Perspectivism: A Contribution to the Philosophy of the Social Sciences (Classical and Contemporary Social Theory) [1 ed.] 1032404779, 9781032404776

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PERSPECTIVISM Perspectivism: A Contribution to the Philosophy of the Social Sciences advances the philosophy of perspectivism, showing how its capacity to assess competing views of a particular concept by approaching them as diferent ‘sides’ of a multi-dimensional object supports a concept of ‘adequate’ rather than ‘absolute’ truth. Presenting four case studies—of the social scientifc concepts of power, equality, crime, and sex and gender—Smith demonstrates the manner in which the perspectivist approach does not take all difering views of a concept to be equally good, but views all perspectives taken together as contributing towards the best that we can know about any given concept at the present time. An exposition and analysis of the means by which perspectivism allows for truth and objectivity in the social sciences, this volume will appeal to scholars of philosophy and across the social sciences with interests in questions of epistemology and research methodology. Kenneth Smith is the author of Emile Durkheim and the Collective Consciousness of Society: A Study in Criminology (2014) and Karl Marx's Capital: A Guide to Volumes I–III (second edition, 2021). He was formerly Professor of Sociology at Regent’s University, London and Reader in Criminology and Sociology at Buckinghamshire New University, UK.

“Tis is an ambitious book. Its primary purpose is to show that ‘perspectivism’ – a perspectival view of the world – is the most efective and productive approach for use in the social sciences. It argues that perspectivism implies looking at questions from as many diferent perspectives as possible and, used in the proper way, this approach will enable the social sciences to escape its present stasis and begin to make progress, not unlike the natural sciences. Employed as the book suggests, it will not only end the seemingly interminable disputes about terminology, but also resolve core problems concerning method, truth and objectivity.” Trevor Hussey, Emeritus Professor of Philosophy, Buckinghamshire New University, UK “Ken Smith provides a comprehensive and impassioned discussion of the idea of perspectivism in social thought. Tracing the development of the idea through Nietzsche, Mannheim, Weber, and Peirce he shows how objects of sociological knowledge can be seen as related to the point of view of the observer. Perspectivism, properly understood, leads not to relativism but to the possibility for advances in sociological understanding that Smith sketches through considerations on power, equality, crime, and sexual diference.” John Scott, Emeritus Professor of Sociology, Plymouth University, UK “Perspectivism can be read as a debate with W. B. Gallie’s infuential 1956 article on ‘essentially contested concepts’. Many critics of sociology have concluded that all sociological concepts fall under the ECC umbrella. Smith provides a route, authoritative and comprehensive, out of the dead-end. Two other conclusions are important. ECCs are in fact rare and typically occur in relation to disputes about religion or culture. Smith’s typology will transform the debate in resolving puzzles over such conceptual confusion. Te second important observation is that sociologists have been too ready to accept subjectivity, when such surrender was unnecessary. Perspectivism, a tour de force in social theory, takes the Gallie legacy to a new level.” Bryan S. Turner, Professor of Sociology, Australian Catholic University, Australia

Classical and Contemporary Social Theory Series Editor Stjepan G. Mestrovic, Texas A&M University, USA

Classical and Contemporary Social Teory publishes rigorous scholarly work that re-discovers the relevance of social theory for contemporary times, demonstrating the enduring importance of theory for modern social issues. Te series covers social theory in a broad sense, inviting contributions on both ‘classical’ and modern theory, thus encompassing sociology, without being confned to a single discipline. As such, work from across the social sciences is welcome, provided that volumes address the social context of particular issues, subjects, or fgures and ofer new understandings of social reality and the contribution of a theorist or school to our understanding of it. Te series considers signifcant new appraisals of established thinkers or schools, comparative works or contributions that discuss a particular social issue or phenomenon in relation to the work of specifc theorists or theoretical approaches. Contributions are welcome that assess broad strands of thought within certain schools or across the work of a number of thinkers, but always with an eye toward contributing to contemporary understandings of social issues and contexts. Titles in this series Perspectivism A Contribution to the Philosophy of the Social Sciences Kenneth Smith A Sociology of Seeking Portents of Belief Kieran Flanagan True Believers and the Great Replacement Understanding Anomie and Alienation Alf Walle For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge. com/sociology/series/ASHSER1383

PERSPECTIVISM (PERSPEKTIVISMUS)

A Contribution to the Philosophy of the Social Sciences By Kenneth Smith

Designed cover image: Shutterstock First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Tird Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 Kenneth Smith Te right of Kenneth Smith to be identifed as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafer invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identifcation and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Smith, Kenneth (Kenneth Ronald), author. Title: Perspectivism : a contribution to the philosophy of the social sciences / Kenneth Smith. Description: Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2023. | Series: Classical and contemporary social theory | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifers: LCCN 2022035808 (print) | LCCN 2022035809 (ebook) | ISBN 9781032404776 (hardback) | ISBN 9781032404783 (paperback) | ISBN 9781003353263 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Social sciences—Philosophy. | Perspective (Philosophy) Classifcation: LCC H61.15 .S5824 2023 (print) | LCC H61.15 (ebook) | DDC 300.1—dc23/eng/20220825 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022035808 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022035809 ISBN: 978-1-032-40477-6 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-40478-3 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-35326-3 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003353263 Typeset in Minion by Apex CoVantage, LLC

It is not given to us to grasp the truth, which is identical with the divine, directly. We perceive it only in reflection, in example and symbol, in singular and related appearances. It meets us as a kind of life which is incomprehensible to us, and yet we cannot free ourselves from the desire to comprehend it. Goethe; cited in Werner Stark, 1977, p.v, The Sociology of Knowledge, London and Henley, RKP (emphasis added)

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I would like to thank all the people who taught me when I was an undergraduate student at Lancaster University including Nick Abercrombie, Stephen Ackroyd, Kate Currie, Russell Keat, Bryan S. Turner, and especially the late and much lamented Professor John Urry [1946–2016] to whom this book is dedicated.

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Contents

Acknowledgements xi Introduction The ‘Object of Enquiry’ versus the ‘Knowing Subject’ 1

PART ONE Theoretical Considerations: The Concept of ‘Perspectivism’ Chapter One Nietzsche and the Origins of the Concept of ‘Perspectivism’ 25 Chapter Two Karl Mannheim, Perspectivism and the Sociology of Knowledge 55 Chapter Three Max Weber’s Concept of Objectivity in the Social Sciences 93 Chapter Four Pragmatism and Perspectivism 117 – ix–

PART TWO Application of the Concept of Perspectivism to a Number of Different Concepts in the Social Sciences Preface to Part Two 151 Chapter Five Power as a Mutually Contested Concept 153 Chapter Six The Concept of Equality Reconsidered 183 Chapter Seven A Three/Four-Dimensional Concept of Crime 207 Chapter Eight The Social Construction of Sexual Difference: The Concepts of Sex, Gender, Intersexuality, Bisexuality, Homosexuality and Heterosexuality Reconsidered from a Perspectivist Point of View 237 General Conclusion 259 Appendix Perspectivism and Art 287 Bibliography 295 Index 303

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Acknowledgements

I am grateful to Jean C. Backmore and the estate of Roger Duvoisen for permission to use the Frog in the Well image on page 28 of this book as well as Susan Barba of the New York Review of Books and Ariana Philips of the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency, New York, for their considerable help in this matter. I would like to thank Professor John Hagan for his permission to reproduce as Figure 7.1 on page 221 of this book the pyramid diagram of crime from his 1985 book Modern Criminology. I am also grateful to the American Sociological Review for their permission to reproduce as Table 7.1 in this book (pp.223–225) the Baltimore survey of attitudes towards crime frst published by Rossi et al. in the ASR in 1974, vol. 39, pp. 224–237. I also wish to thank Professor William Outhwaite, formerly of Newcastle University, and William Vint of PeopleCert International, for reading a prepublication version of this book and giving me much useful help and advice. I would also like to thank Neil Jordan of Routledge Taylor Francis for his considerable help in the production of this book. Tanks also to Tim Carter Wale of systemfx.com for designing Figures 9.2 on page 261 and A1.3 on page 291. I would also like to thank Qusai Jaferji of Newman’s Stationery, London E2 for modifying and improving the image of the six blind men of Hindustan which appears on page 281 of this book. Kenneth Smith, July 2022

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Definition involves the three organic elements of the notion: the universal or proximate genus (genus proximum), the particular or specific character of the genus (qualitas specifica), and the individual, or object defined. The first question that definition suggests, is where it comes from. The general answer to this question is to say, that definitions originate by way of analysis. This will explain how it happens that people quarrel about the correctness of proposed definitions; for here everything depends on what perceptions we started from, and what points of view we had before our eyes in so doing. The richer the object to be defined is, that is, the more numerous are the aspects which it offers to our notice, the more various are the definitions we may frame of it. Thus there are quite a host of definitions of life, of the state, etc. Geometry, on the contrary, dealing with a theme so abstract as space, has an easy task in giving definitions. Again, in respect of the matter or contents of the objects defined, there is no constraining necessity present. We are expected to admit that space exists, that there are plants, animals, etc., nor is it the business of geometry, botany, etc., to demonstrate that the objects in question necessarily are. This very circumstance makes the synthetic method of cognition as little suitable for philosophy as the analytical: for philosophy has above all things to leave no doubt of the necessity of its objects. Hegel, Logic, 1892: 366–367 (emphasis added)

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Introduction The ‘Object of Enquiry’ versus the ‘Knowing Subject’

H

old up any object that you have in front of you at the moment—the book or tablets device that you are presently reading for example— and then look at this object very carefully from a number of diferent points of view. Unless the object in question is perfectly symmetrical—a perfect sphere in fact—it will look diferent from one side to another and sometimes very diferent indeed. For example, the lap top computer on which I am writing this Introduction has a screen on one side and, on this screen there are a number of brightly coloured images, or perhaps I should call them ‘icons’, of programmes that I have on my computer and which I can use whenever I want to do so merely by clicking on them. On the other side of my lap top however there is no screen at all and certainly no icons unless it is the logo of the manufacturer of the computer (Hewlett-Packard) that I happen to be using. Two people who were looking at this same object from completely diferent sides in a two dimensional world would have no understanding at all (a) that such an object could have diferent sides which might be viewed from completely diferent perspectives or (b) that they were even looking at the same object at all (Abbott, 1884)1. Most likely they would simply think that they were talking about two completely diferent things altogether, however, if they were able to agree that they were actually looking at the same object they would then probably argue violently about which of them was describing the object in question ‘correctly’ when we of

