 status groups, 59 Stinchcombe, Arthur, 76 Strauss, Anselm, 59 subaltern studies, 108–­12, 162n49 subfield categories: ambassadorship positions and, 78–­79, 83, 94; anthropology and, 72, 76, 79–­82; approach, 71–­74, 96–­97, 110–­11, 151n28; cultural schemas and, 50, 70, 72–­73, 75–­78, 80–­82; epi­ stemic research objects and, 71–­73; as a form of differentiation within disciplines, 71–­73; funding, 42–­43, 75, 76; gender and, 50, 71–­72, 76, 83; imperialism of, 73–­74; job distribution and, 76–­78; journals and, 75, 80, 83; literary studies and, 81–­83; opportunities and, 70, 74–­79, 82–­83; period, 69–­70, 72, 79, 81–­83; political science and, 80, 115–­16; postcolonial theory and, 71–­72, 110–­11; race and, 50; regional, 72, 75, 79–­82, 114–­16; sponsored categories and, 42–­43, 71, 74, 78; theory and, 89 Swansea, 65 Tarde, Gabriel, 125–­26 Taylorism, cultural, 55 tenure, 49, 78–­79 textbook cases, 23 textual canons: anthropology and, 79–­82, 85, 97, 147n44; literary methods and, 98–­99; literary studies and, 18–­19, 57–­58, 116; logic of coverage and, 26, 91, 97–­98; macrocultural analysis of, 85–­87, 154n11, 154n15; new historicism and, 99; paradigmatic examples and, 84–­85, 94–­98; political science and, 85; prerequisites of consecration of authors and, 87–­90, 97, 156n36; religion as a metaphor in the analysis of privileged texts, 154n11, 156n38; selection among authors, 90–­93; sociology and, 85–­94; standardization and, 57–­58 theory objects, 90–­93 Thompson, E. P., 107 thought experiments, 61–­62, 95 tobacco, 17, 42, 54 Tocqueville, Alexis de, 106 Touraine, Alain, 22–­23 translation, 4, 24, 59, 69, 87, 115, 154n18 Trüper, Henning, 114, 164n2 Turkey, 112, 114–­15 “type 1” cognition, 8 Ulysses (Joyce), 57 United Kingdom: Anglo-­American hegemony and, 27–­28, 47–­48, 49–­50, 103–­4, 111–­12, 117; community studies and, 63; criminology and, 42; import and export of social theory and, 92; New Public Management in, 27 United States: ambassadors of theory and, 94; Anglo-­American hegemony and, 27–­28, 47–­48,

208 United States (cont.) 49–­50, 103–­4, 111–­12; Boston, 14, 146n32; Chicago, 2, 14, 19–­20, 22, 61–­64, 72, 85; Cold War and, 44, 113; Los Angeles, 20, 64, 79; metropolitan statistical areas of, 29; modernity and, 108; National Longitudinal Survey of Youth and, 29; political history of, 50; secularization and, 108; sociology of professions and, 59 universalism, 102–­3, 111, 164n5 University of California Santa Cruz, 126 University of Chicago, 19 urban studies: Berlin and, 2, 19; boring places and, 47; Boston and, 14; Chicago and, 2, 14, 19–­20, 61–­64, 72; collective methods and, 62; Dalian and, 2; East Harlem and, 14; gentrification and, 21, 27, 47, 120; Jacksonville and, 2; Los Angeles and, 20, 64, 79; material research objects and, 15, 19–­21, 27, 31, 47, 51, 85; metrocentrism and, 19, 101; metropolitan statistical areas and, 29; “Middletown” (Muncie) and, 64; Monaco City and, 2; Mumbai and, 2, 21; neglected cases and, 19, 21, 47; New York and, 14, 20, 29, 120; planning literature and, 51; race and, 20, 64; restudies and, 62–­65; slums and, 14, 21 valuation of research objects, 24–­28, 36–­42, 90–­93 Venkatech, Sudhir A., 20 Verfremdungseffekt (distancing effect), 64 viruses, 1, 17–­18, 54 Wacquant, Loïc, 20, 143n68 Warner, W. Lloyd, 63 Warwick, Dennis, 64

index Wealth of Nations, The (Smith), 21 Weber, Eugen, 106 Weber, Max: Bargheer on, 89; as a classic author, 86–­94; methodological program of, 6; “Politics as a Vocation,” 126, 165n17; professions and, 59 “What Is an Author?” (Foucault), 93 wheat, 41 Wilderness and the American Mind (Nash), 72 Williams, Raymond, 107 Wilson, William Julius, 20 Wirth, Louis, 20 Wisconsin Longitudinal Study, 29 Wise, Norton, 28 WISTARAT, 54 Wolff, Kurt H., 88 Woolgar, Steve, 5 work, 22–­24, 45, 48, 61–­62, 85, 135n48 World War I, 33, 43, 106 World War II, 36 worms, 1, 17, 38 W. Richard Scott Award for Distinguished Scholarship, 69 Xerox PARC lab, 51 X in Australia, 27–­28, 104 yeast, 38, 40–­41 zebrafish, 17–­18, 38 Zerubavel, Eviatar, 50–­51 Zuckerman, Ezra, 73, 75–­76, 82 Zuckerman, Harriet, 37, 73