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course, from the advantage of our three/four-dimensional universe, can easily see that they are both right. Much of what we call ‘arguments’, or ‘debates’, in the social sciences are of this kind and as Tomas Kuhn pointed out to us some time ago (Kuhn,  1970: 109–110) and Karl Mannheim before him (Mannheim, 1976 [1936]: 251) it is surprising just how ofen those who take part in such disputes are not even talking about the same thing—the same object—at all, although all the while believing that they are. Similarly, no one picking up a three-dimensional object would ever dream of arguing that they had described it fully and completely from just one of its sides without also describing all its other sides too. Unless it is perfectly symmetrical all would agree that it had more than two sides and indeed that some of these sides in all likelihood looked very diferent indeed from one another. Te reason for this is of course that everyone accepts that the object in question is a three-dimension thing and that consequently, unless it is wholly symmetrical, it will look diferent from one side to another. Te objects of explanation in the natural sciences are generally easier to explain than the objects of enquiry in the social sciences because they are usually of this physical three-dimensional kind.2 No natural scientist, viewing an object of enquiry—an astronomer let us say who is viewing the Moon as seen from the Earth—would ever dispute with another natural scientist that they were only viewing the Moon from the perspective of the Earth or even that the Moon had more than one ‘side’—the ‘dark side of the Moon’ as this used to be known—to the one that could be directly observed from the Earth, but which nevertheless everyone accepted (a) did in all likelihood exist even though it could not be seen and which (b) being ‘dark’, might well be very diferent—in fact must be very diferent—from the side on which the sun shines directly and which can be observed from the Earth. Now as a matter of fact, because of a slight wobble in the motion of the Moon known as ‘libration’, and the fact that we can see slightly diferent ‘sides’ of the moon from slightly diferent directions depending upon where we are standing on the Earth—something which is known as the “parallax efect”—we could already see about 59 per cent of the lunar surface from the Earth (Chown, 2017: 232, fn.23) even before the ‘dark’ side of the Moon was frst photographed by the Soviet Luna 3 mission in 1959. Until 1959, the nature and appearance of the far side of the Moon was simply not an object of enquiry for the natural sciences except perhaps to speculate what this might be like. Everyone knew and accepted that they were only able to describe about 60 percent of the Moon’s surface at best and that, for all they knew, the other 40 per cent might well be very diferent indeed.

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Introduction

But this is not the case in the social sciences where disputes frequently take place over the nature of the object in question and even the meaning (singular) of key terms used to describe such objects. Here the concept of social class is probably the best example of this kind of thing (Smith, 2002a, 2007, 2009 and 2012) where disputes rage back and forth between social scientists about whose defnition of the concept of social class is the ‘best’ one or even whether there is any such thing as social class at all. Tis book claims that the concept of ‘perspectivism’—a perspectival view of the world—will help to overcome this problem. By viewing objects of enquiry in the social sciences as three-dimensional things (and four-dimensional when we take into account the important historical perspective of time that is so ofen critical in discussing social scientifc phenomena) the social sciences, I will argue, can be put on the same level as the natural sciences and some progress fnally made, it is hoped, in overcoming problems within the social sciences that have to do with the simple matter of defning key terms and developing a suitably complex understanding of key concepts. Te ‘objects’ in question that we are trying to understand or explain in the natural or the social sciences may be either a physical object, a concept, a philosophical idea, or a category, and the ‘perspective’ from which we view this object may therefore be understood either as a physical one—where in trying to describe an actual object we hold this up to inspection and view this from one side or another—or it may be a theoretical or ideological one, where we are trying to defne a concept or create a scientifc category and we discuss this from a particular point of view. Perspectivism claims that the object in question which we are trying to explain—the object of our enquiry—is a multi-dimensional thing, normally, at minimum, of three-dimensions or four-dimensional where we include time, but possibly even more than this (Randall, 2005) and that, as such, in order to give a full and complete account of this thing, this must be viewed from as many diferent viewpoints, or ‘perspectives’ as possible. We go badly wrong when we try to explain, or even when we try to describe, highly complex social scientifc phenomena from a one or two dimensional point of view. Perspectivism argues that it is precisely because the objects in question are multi-dimensional things that they are so difcult to explain and it therefore hypothesises that the more difcult something is to explain—the social scientifc concept of ‘power’ for example (see chapter fve of this study for more on this question)—and the more disagreement there is about this term’s proper meaning or use, the more ‘sides’ or dimension the thing in question is

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likely to have, by contrast to other concepts which are easier to def ne (the concept of power in the natural sciences for example) and that, conversely, the easier something is to explain or agree upon the proper use of—the claims of arithmetic for example—the fewer dimensions this thing must have.3 Perspectivism argues that agreement on the ‘truth’ of the claim that, for example, 2 + 2 = 4, is relatively easy to come by because everyone who considers this question views it from the same one-dimensional mathematical point of view. By contrast agreement over the meaning of the concept of social class or even the existence of any such thing as class is much more difcult to come by since social class is a highly complex multi-dimensional phenomenon that can therefore always be viewed from any number of diferent perspectives (Smith, 2002a). Perspectivism is therefore a doctrine which makes a contribution to the philosophy of science—both the natural and the social sciences—and which is interested in the epistemological question of how or on what basis we can claim to know anything about the world in which we live. Te key claim made by ‘perspectivism’ is that objectivity in both the natural and the social sciences is relatively easy to achieve providing only we view the subject matter of our enquiry as many-sided multi-dimensional ‘objects’ which therefore, except on very rare occasions when the object in question is purely symmetrical, must naturally and unavoidably appear to be very diferent when viewed from any number of diferent ‘sides’ or theoretical perspectives. Perspectivism claims that the objects of scientifc enquiry, both physical and social, are ‘things’, three-dimensional objects in the natural sciences and four-dimensional objects where, as they usually must be in the social sciences, these objects also include the dimension of time.4 Explanations are then said to be ‘objective’ (held to be objective) where we describe these three / four-dimensional things as fully and completely as we possibly can and from as many diferent perspectives as possible, while objectivity is said to be undermined when we fail to do this (fail to recognise that we are very ofen viewing something one or perhaps twodimensionally at best). The ‘Dead End’ Concept of Truth Te objects of philosophy, it is true, are upon the whole the same as those of religion. In both the object is Truth (sic), in the supreme sense in which God and only God is the Truth (Hegel, 1892: 3; emphasis added).

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Introduction

It is important to say clearly at the beginning of a book on this subject that our object of enquiry in both the social and natural sciences is the question of ‘objectivity’ and not the question of ‘truth’.5 If this seems an odd thing to say at the beginning of a book on the subject of the philosophy of the social sciences, and more generally on the philosophy of science, I would argue that this is not the case since it is precisely the distinction between truth and objectivity that distinguishes philosophy and more generally religion from science. Truth is the object of enquiry of philosophy and of religion, but it is not the object of enquiry of science, and it is a great mistake to suppose that it is.6 Rather science seeks afer ‘truth’—truth is the aim and the goal of science—but it does not usually claim to have attained this goal (Williams, 2005: 110) and where it makes the mistake of doing so, science leaves the realm of what it can in fact claim to know to be true and enters the realm of philosophy and religion. ‘In science absolute proof is rare and the pursuit of truth may be the pursuit of the most likely explanation’ (Lipton, 1991; cited in Williams, 2005: 110). It is therefore very important to understand that ‘seeking afer truth’ is not at all the same thing as the claim to have found this. Truth—defned as certain knowledge—is always the aim of science, but science, unlike religion and philosophy generally, accepts that the truth is always provisional and hence strictly speaking unknowable. Tis must be so for the obvious reason that there is one thing that any system of knowledge cannot claim to do within and for itself, and that is to know in terms of that system of thought itself that its own fundamental or axiomatic claims are true (Russell, 1961: Ch. VI). In short, the one thing that science cannot test scientifcally is its own fundamental rules and beliefs. Te only way in which science could therefore claim to know that the rules and methods of science are ‘true’, or certain beyond doubt as we might say, is by going outside the rules and methods of the scientifc paradigm itself. In fact we cannot make any claims of certainty for anything we say (and I hope and trust that it therefore goes without saying that this also applies to the sentence I have just written) except perhaps to say that we believe something to be true, but this is not at all the same thing as being able to claim that what we believe to be true is in fact true. Te best we can do is to say that we think that something is correct or that this will do for now—for all practical purposes as it were—but we don’t know this for sure. It is probably worth noting here that the claim to absolute truth which has done so much to confuse the question we are interested in in the social sciences was not a problem for most philosophers and most natural scientists throughout the history of science (Newton would be a very good

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example here) since these philosophers almost without exception (Hume would be the exception) believed in the existence of ‘God’ and very ofen used the existence of God to resolve contradictions or weaknesses in their argument or to explain what it was that they were trying to prove (Kant would be a very good example of this, but Albert Einstein’s famous claim that ‘God does not play dice’ might also be mentioned here). For most of their history thus far, the natural sciences were understood by scientists themselves to be revealing the ‘truth’ of God’s creation. Nevertheless, whatever Newton or Kant thought about this matter, the claim that natural scientifc ‘truths’ depend in any way on the existence of ‘God’, or for that matter a universe that materialised out of absolute nothingness and burst into time and space at the moment of the so-called ‘big bang’, must be a serious embarrassment to most modern scientists who are not of a religious disposition. Tis is because if natural scientifc ‘truths’ only have the same status as religious truths then the claims of the natural sciences to know that anything is in fact ‘true’ (and I doubt that there are many natural scientists today would make such a very strong knowledge claim for their own fndings) must be as doubtful, as any non-religious person might say, as the claims of religion to assert that what they know about the existence of God is ‘true’. Here it is worth looking at what the philosopher Bertrand Russell had to say on this question. In Volume III of his Autobiography (Russell, 1971: 130) referring to a letter to A.J. Ayer dated 19th January 1957, Russell says that according to Ayer: ‘the perceived qualities of physical objects are causally dependent upon the state of the percipient [the observer]’ but Russell counter argues that ‘it does not follow that the object does not really have them’. Russell continues: ‘Tis, of course, is true.’ However, he goes on to say that ‘What does follow is that there is no reason to think that it has them.’ And he adds: From the fact that when I wear blue spectacles, things look blue, it does not follow that they are not blue, but [rather] it does follow that I have no reason to suppose [that] they are blue’.

But what Russell says here is incorrect. What follows from the fact that he is wearing blue tinted spectacles is both the fact that things look blue when he puts the spectacles on and do not look blue when he takes the spectacles of. Hence (a) both these claims are true at diferent times and in diferent circumstances—therefore this is not an either/or question—and (b) neither

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Introduction

of these circumstances alter the reality of the object in question which may well be said to be blue when it is viewed through blue tinted glasses and not blue when I take these glasses of (just as the sky looks blue during the day when the light from our Sun hits the Earth at a particular angle and looks red at night when the angle of refraction changes). Science then we see is not interested in making ‘truth’ claims—we can happily leave such claims to the realms of religion and magic. Rather science is a matter of saying what something looks like from any one given perspective (the Moon as viewed from the Earth for example) but accepting that it may well look very diferent when viewed from another perspective. Te usual philosophical or religious, Hellenistic / Judaic, idea of ‘truth’ (which from now on I will call ‘absolute truth’) entails the claim to know something (a) with certainty and (b) for all time and in all places / spaces; for example, the ofen repeated claim of physics to state ‘universal laws’ of nature which however, for all anyone knows, may well not apply somewhere else in the universe, in a galaxy ‘far far away’ or, let us say, at the centre or perhaps at the edge of the known universe.7 But very few knowledge claims in the social sciences are of this absolute kind and in fact it is not at all necessary that they should be. In fact all that is required for scientifc knowledge is that we should have ‘good enough’ explanations ‘for now’ (Jenkins, 2002; cited in Letherby, 2013: 83) and for us to accept that, in all likelihood, the explanations we give now might well be overthrown by others in the future. From this point of view, we might then ask ourselves what is the point of certainty and why would we ever want to claim to know that something is (for once and all time) ‘true’? Why would we ever wish to make such a claim and what good would it do us even if we could? Te scientifc concept of ‘truth’ can therefore usefully be distinguished from the religious/philosophical concept by describing the one as partial or temporary and the other as absolute or permanent. John Scott (2013: 54) discussing Karl Mannheim’s sociology of knowledge, says that Mannheim argued that ‘Te contemporary intellectual is aware that there can no longer be any talk of absolute truth, and that partial truths (sic) must be recognised and synthesised’. Tis being the case this book argues that it would be better to abandon altogether the absolute or universal claim to truth—which I think would be better seen as an article of faith in the natural sciences and in philosophy generally rather than anything that can ever really be known to be true—in favour of the much lesser claim of science to objectivity or what I, taking inspiration from Max Weber’s concept of ‘adequate causation’ (see  below), propose we should now refer to as the concept of

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‘adequate truth’ (by which I mean ‘good enough for now truth’ or good enough for all practical purposes). Te term ‘adequate truths’ I will argue is to be preferred to Mannheim’s concept of ‘partial truth’ in order to make clear that no claim of any kind is being made that these so-called ‘partial’ truths are claimed to be true once and for all—not even in part—in any sense of the conventional philosophical idea of ‘absolute truth’. Adequate truth by contrast entails the claim to know that something is (a) true for now—good enough for all practical purposes—but (b) does not entail any claim to know that something is true for all time and in all places / spaces since human beings can never hope to establish such an infnite claim.8 Finally it is not denied that some things—and indeed many things— might well be claimed to be ‘true’ for all practical purposes. Tis is in fact what the concept of adequate truth asserts. I am fairly sure for example— and in fact I might even go so far as to say that I am ‘positive’ in the positivistic sense of this term—that the lap-top computer on which I am writing this sentence really does exist and is not just a fgment of my imagination (although I am always open to the argument that, for all I know, it might well be). But here the concept of adequate truth would simply question what diference it would make to me if this was not in fact the case? I would still be writing this book and I would still be interested in all the same problems that I am considering here whether I lived in a physical organic universe of the kind that I believe I do, or whether the world in which I live is simply a part of a highly sophisticated computer programme—a version of the holodeck on the star ship Enterprise perhaps—and all the experiences I have ever had have been preprogrammed into this computer for me. For all practical purposes—and this is all that the concept of adequate truth is concerned with—it would make no diference to me which one of these things was actually the case. In saying this however it is important to note that a perspectivist defnition of the concept of ‘truth’ would still have to include all of the many and varied diferent ideas of what ‘truth’ might be— religious and philosophical as well as natural and social scientifc—within the same overall standard general form of this concept (Smith, 2002a). I am not therefore arguing that the concept of ‘adequate truth’ is better in any way than any of the other competing notions of what the concept of ‘truth’ might means. All I am doing is claiming that the concept of adequate truth is the meaning of this concept which is best suited to both the natural and the social sciences. From a perspectivist point of view it will therefore never do to seek to limit the idea of ‘truth’ to just one or the other of these various knowledge claims but all of them—absolute truth and adequate truth,

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Introduction

the Hellenistic philosophical idea of truth, the religious Judaic idea, and the idea that truth is knowable or cannot be known—would have to be included in the standard general or perspectival form of what this concept is generally understood to mean.9 The ‘Open Ended’ Concept of Objectivity Perspectivism claims that objectivity is not only possible in both the natural and the social sciences but that viewed in this way—in a perspectivist light—objectivity is actually unavoidable. However perspectivism argues that such objectivity is not of the usual kind and in particular is not to be confused with the idea of value-neutrality. Value-neutrality, perspectivism argues, is merely one perspective among many others—just another value-judgement in fact, except that this one happens to be a value judgment in favour of value neutrality rather than against this—and hence can only provide us with an unnecessarily one-sided or limited account of the thing in question. Rather the aim of perspectivism is to bring into focus in a single totality—the totality of our object of enquiry—a number of diferent partial or particular points of view of the object in question. Perspectivism therefore amounts to a severe criticism of the Weberian inspired paradigm of value-neutrality (Friedrichs, 1972: 139) which has been the dominant concept of objectivity in the social sciences for much of the 20th century. Value free enquiry is simply not possible, but perspectivism argues that objectivity still is.10 Objectivity in the social sciences is achieved by recognising that the thing that we generally end up explaining is not usually the same thing as that which we set out to explain. Tis is because in the process of explaining something—a particular object of enquiry—we unavoidably end up refning and modifying the thing in question that we do actually explain. Perspectivism calls the thing we set out to explain our ‘initial object of enquiry’ and the thing that we do in fact explain our ‘actual object of explanation’. Let me give an example of what I mean here. Supposing we set out to explain a particular historical event, let us say ‘the causes of the First World War’. In fact any attempt to explain or even to describe such an object is simply impossible since this would almost certainly involve a detailed account from everyone who was involved in this actual historical event, and even this, could we achieve it, would still leave us unable to explain all the many and various ‘background events’ that led up to the war itself. Any attempt to actually explain this object, as Max Weber

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has pointed out, must logically entail an infnite regress (1949: 155–156 and 176–177) to all the events in human history and even before this that preceded the First World War. But as Weber has explained such an account is simply impossible and hence the causes of the actual historical event ‘the First World War’ simply cannot be an object of explanation of the social sciences or history. What history and sociology can do instead however is to try to explain a carefully constructed abstraction from this real event. Since what we do in fact explain is simply one part of the actual event ‘the First World War’, this abstraction from the real event appears to undermine the ‘objectivity’ of the explanation we give, but in fact this is not the case. Tis is because, while we fail to explain the real event ‘the causes of the First World War’ (always an impossibility), we nevertheless do still instead explain something else, a strictly limited, or as we might well say, partial abstraction from this real event. Where objectivity is then defned (as I will defne it in this book) as ‘giving a full and complete account of something’ the explanation that we do in fact give of such an abstraction from the real event is no less objective for being what it is—a full and complete account of the thing that we do in fact explain—and not an account of the actual real event itself. Te reason this is so is because we do indeed give a full and complete account of this abstraction from the real event even though we do not give a full and complete account of the real event itself. Viewed in this way then an objective explanation is not only possible in these cases but is in fact unavoidable since any account that we do in fact give must be a full and complete account of the thing that it does in fact describe or explain. We have in efect redefned our object of enquiry. We set out to explain the unknowable multiplicity of the causes of the First World War (let us call these A-Z) but we actually end up explaining something else altogether, an abstraction from these (let us call this the event A-E). We do not explain A-Z (we could not do so since this was always an impossibility) however we do nevertheless give a full and complete account of something else (the event A-E) and hence this is a completely objective account in the terms that we have defned objectivity here of the thing that we do in fact explain. Tis is because the thing that we do in fact explain is redefned, becoming more and more restricted or limited, as we go along. Such a limited causal explanation—one that is limited to those things which we can actually explain—is what Max Weber calls the concept of ‘adequate causation’ (Weber, 1949: 173–178 and 184–187, and 1975: 171–172) and this is the causal equivalent of (and in fact the inspiration for) the concept of ‘adequate truth’ I have already outlined above.

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Introduction

Whereas then the focus of traditional studies of objectivity have been on the shortcomings of the ‘knowing subject’—our inability to divest ourselves of our own prejudices and preconceptions and the attempt to overcome these by observing a stern value-neutrality—the focus of perspectivism is on something else altogether. Tis something else is the actual object of our explanation—the things we do eventually describe or explain—and the shortcomings to date of our attempts to know and understand the nature of this thing. Perspectivism is not interested in understanding the shortcomings of the ‘knowing subject’ since these will always be with us and are in fact an unavoidable part of any scientifc enquiry. Rather objectivity is achieved by viewing the thing in question— the subject matter of our enquiry—as a totality in its own right and objectivity is therefore defned as giving as full and complete account of the thing in question that we do in fact explain. Confusion on this point arises when we mistake one object (our actual object of explanation) for another object altogether (e.g., our initial object of enquiry). Perspectivism enjoins us to accept that we are usually only able to give a highly partial, or in other words a strictly limited, account of the object in question which we wish to explain from our own particular standpoint. Crucially however this perspective does not in any way limit the objectivity of the explanation that we are able to provide but simply limits the scope of our enquiry to the things that we do in fact explain. In any enquiry in the natural or social sciences we usually set out to explain one thing—our initial object of enquiry—but we almost always and unavoidably end up explaining something else altogether, which is in fact our actual object of explanation. We usually do not explain our initial object of enquiry—in fact we fail to explain this—but this does not matter because we still give a full and complete account—and hence in the terms used here, a completely objective account—of the thing that we do in fact explain, our actual object of explanation. In fact this is true by defnition and hence unavoidable since the thing that we do in fact explain—however limited this might be in comparison to our initial object of enquiry—must be explained fully and completely (cannot help but be) because the explanation that we give of this thing—the explanation that we do in fact provide—defnes our actual object of explanation. It is in this sense then that ‘objectivity’ is in fact unavoidable in the social sciences just so long as we understand what our actual object of explanation is. Having frst selected our initial object of enquiry, which as Max Weber explains is an entirely subjective matter refecting our own personal

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Perspectivism

interests and preferences (see chapter three below for more on this point), any adequate account of an object, thing, concept or idea will then usually follow the following four stages.11 Firstly, we will usually start of by trying to describe the thing in question as this appears to our senses. If the object in question is perfectly symmetrical this will be a relatively easy thing to do since such an object of enquiry must appear to be identical from all sides and there will not be much disagreement, if any, over the nature of the thing in question. However, if the object in question is complex this will be much more difcult to describe and it is possible in fact that two people might well describe two completely diferent things believing them to be same object, or two entirely diferent sides of the same object believing them to be completely diferent things. Secondly—having once described the object in question as fully and completely as we can and assuming that we have come to the conclusion that this is indeed a single ‘thing’ whatever its nature might be—we should then try to defne this thing taking into account as many perspectives as we can bring to bear upon this particular object of enquiry. At this stage it would be necessary to decide upon the question whether two diferent descriptions of what are apparently the same object are actually describing the same thing from diferent points of view or whether it would be better to say that these two very diferent descriptions actually related to entirely diferent things altogether. Tis will not always be easy to decide and this is where defnition difers qualitatively from pure description as such and where the problem of classifcation, conceptualisation and categorisation come into this matter (Durkheim, 1965: 405–412).12 Ten, assuming we have completed the work of description and defnition (classifcation, conceptualisation, and categorisation of the thing in question), we should then try to explain the object in question—the actual object of our enquiry as opposed perhaps to the thing that we initially set out to explain—in so far as such an explanation is possible at all or that such a phenomenon requires explanation. Such an explanation once given—providing it follows all of the above stages—may then be said to be a fully and completely ‘objective’ account of the thing in question—the thing that it does in fact explain—rather than the thing which we perhaps set out to explain. In this way the objectivity of our explanation is not impaired but rather our object of enquiry is redefned by the account that we give of it such that a new object of enquiry is created by our failed attempt (a common occurrence in all forms of scientifc investigation of course) to explain our initial object of enquiry. Te  account that we then give of this new object—but not of our initial

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Introduction

object of enquiry—is said to be an objective one because it gives a full and complete—and hence a total—explanation of this new object in question (our actual object of explanation) the original object of our enquiring having changed. We set out to explain one thing but end up explaining another thing altogether. In his essay on W. G. F. Roscher, Max Weber (1975: 67) says a very similar thing to this. Every philosophical explanation he says is a defnition and every historical explanation is a description. Tis is a very good point I think especially if we go on to add that every economic explanation is an analysis (Schumpeter, 1994) and every sociological explanation a synthesis. In sum then to give an objective account of something therefore requires the following fve stages: 1. Identify the initial object in question (our object of enquiry). 2. Describe this object as fully and completely as we can from as many diferent perspectives as possible. 3. Defne the objection in question and / or where possible conceptualise this. 4. Recognise that we will unavoidably redefne this object in question (which has now become our actual object of explanation) during the analytical account that we do actually give of it. 5. Explain this object (our actual object of explanation) by which is meant here to unavoidably give a full and complete account of the object that we do in fact explain / synthesise. A Note on Pragmatism Perspectivism is closely related to its near cousin the concept of pragmatism; however, unlike pragmatism, perspectivism is strongly opposed to the extreme relativism which has proved to be such a persistent problem for the philosophy of pragmatism. In this book I will therefore give a detailed account of the meaning of the concept of pragmatism as this relates to the concept of perspectivism (see chapter four) and I will try to show how perspectivism overcomes many of the problems encountered by pragmatism. In fact one of the major claims I make for perspectivism in this book is to be able to overcome, and in fact to resolve, the problem of relativism that— based as I will argue on a mistaken philosophical / religious concept of ‘truth’—has proved to be such a persistent problem for the pragmatists and has undermined many of the otherwise interesting and useful things that

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Perspectivism

they have to say. Perspectivism I will argue provides a solution to the apparent contradictions of (a) the extreme relativism of pragmatism on the one hand and (b) the extreme positivism / scientifc certainty / claim for absolute truth of the natural sciences on the other. All of these perspectives are ‘correct’ I think. Each has something to say from its own particular point of view. But all that this means is that the correct answer to most questions in both the natural and the social sciences is in fact both relative (everything is in fact unavoidably relative from the necessarily partial perspective that one is viewing something) and at the same time fully and completely objective in the sense that I have already explained in which we give a full and complete account of the limited, partial or particular thing that we do in fact explain. As Robert Friedrichs says (1972: 299) and as Hegel said before him (1892: 66–67), knowledge in the social sciences is not an either / or question. Relativism and scientifc certainty (the concept of absolute truth) are not in fact opposed. Rather both can be accommodated—synthesised— in the form of a perspectivist understanding of the concept of objectivity and hence of ‘adequate truth’. Perspectivism then, if I can put it this way, is pragmatism devoid of relativism (Durkheim, 1983: 69–72)—pragmatism stripped of all traces of relativism—and, as we will see, this anti-relativism is achieved by emphasising the claims of something to be an objective ‘thing’ but without claiming to know that what we have to say about our eventual object of explanation is in any way ‘true’. Human beings cannot claim to know anything about the ‘truth’ of the real world—we leave all such claims of omnipotence to religion and more generally to philosophy— all we can claim to know is something about the nature of the objects that we do in fact explain, the objective nature of which is given by the account of these things that we do in fact provide. In its most extreme form relativism holds that any one view is ‘as good as’ any other and that there is no way at all of arbitrating between them. Perspectivism, by contrast, disputes this claim and argues instead that while all views of the same object are equally worthy of consideration, not all of these views are equally interesting. For example, other than to an art historian or a curator, the front of a painting in a museum or gallery is usually of much greater interest to us—the viewing public—than the back of the painting is, which normally faces the wall and is hidden from our view. Of course, we can turn the painting over if we want to, and if the museum staf will let us, but we usually do not want to do this. Similarly, the text of a book is usually much more interesting to us than the book’s cover and the front cover of a book is usually of more interest to us than

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Introduction

the back etc. Also, as we have seen, when our object of enquiry is irregular in shape, which is the case for most things in the universe, one side might cover a much larger area than another. One view is therefore not necessarily ‘as good’—as extensive—as any other but in so far as they all describe the same object they are all equally worthy of consideration and hence all ‘good enough’ as far as the concept of objectivity that we have described here is concerned. A small scale qualitative study of social class (for example Jackson and Marsden’s excellent 1962 Education and the Working Class) might be just as interesting to us as a much larger quantitative study of the same question (e.g., J.W.B. Douglas’s 1964 Te Home and the School, and Douglas, Ross and Simpson’s 1968 All Our Futures). In this way then, the ‘as good as any other’ explanation of relativism is replaced by the ‘good enough’ explanation of the perspectivist concept of objectivity.13 Perspectivism (a) accepts the claim of pragmatism that all views are relative to the viewpoint of the person making this claim, but (b) rejects the extreme form of this argument that one view is necessarily as good as any other emphasising instead the objectivity of all claims to know something about any given object of enquiry even though some of these knowledge claims are more or less extensive than others.14 On the other hand however perspectivism rejects the equally extreme claim of the natural sciences (and philosophy and religion more generally) to know with absolute certainty that anything is true (for example that there are any such thing as ‘universal laws’ which can be known to be true in all times and places), but argues instead that these truth claims are provisional only and might well be overthrown at any time by new theories or observations. Scientifc laws can never be proven beyond a shadow of doubt and certainly cannot be validated in terms of the methodology of the natural sciences themselves, while ‘certainty’ as Robert Friedrichs has argued (citing a 1958 paper by Percy Bridgman, 1958: 90–91; Friedrichs, 1972: 157) is an illegitimate concept even in the context of mathematics and formal logic.15 (And for more on this point about mathematics and formal logic see the general conclusion to this book). Te purpose of this book is therefore to introduce the concept of perspectivism to a wider audience, but especially to those interested in the philosophy of the social sciences. It is my belief that the concept of perspectivism can help us to resolve a number of problems in the philosophy of the social sciences—but especially the question of the objectivity of the social sciences—and that by adopting a perspectivist view of science we can overcome many of the problems that are harming the development of

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Perspectivism

the social sciences in particular, but especially where these are commonly unfavourably compared to the natural sciences. If the social sciences are to make progress I believe that we need to move forward from the present situation that blights the social sciences in which we cannot even agree on the meaning of our key concepts and I will suggest that perspectivism is one very promising way in which we might do this. Social scientists have got to stop arguing with each other over the defnition and proper use of key concepts—the subject matter of W.B. Gallie’s famous essay on the subject of essentially contested concepts (1956a)—and accept that the meaning of these terms can be agreed upon providing only that they are viewed in a sufciently complex three/four-dimensional way. A better understanding of the concept of ‘perspectivism’ in the social sciences will help us to do this. Outline of this Book Te origin of this book is in an essay I published in 2002 in the Journal of Classical Sociology on the subject of William Bryce Gallie’s [1912–1998] famous essay on essentially contested concepts (Gallie, 1956a; Smith, 2002a). In this essay I claimed to have discovered two further concepts ‘hidden’ within Gallie’s general discussion of essentially contested concepts, one of which Gallie himself called ‘Mutually Contested Concepts’ and the other of which he referred to as the ‘Standard General Use’ of such concepts, but which I, for reasons I will explain in this book, now prefer to call their ‘Standard General Form’. Tese two concepts are not really ‘hidden’ in Gallie’s essay—they are included by him as part of his general discussions of essentially contested concepts, and I took the name for these two concepts from what he has to say about them and his usage of these terms—but the interesting thing is that Gallie himself did not place very much emphasis on either of these terms. Rather they are simply included in his discussion merely in order to elucidate what it is he wanted to say about the, for him, much more important philosophical idea that he was trying to establish that there are such things as ‘essentially contested concepts’. By contrast, in my essay, I argued that what he has to say about mutually contested concepts in particular is at least as interesting to the social sciences, and probably more so, as what he has to say about essentially contested concepts are to philosophy, because, as I argued, most concepts in the social sciences are mutually rather than essentially contested. If that was as far as I took this matter in 2002, this book may be seen as an attempt to develop this argument further and in particular to extend

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Introduction

the idea of the second of Gallie’s two relatively undeveloped concepts, that of their ‘standard general use’ or form. If essentially contested concepts may be defned as concepts the proper meaning or use of which can never be agreed upon, no matter how much we debate the matter (and Gallie, in a separate essay, gives the concept of ‘art’ as probably the classic example of what he meant by such an essentially contested concept; Gallie, 1956b), then by contrast mutually contested concepts may be defned as those where we can come to some sort of an agreement about the proper meaning or use of such concepts in the social sciences, even though this is usually only afer a considerable amount of argument about this matter. Te way in which agreement is reached in these cases is by viewing these apparently competing defnitions as being situated on diferent ‘sides’ of a complex multi-dimensional object which is in fact the standard general form of the concept in question. In my 2002 essay I gave the concept of social class as an example of a such a mutually contested concept and I illustrated the multi-dimensional or ‘standard general’ form of this concept by including a drawing of a Necker cube on the six sides of which are included six competing but all equally plausible defnitions of the way in which we might well defne social class (Smith 2002a: 337). In my essay I argued that we only disagree about the ‘true’ or ‘proper’ meaning or use of these terms because we are viewing them one or twodimensionally or, in other words, from just one side or perspective of the object in question. Te standard general form of a concepts is then made up of all the rival defnitions in the debate and, viewed in this way, rather than competing with each other, these ‘rival’ defnitions may be seen to be attempting to defne the same concept but from diferent points of view. Diferences in emphasis arise due to diferences in perspectives—which themselves can be viewed as either theoretical in more philosophical discussions of the concept in question or as physical in more empirical enquiries—of the diferent participants in the debate. In efect then agreement is reached by being able to see that each of the apparently competing defnitions of the concept can be situated in relation to one another on diferent ‘sides’ of the concept’s standard general use or form. It is important to note that this idea of the ‘standard general form’ of a concept does not amount merely to an agreement to agree to difer—this is not simply a sophisticated form of relativism—but goes much further than this to an agreement to make a genuine attempt to see the other person’s point of view (or, as we might now say, to see things from the other person’s ‘perspective’) by viewing the concept in question as a complex multi-dimensional object or

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Perspectivism

thing. Once viewed in this way it is possible to see when and where particular usages of a concept overlap with one another or, more likely perhaps, where one usage of a term has nothing whatever to do with another ‘rival’ defnition (with these two apparently competing defnitions being clearly seen, perhaps for the frst time, to actually be talking about entirely diferent objects of enquiry). Shortly afer I published my essay on mutually contested concepts in 2002, I came across another little known book by Gallie with the title Peirce and Pragmatism. Published in 1952, and hence just four years before his much better known essentially contested concepts essay, I was not too surprised to fnd that much of the background to Gallie’s views on essentially contested concepts was to be found in the work of the 19th century philosopher of pragmatism Charles Sanders Peirce [1839–1914]. Little known today, Peirce is by far and away the greatest of the school of American philosophers of pragmatism, of whom much the best known today is the psychologist William James. Afer I read Gallie’s book on Peirce—in which there is no explicit reference to anything like ‘essentially contested concepts’, but in which one can clearly see the beginnings of this idea—I then read some of Peirce’s other writings on the subject of pragmatism and was shocked to discover that the idea I now call ‘perspectivism’ was in fact already contained quite clearly in Peirce’s work (see chapter 4 of this study) and, what is more, that Peirce actually attributed priority for this idea to his near contemporary the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche [1844–1900]. I then read Nietzsche and discovered that Nietzsche not only makes use of the term ‘perspectivism’ [perspektivismus] in his writing (see chapter 1 of this study), but also that much of my own thinking on the subject of objectivity in the social science—which I had up until that time attributed to the sociologist Max Weber [1864–1920] (see chapter 3 of this study)—was to be found in the writings of Nietzsche, whom Weber in fact cites. I then later on discovered that the sociologist Karl Mannheim [1893–1947], also infuenced by Weber, and now best known for his writings on the subject of the sociology of knowledge, had already gone over much the same ground of this argument in the fnal essay in his most famous book Ideology and Utopia and came very close—but as I will argue here does not quite succeed—to outlining much of the argument that I hope to present in this book (see chapter 2 of this study). More recently still I then discovered that British sociologist John Scott [1949–] had also made a signifcant contribution to this debate in two essays published in 1998 and 2013 (Scott, 1998; and Letherby, Scott and Williams, 2013), Scott’s position, as I understand

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Introduction

this, being close to Mannheim’s views on this question in which an expert would ‘situate’ rival views on any given question in relation to one another (Scott, in Letherby et al., 2013: 47–54). In Part One of this book I intend to outline in some detail much of the history of the idea of what, from now on, I will call Perspectivism, starting with Nietzsche’s writings on this subject, then going on to look at what Karl Mannheim’s has to say about this idea since, as I will argue, it is Mannheim who has taken this argument furthest up to the present date. I will then go back to look at the work of Max Weber on the subject of objectivity and I will argue that much of what Weber has to say on this question can only properly be understood when viewed in the light of what Nietzsche has to say about ‘perspectivism’. And fnally, I will look at what the pragmatists have to say in this subject and especially at the writings of Peirce which I will argue provide a necessary corrective to what might otherwise be some of the more outlandish conclusions that a purely perspectivist argument might make. Ten, in Part Two of this book, I will present four case studies of how the concept of perspectivism might usefully be applied in the social sciences today, the frst three of which—on the concepts of power, equality and crime—are based on previous attempts (by Steven Lukes, 1974, Peter Saunders, 1989 and John Hagan, 1985) to develop a three-dimension model of these concepts, while my fourth case study—on the concepts of sex, gender and intersexuality—is given to illustrate some of the possible problems that still remain—another ‘corrective’ as it were along with pragmatism—in trying to develop a genuinely perspectivist view on such questions. I will then conclude with an appendix on the subject of perspectivism in art. Te purpose of all of this study then is to try to overcome the seemingly unending disputes that take place in the social sciences over the proper use, or, as I will argue, the proper form of key concepts without which—without resolving these disputes in some way—I think no progress can or will be made in the social sciences. Te social sciences in my view urgently need to fnd a way to move on from these seemingly endless terminological disputes and this book is intended to make a contribution to this process. Notes 1. In a book published in 1884 called Flatland, a Romance in Many Dimensions, Edwin A. Abbott under the pseudonym of A. Square describes just such a two dimensional world in which the inhabitants of Flatland have no idea that there is a three-dimensional world outside of their own. A similar idea was explored in an episode of Te Simpsons when Homer, a two dimensional

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Perspectivism

cartoon, fnds himself walking around a normal, to us, three-dimensional American town. [See Homer 3D in the ‘Tree House of Horror VI’ season seven, episode six of Te Simpsons]. 2. It is an interesting question why there is so much less dispute over this kind of thing in the natural than in the social sciences and I will return to this question later, but just to give some indication here—contrary to what is normally thought to be the case—I will argue that this is because objects of enquiry in the social sciences, because these are not usually physical things, are generally speaking much more complex than objects of explanation in the natural sciences, and hence for this reason much harder to explain (On this point see Oakes, 1975: 31, Weber, 1975: 124 and Hegel, 1892). Tis is not to introduce a hard and fast distinction between the natural and the social sciences—the social sciences too are concerned with nature—society too is ‘natural’ afer all—and all sciences are natural sciences in this sense of the term (Oakes, 1975: 21), but it is to say that the object of enquiry in the social sciences are much less ofen physical things—actual objects—and much more ofen abstract things: concepts, categories, systems, cultural constructs and processes. 3. See the quotation from Hegel’s Logic at the beginning of this Introduction for support for this view. 4. I do not mean by saying this to suggest that the natural sciences are not concerned with the dimension of time, but only that this is very ofen not the case and it is perhaps because of this—because this dimension is not so troubling to the natural sciences—that they are more able to agree on the exact nature of the object they are trying to describe or explain than is the case in the social sciences. 5. On this point see the following reference from Max Weber’s Economy and Society (1978: 4) in which Weber discusses the meaning of the term ‘meaning’. ‘Meaning’, Weber says, ‘may be of two kinds. Te term may refer frst to the actually existing in the given concrete case of a particular actor, or to the average or approximate meaning attributable to a given plurality of actors; or secondly to the theoretically conceived pure type of subjective meaning attributed to the hypothetical actor or actors in a given type of situation. In no case [however] does it refer to an objectively “correct” meaning or one which is “true” in some metaphysical sense. It is this which distinguishes the empirical sciences of action, such as sociology and history, from the dogmatic disciplines in that area such as jurisprudence, logic, ethics and aesthetics, which seek to ascertain the “true” and “valid” meanings associated with the objects of their investigation. 6. In a book titled A History of Science frst published in 1949 Sir William Dampier defnes science as the ‘ordered knowledge of natural phenomena and the rational study of the relations between the concepts in which these phenomena are expressed’ (1949: 467; cited in Friedrichs 1970: 218; emphasis in original). Commenting on this defnition in his 1970 book A Sociology of Sociology Robert Friedrichs goes on to say that Dampier ‘has chosen to emphasise the relational aspect [of science] for very good reason. He is aware that science has no need to concern itself with the “inner” nature of any of its terms, for the utility, even the “truth”, of the relationship sought is quite independent of the relata themselves. Te individual elements composing the raw data may indeed be the most “real” of realities’. 7. On this point see Marcus Chown (2017: 113) who says that ‘If the laws of physics are to have the status of universal laws they should be independent of our point of view’. But since there is no knowledge that is independent of our point of view—either physical or theoretical or both, however this may be—then this means either that (a) there cannot be any such thing as universal laws or (b) there can be universal laws but we cannot know them as such or (c) that universal laws are knowable and exist but only when they appear to be the same from all diferent points of view. In any or all of these cases the status of so-called ‘universal laws’ must be in serious doubt. 8. For example it has sometimes been suggested (Acheson, 2010: 23) that Euclid demonstrated conclusively that there are infnitely many number of prime numbers, but the strength of this argument depends on two further claims—that every whole number greater than 1 is either a prime number itself or can be written as the product of primes—whereas in fact if either one of these claims is incorrect then Euclid’s proof will be incorrect. And since we cannot know that every number is either a prime itself or can be written as the product of primes, and since

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Introduction

we also know that this is not true of the number 1 itself, then there seems no very good reason to say that this will always be true of every number at the end of an infnitely long sequence of such numbers (and every reason to believe that this might well not be the case). 9. For a more detailed discussion of this point the reader is referred to section three of chapter four of this study on the subject of the pragmatist concept of truth. 10. Related to this point we might also observe that perspectivism provides a partial criticism, or at the very least, a diferent perspective, on Weber’s concept of ideal types. Where the ideal type is understood to be a ‘one-side accentuation of one or more points of view … by the synthesis of a great many dif use, discrete, more or less present and occasionally absent concrete individual phenomena, which are arranged according to those one-sidedly emphasized viewpoints into a unifed analytical construct (Gadenkenbild)’, as Weber describes this in his most famous exposition of this concept in his essay on ‘Objectivity in the Social Sciences’ in Te Methodology of the Social Sciences (Weber, 1949: 90) this concept seems to be opposed in its one-sided accentuation to the three / four-dimensionality of the concept of perspectivism. But I would argue that this is not the case since it must be remembered that the whole point of Weber’s concept of ideal type was to allow comparative analysis between diferent societies—the pure ideal was established in one case in order to allow us to see how this thing might well difer in any actual empirical case—whereas the purpose of perspectivism is not to facilitate comparative analysis but is rather to allow us to describe as fully and completely as possible the actual nature of a social phenomenon in any particular, individual, given case. 11. On this point see Rex (1973: 13) where he defnes theory in his book Key Problems in Sociological Teory, as follows: ‘It must (1) frst defne its own elements and [then] (2) build up from them a model [an ideal type?], which (3) explains as economically as possible, (4) the diversity of physiology and anatomy exhibited in the social species. [From which then we see that theory (a) claims to explain something and (b) this something is said to be the diversity of forms which things take in society in actual practice. Tis might then be said to be the particular thing that sociological [or more generally social science] theory does; it explains [or at least claims to explain] the diversity of forms which things take in social life [in reality]. Tis is quite unlike the natural sciences then which are called upon to explain much less diversity in actual practice [although still, as a matter of fact—see above—generalising from the particular. In other words, even the natural sciences try to explain diversity but they do this in such a way as to abstract from this that they claim to state what they say are ‘natural laws’; whereas the social sciences come at the same problem—the same thing—from entirely the opposite direction; we claim to explain diversity—and, fnding reality to, as a matter of fact, be so diverse—we refrain from stating general laws or, more likely, are unable to do so. Not so diferent then but it is just that we are both coming at the same problem—the explanation of reality—but from entirely diferent perspectives.] On this point see also Peirce (1955: 65) who while pointing out that ‘the sciences have grown out of the useful arts, or [rather] out of arts supposed to be useful. [Tus] astronomy has grown out of astrology, physiology, taking medicine as a half way, out of magic, chemistry out of alchemy [and so on] also claims that ‘among the theoretical sciences, while some of the most abstract have sprung straight from the concretest arts, there is nevertheless a well-marked tendency for science to be frst descriptive, later classifcatory, and lastly to embrace all classes in one law’ (1955: 65; emphasis added). 12. W. B. Gallie, discussing C. S. Peirce’s observation that all defnitions are essentially circular (Gallie, 1952: 48) has the following to say: Now it might be objected that, if this were so [that every sign is related to other signs], then all defnitions must, in the end, be circular, and therefore useless: Peirce however maintains … that, in fact, all defnitions are, in a sense, circular, [but that] a defnition is viciously circular only when it involves reference to the very term which it claims to be defning: for example, the defnition of man as the “ofspring of man”, or [as] ‘members of the species homo sapiens’. On the other hand we fnd

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an inevitable and quite innocent circularity in the defnition of all relational terms: e.g., father and son, above and below, greater and less, etc., no one of which can adequately be defned save in terms of its correlate and conversely’ (Gallie, 1952: 48). 13. On this point about ‘good enough’ explanations there is a very important reference in a recent book by Marcus Chown (2017: 130; emphasis added) in which Chown describes Newton’s concept of space as ‘relational’. Almost certainly Newton’s view of space and time was pragmatic. He recognised that space could be sensibly defned only as the distance between two bodies. Tat it must [therefore] be ‘relational’. But he also recognised that, with such a view [i.e., ‘perspective’] it was not possible to make progress with the mathematical tools at his disposal. It was a mark of his genius that he realised that absolute space and absolute time were nevertheless good enough concepts to explain the most obvious features of the universe [at that time]. 14. On this point see an essay by Chris Pickvance entitled ‘Comparative Analysis, Causality and Case Studies in Urban Studies’ (1995: Chapter I, 35–54) in a book edited by Alisdair Rogers and Steven Vertovec entitled ‘Te Urban Context: ethnicity, social networks and situational analysis’ (1995 Oxford Berg) in which Pickvance argues that ‘Te fact that their scope is diferent is no reason for preferring the perspective with the larger scope’ (1995: 42). 15. What Friedrichs says here (1972: 151) is not quite right. Certainty is possible in certain cases, but it is just that it is illegitimate in the context of the natural and social sciences. For example, a religious person can be certain—absolutely certain—that they believe in God or whatever (that they have religious faith) and that there is no doubt about this matter in their minds. But what they cannot be certain of is that what they have faith in is in fact the case or, in other words, is true. Certainty is therefore possible in the context of belief, in a way that it is not possible in the context of fact.

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Part One Theoretical Considerations: The Concept of ‘Perspectivism’

Tere is only a perspectival seeing, only a perspectival ‘knowing’; the more the afects we are able to put into words about a thing, the more eyes, various eyes we are able to use for the same thing, the more complete will be our ‘concept’ of the thing; our ‘objectivity’. Nietzsche, 2006: 87.

Chapter One Nietzsche and the Origins of the Concept of ‘Perspectivism’

If we give up the efective subject, we also give up the object upon which efects are produced. Duration, identity with itself, being, are inherent neither in that which is called subject nor in that which is called object: they are complexes of events apparently durable in comparison with other complexes—e.g., through the diference in tempo of the event (rest-motion, frm-loose: opposites that do not exist in themselves and that actually express only variations in degree that from a certain perspective appear to be opposites. Tere are no opposites: only from those of logic do we derive the concept of opposites—and falsely transfer it to things) (Nietzsche 1968: 298. Section C; emphasis added).

W

e begin our discussion of the concept of perspectivism, as any discussion of this concept must begin, with the writings on this subject of Friedrich Nietzsche [1844–1900]. Tis is because, as I have already said, the origin of this concept frst appeared in his work and it is Nietzsche who before anyone else developed this idea and uses it explicitly in his writing in the sense that we are interested in here.1 In addition to this however there are also a number of very interesting references— unavoidably so as it seems—to the concept of ‘truth’ in what Nietzsche has to say about the concept of ‘perspectivism’ and we will therefore have to have a fairly close look at what he has to say on this subject also in order to understand what he has to say about perspectivism.

DOI: ./-

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Tere are a number of references to the concept of ‘perspectivism’ throughout Nietzsche’s work, not all of them entirely consistent with one another, but this inconsistency should not really surprise us given the circumstances under which they were written. Nietzsche led a very troubled life and sufered a severe mental breakdown in 1889 which lasted until his death at the age of 55 in 1900. With the exception of his very earliest work written while he was still a university professor at Basel (for example in his frst book Te Birth of Tragedy published in 1872), Nietzsche had largely abandoned the traditional essay form of writing by 1879, when he resigned from his university appointment citing reasons of ill-health. Instead, infuenced by the philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer [1788–1860], Nietzsche presented his views in a series of short aphorisms or maxims (Pippin, 2006: xii) which he seems to have worked on over and over again during the ten years from 1879 to 1889 in order to hone these until, as it seemed to him, he got what he wanted to say just right. It goes without saying that all of this of course makes it very difcult to be sure when something was written by Nietzsche and sometimes even to understand exactly what it is that he is trying to say. Te concept of perspectivism makes its frst appearance in Nietzsche’s work in Beyond Good and Evil, frst published in 1886. Tere are also references to this idea in On the Genealogy of Morals, frst published in 1887, and fnally in Te Will to Power, which was not published until afer Nietzsche’s death in 1900, and was not his selection or compilation, but seems to have been written in instalments sometimes between 1883 and 1888. Tere are also some interesting references to perspectivism in Te Joyful Wisdom, frst published in 1882, but then again in an expanded form in 1887. As a general rule however we do not fnd any references at all to the concept of perspectivism in any of Nietzsche’s major works written before 1886 [Human All-Too-Human (1878/79), Te Wanderer and His Shadow (1880), Te Dawn [Morgenröthe] (1881), and Tus Spoke Zarathustra (1883–1885)], except for Te Gay Science, Books I–IV of which were published in 1882 but Book  V of which was not added until 1887 (Schacht 1983: xxi–xxii). Nietzsche’s thinking on the subject of perspectivism therefore almost certainly dates from the period 1886–1889. Te most concise statement of Nietzsche’s views on the concept of perspectivism is to be found in On the Genealogy of Morals, but the most detailed account is undoubtedly that in Te Will to Power, while the concept only appears in embryo form in Beyond Good and Evil. Since Nietzsche’s writings on the subject of perspectivism do not form a coherent whole,

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and we therefore cannot take these all together, we will look at what he has to say on this subject in each of these books in turn and then try to draw together some general comments on Nietzsche’s views on this question in the conclusion to this chapter. (i) Beyond Good and Evil; prelude to a philosophy of the future (Cambridge University Press edition 2014, edited by Rolf-Peter Horstmann and Judith Normal). First published in 1886 as Jenseits von Gut und Böse Te frst explicit discussion by Nietzsche of the concept of ‘perspectivism’ as a philosophy of the natural and social sciences—as opposed merely to the use of the term ‘perspective’ in his earlier writings or in references to the idea that one might view something from one perspective or another— appears in the Preface to Nietzsche’s book Beyond Good and Evil. In Part One of this book he argues that: Te fundamental belief of metaphysicians is the belief in oppositions of values. It has not occurred to even the most cautious of them to start doubting right here at the threshold, where it is actually needed the most—even though they have vowed to themselves ‘de omnibus dubitandum’ [everything is to be doubted/doubt everything]. But we can doubt, frst, whether the popular valuations and value oppositions that have earned the metaphysicians’ seal of approval might not only be foreground appraisals. Perhaps they are merely provisional perspectives, perhaps they are not even viewed head on; perhaps they are even viewed from below, like a frog perspective, to borrow the expression that painters will recognize (Nietzsche, 2014: 6).

Although Nietzsche attributes this idea of a ‘frog perspective’—what the world would look like to us if we viewed this from the bottom of a well as it were—to the discovery of perspective drawing by artists during the European Renaissance (see Appendix, this study), it seems likely that this idea actually derives from the 4th-century BC Zhuangzian school of Taoism and hence might well have come to Nietzsche from his (and Schopenhauer’s) interest in Buddhism and the reading he did on this subject for his earlier work Tus Spake Zarathustra (1883).2 Te Chinese philosopher Zhuang Zhou (also known as Zhuangzi) used the analogy of the frog to express the limitations of the human condition. According to Scot Bradley, author of a blogspot entitled ‘Te Rambling Taoist’, ‘the  Zhuangzian well-frog begins

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by believing that his little world is the whole world’ and only later discovers that this is not the case.

Front cover image of The Frog in the Well written by Alvin Tresselt and illustrated by Roger Duvoisin published by the New York Review of Books. ©1958, 1986, 2017 Illustrations by Roger Duvoisin. Used by permission of the Roger Duvoisin Estate in care of the Jean V. Naggar Literary Agency, Inc. ([email protected])

The Frog Perspective Te idea of a ‘frog perspective’ is of course very similar to Plato’s famous allegory of the cave in which some men are imprisoned with their backs to the entrance of a cave such that the only thing they can see are the shadows on the wall at the back of the cave of people passing by the front

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Nietzsche and the Origins of the Concept of ‘Perspectivism’

of the cave (Plato 1987 Part 7 (7); 256–264). A person in such a situation would attribute reality to the shadow on the back of the cave and not to the people passing by outside who they cannot see, and Plato implies that this is equally so for many of the things that we human beings, due to our limited faculties, take to be real. While Nietzsche does not comment on Plato’s allegory of the cave here, it is worth noting in passing that in the Preface to Beyond Good and Evil he does comment on Plato’s ideas on the subject of what is ‘good’ and, what is more, contrasts this unfavourably to his own views on the subject of perspectivism. Plato, Nietzsche says, stands truth on its head and disowns even perspectivism which Nietzsche asserts—but unfortunately without explaining himself further—‘is the fundamental condition of all life’. Of course, talking about spirit and the Good as Plato did meant standing truth on its head and disowning even perspectivism, which is the fundamental condition of all life (2014: 4).

However, these are the only explicit references to perspectivism in Beyond Good and Evil, and we therefore need to turn our attention to On the Genealogy of Morals for the further development of this idea in Nietzsche’s thought. (ii) On The Genealogy of Morality 2006 Cambridge University Press edition edited by Keith Ansell-Pearson and translated by Carol Diethe. [Originally published as Zur Genealogie der Moral, 1887, and therefore sometimes also translated as On the Genealogy of Morals]. Tere is not that much in On the Genealogy of Morality that is of any interest to us from the point of view of Nietzsche’s views on the subject of perspectivism, and we might therefore have entirely lef this book (actually a collection of essays) out of account had it not been for one truly astonishing reference in the ‘third essay’ in this collection which is itself divided into four parts or sections, two of which—parts one and three—discuss the subject matter of ‘perspectivism’ explicitly, and the other two of which— parts two and four—have some very interesting things to say on the idea of value-freedom (and hence are relevant to Max Weber’s notion of objectivity in the social sciences). Because of the very great importance of both these points to our subject matter I have here reproduced this reference in full to

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which I have only added the Roman numerals in square brackets to make the above ‘sectional’ divide clearer. Te reference is as follows: [I]

Finally, as knowers, let us not be ungrateful towards such resolute reversals of familiar perspectives and valuations with which the mind has raged against itself for far too long, apparently to wicked and useless efect: to see diferently and to want to see diferently to that degree, is no small discipline and preparation of the intellect for its future “objectivity”—

[II] the latter understood not as ‘contemplation’ [Anschauung] without interest (which is, as such, a non-concept and an absurdity), but as having in our power the ability to engage and disengage our ‘pros’ and ‘cons’: we can use the diference in perspective and afective interpretations for knowledge. From now on, my philosophical colleagues, let us be more wary of the dangerous old conceptual fairy-tale which has set up a ‘pure, will-less, painless, timeless, subject of knowledge’, let us be wary of the tentacles of such contradictory concepts as ‘pure reason’, absolute spirituality’, [and] ‘knowledge as such’. Here we are asked to think an eye which cannot be thought at all, an eye turned in no direction at all, an eye where the active and interpretive powers are to be suppressed, absent, but through which seeing still becomes a seeingsomething, so it is an absurdity and non-concept of eye that is demanded. (2006: 87; emphasis added).

In contrast to this Nietzsche then has this to say: [III] Tere is only a perspectival seeing, only a perspectival ‘knowing’; the more the afects we are able to put into words about a thing, the more eyes, various eyes we are able to use for the same thing, the more complete will be our ‘concept’ of the thing; our ‘objectivity’ (2006: 87).

Now this is the concept of ‘perspectivism’ exactly; Nietzsche is here advocating a supra-individual, multi-dimensional or collective view of the thing—the object in question—viewed from as many diferent standpoints as possible all at one and the same time. And he continues: [IV] But to eliminate the will completely and turn of all the emotions without exception, assuming we could: well? [W]ould that not mean to castrate the intellect?

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Nietzsche and the Origins of the Concept of ‘Perspectivism’

As we can see, Nietzsche’s observations on the subject of perspectivism are contained in the frst and the third parts of this reference (from the beginning of the above quotation down to the word ‘objectivity’ in the ffh line above) and then again in the section beginning ‘Perspectival seeing …’ But in between these two very interesting and important references to the concept of perspectivism there is what is probably one of the most devastating critiques ever—Nietzsche refers to this as ‘a non-concept and an absurdity’—of the Weberian inspired notion of value-neutrality. Here we are asked, as Nietzsche says, to ‘think of an eye which cannot be thought at all’. A view of the world in which the interpretative powers are in fact suppressed or at best simply limited to one remarkably limited view of the object of enquiry; an eye turned in no particular direction and hence not an eye—not a perspective—at all. But, rather than this, Nietzsche encourages us instead to view the object in question from a multiplicity of diferent perspectives— ‘the more eyes, various eyes we are able to use for the same thing, the more complete will be our ‘concept’ of the thing [in question]’ (2006: 87). It is important to note however that Nietzsche’s criticisms of the concept of value-neutrality, and hence by extension of Max Weber’s concept of objectivity, does not amount to relativism. He does not claim that all opinions—all perspectives—are equally important or that any one is as good as any other. On the contrary, some perspectives will inevitably be more limited in scope than others—the frog’s eye perspective for example from the bottom of a well is inevitably more limited than a bird’s eye view would be from outside the well—while some will only see the thing in question from one ‘side’ or viewpoint, while others will see this same thing in a diferent way—from a different side altogether—or even from more than one side at one and the same time. Tis is a much greater problem for the social sciences than it is for the natural sciences precisely because the objects of enquiry in the social sciences in particular—much more so than the concepts of the natural sciences—are highly complex and hence cannot be viewed in their entirety from just one point of view. To view things from one perspective alone—and whether this is understood to be a physical or a theoretical perspective makes no diference—would be to view things one or at best two-dimensionally, which are in fact three or four-dimensional, and perhaps, as modern physics suggests (Randall 2005), even more than this.3 How then does this not amount to relativism? It is because Nietzsche is saying that all such viewpoints—i.e., all the perspectives which are brought to bear on the same object or question—must be brought into the account we give of the thing in question which we are trying to describe or explain and then situated alongside one another.4 Richard

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Schacht, the author of a book on the subject of Nietzsche (1983), relying on a slightly diferent translation of the above passage from the Genealogy of Morality, comments on this passage as follows: Notwithstanding his insistence that there is ‘only a perspective “knowing” ’ (as opposed to a knowing that would be absolute and independent of all ‘perspective seeing’), Nietzsche thus is concerned to distinguish ‘knowledge’ from ‘perspective and afective interpretations’ merely as such, and suggests that it is something which can be sought and can in some measure be achieved. It … has the character of interpretation, but it is interpretation with a diference. It has an ‘objectivity’ that is lacking in the cases of the various ‘perspectives and afective interpretations’ it employs and upon which it draws. For when the latter are played of against each other one ceases to be locked into any one of them; and so it becomes possible to achieve a metalevel perspective, from which vantage point various lower-order interpretations may be superseded in favour of others less narrow and distorting than they (1983: 9–10; emphasis added).

Where Schacht says ‘played of against each other’ here, I would much rather say ‘situated alongside one another’, since there is no reason I think to present these various diferent viewpoints as being in any way in competition with one another (and see Gallie 1956 on this point). Tey are not competing viewpoints, rather it is merely that they are looking at the same object from sometimes very slightly diferent points of view (both physical and theoretical) and sometimes looking at completely diferent objects altogether from very similar points of view. And where Schacht refers to a meta-level perspective, I would rather call this a multi-dimensional perspective. It is not the case I think that some explanations are of a ‘higher’ or ‘lower’ order than one another—‘better’ than one another—but rather that, as Schacht goes on to say, some perspectives are unavoidably more limited or restricted than others in the scope or the scale of those things which they do nevertheless provide a full and complete account of within the limitations of their own perspective. (iii) The Will to Power 1968 [1883–1888] edited by Walter Kaufmann, Vintage Books, New York. Much the most detailed, but by no means the clearest or the best, statement of Nietzsche’s views on the subject of ‘perspectivism’ is to be found in his

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Nietzsche and the Origins of the Concept of ‘Perspectivism’

fnal book, Te Will to Power [Der Wille Zur Macht]. Although apparently completed by Nietzsche himself, this book was not published until afer his death in 1900 based on notes he seems to have made sometime between 1883 and 1888. Apart from what he has to say on the subject of perspectivism explicitly, Te Will to Power also contains some very interesting comments indeed on Nietzsche’s concept of truth and truthfulness. For example, in Aphorism 5 [10th June 1887] he says: ‘But amongst the forces of morality was truthfulness: this eventually turned against morality, discovered its teleology, its partial perspective (1968: 10; emphasis added). While in Aphorism 222 (Nov. 1887–March 1888) he argues that ‘Te higher man is distinguished from the lower by his fearlessness and his readiness to challenge misfortune: it is a sign of degeneration when eudaemonistic valuations [i.e., pleasure] begins to prevail (-physiological fatigue, feebleness of will-). Christianity, with its perspective of “blessedness,” is a mode of thought typical of a sufering and feeble species of man. Abundant strength wants to create, sufer, go under: the Christian salvation-forbigots is bad music to it, and its hieratic posture an annoyance’ (1968: 129). But it is not until Aphorism 259 that he has anything to say that is of any real interest to us here from the point of view of the concept of perspectivism as such. First, in Aphorism 258 [1885–1886] Nietzsche has this further comment to make on the nature of morality: My chief proposition: there are no moral phenomena, there is only a moral interpretation of these phenomena. Tis interpretation itself is of [an] extramoral origin (1968: 149).

And then again on the same page (Aphorism 259) we have the following major reference by Nietzsche to his concept of perspectivism and we can be confdent that this is so—that this is indeed a very important insight— because Nietzsche assures us that this is the case himself: Insight: all evaluation is made from a defnite perspective: that of the preservation of the individual, a community, a race, a state a church, a faith, a culture.—Because we forget that valuation is always from a perspective, a single individual contains within him a vast confusion of contradictory drives. Tis is the expression of the diseased condition of man, in contrast to the animals in which all existing instincts answer to quite defnite tasks (Aphorism 259 (1884) 1968: 149; emphasis added).5

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Here then we see once again the contrast between Nietzsche and Max Weber’s views on the question of value-neutrality. Both Nietzsche and Weber support an interpretive view of the world—everything is an interpretation they think: this is unavoidable—but for Nietzsche we also see that any such interpretation cannot be value-neutral. And why is this? It is because all value-judgements are unavoidably made from a defnite ethical perspective. In his usual manner Nietzsche expresses the point he is making here in a very emphatic way—the reference here to ‘the diseased conditions of man’ is a particularly striking illustration of the way that Nietzsche has of looking at the human condition—but all that Nietzsche appears to be saying here is that we human beings are capable of refecting on our own condition in life whereas, as far as we can tell, all other animals on this planet are not able to do this. It is then part of the human condition— the ‘diseased’ condition of mankind as Nietzsche expresses this point— that we are aware of our own mortality while, as far as we can tell, this is not the case for the other life forms on this planet. At a certain point in our lives we human beings become aware of our own mortality and, what is even more remarkable, accept this. Te awareness of death has been identifed with the point at which we transition from being a child to that of becoming an adult. Later, we become aware that we are perhaps more than halfway through our allotted life span. Tis awareness has been identifed with the condition of becoming middle aged. Finally we become aware that, however fortunate we might otherwise have been during our lifetime, we do not have very much longer to live and might well die at any moment. Tis is the condition of old age. Te ‘diseased condition’ of humanity to which Nietzsche refers is then simply the fact that we human beings do not live for very long and that, viewed from the perspective of the overall scheme of things, human life is in fact remarkably short lived. Tis is a major reference therefore, not so much because of the implications that it has for Weberian concept of value-neutrality, but also because of the organic terminology that Nietzsche uses to make his point here.6 Nietzsche makes this point very one-sidedly of course, but this is a very interesting idea nonetheless. Nietzsche appears to be suggesting that we human beings, in contrast to all other animals, can perhaps be said to think too much: we can perhaps ‘over-think’ a particular situation and it is this faculty that we have—to think too deeply about those things which we cannot change and about which we can in fact do nothing at all—that may even be identifed with the ‘diseased’ concept of what is sometimes

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Nietzsche and the Origins of the Concept of ‘Perspectivism’

called ‘mental illness’. Certainly this was a major problem for Nietzsche himself as his own life course showed only too clearly. On the subject of interpretation Nietzsche then has this to say in book three of Te Will To Power which is subtitled ‘Principles of A New Evaluation’ (1968: 267). In Part 3, Aphorism 481 (1883–1888), subtitled Belief in the “Ego”, Nietzsche says the following: Against positivism, which halts at phenomena—“Tere are only facts”—I would say: No, facts is precisely what there is not, only interpretations. We cannot establish any fact “in itself”: perhaps it is folly to want to do such a thing. “Everything is subjective,” you say; but even this is interpretation. Te “subject” is not something given, it is something added and invented and projected behind what there is.— Finally, is it necessary to posit an interpreter behind the interpretation? Even this is invention, hypothesis. In so far as the word “knowledge” has any meaning, the world is knowable; but it is interpretable otherwise, it has no meaning behind it, but countless meanings.—“Perspectivism.” (1968: 267).

So, ‘Perspectivism’ is here identifed with the condition of having countless (and in fact, as it seems, an infnite number) of possible meanings. In Aphorism 272 (Spring–Fall 1887; 1968: 155) Nietzsche then says the following: [It is] My purpose: to demonstrate the absolute homogeneity of all events and the application of moral distinctions as conditioned by perspective; to demonstrate how everything praised as moral is identical in essence with everything immoral and was made possible, as in every development of morality, with immoral means and for immoral ends; how, on the other hand, everything decried as immoral is, economically considered, higher and more essential, and how a development toward a greater fullness of life necessarily also demands the advance of immorality. “Truth” [is] the extent to which we permit ourselves to understand this fact. (1968: 155).

In this very interesting reference Nietzsche appears to be saying that ‘truth’ is simply what we accept as being true: it is the extent to which we permit ourselves to understand the facts of the matter, as Nietzsche says here, or, as we might rather express this same point, the extent to which we are willing to claim that something is or is not ‘true’. Tis seems to imply an extreme relativism on Nietzsche’s part but, as we have already seen, in fact

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this is not the case. Rather than say that everything is only relatively true, as the pragmatists suggest (see Chapter four of the present study for more on this point), Nietzsche’s view by contrast appears to be that all claims of truth are in fact true, but it is just that some are more limited in their perspective than others. In Aphorism 492 (1968: 271) Nietzsche then speaks of the value of not knowing something, which, if I understand him correctly, refers to the luxury that science has, by sharp contrast to religion and even to philosophy, of being able to say, from a perspectivist point of view, that we do not know the answer to certain questions. ‘In short’, as Nietzsche says, ‘we also gain a valuation of not-knowing, of seeing things on a broad scale, of simplifcation and falsifcation, of perspectivity.’ Tis is an interesting idea since it extends the concept of perspectivism to an understanding of the limitation of our ability as human beings to know anything at all.7 Here  again, Nietzsche refers to something which he calls ‘a perspectival illusion’ (1968: 281) by which he appears to mean the frm impression we have, based on our experience, that for example the world is fat or that the sun orbits around the earth when in fact, as we now know, this is not the case. He then comments on this point again [Book Tree; ‘Principles of a New Evaluation’] in Aphorism 518 (1885–1886)] as follows: If our “ego” is for us the sole being, afer the model of which we fashion and understand all being: very well! Ten there would be very much room to doubt whether what we have here is not a perspective illusion-an apparent unity that encloses everything like a horizon. Te evidence of the body reveals a tremendous multiplicity; it is allowable, for purposes of method, to employ the more easily studied, richer phenomena as evidence for the understanding of the poorer.

In Aphorism 555 (1885–1886) subtitled ‘Against the scientifc prejudice’ Nietzsche then comments as follows on his views on the claims of the scientifc paradigm to know certain things defnitively: Te biggest fable of all is the fable of knowledge. One would like to know what things-in-themselves are; but behold, there are no things-in-themselves! But even supposing there were an in-itself, an unconditioned thing, it would for that very reason be unknowable! Something unconditioned cannot be known; otherwise it would not be unconditioned! Coming to know, however, is always “placing oneself in a conditional relation to something”—one who

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seeks to know the unconditioned desires that it should not concern him, and that this same something should be of no concern to anyone. Tis involves a contradiction, frst, between wanting to know and the desire that it not concern us (but why know at all, then?) and, secondly, because something that is of no concern to anyone is not at all, and thus cannot be known at all. Coming to know means “to place oneself in a conditional relation to something”; to feel oneself conditioned by something and oneself to condition it—it is therefore under all circumstances establishing, denoting, and making-conscious of conditions (not forthcoming entities, things, what is “in-itself”). (1968: 301).

‘A thing-in-itself’, Nietzsche goes on to say (Section 556; 1885–1886) ‘[is] just as perverse as a “sense-in-itself,” a “meaning-in-itself.” Tere are no “facts-in-themselves,” for a sense must always be projected into them before there can be “facts.” Te question “what is that?” is an imposition of meaning from some other viewpoint. “Essence,” the “essential nature,” is something perspective and already presupposes a multiplicity. At the bottom of it there always lies “what is that for me?” (for us, for all that lives, etc.)’ (1968: 301; emphasis added). A thing would then be defned, Nietzsche argues, ‘once all creatures had asked “what is that?” and had answered their question’ (1968: 301; emphasis added). Here then Nietzsche appears to have believed that a full and complete explanation of any object of enquiry can be given providing only everyone has their say on the matter. If only we could put all of these more or less limited perspectives together we would have a fully and completely ‘truthful’ account of the object in question (or at least as completely truthful account as we human beings can have of anything). What Nietzsche does not go on to say however, but what I will argue is in fact the corollary of this argument, is that this can only be the case when we accept that the object in question—the scope and the nature of the thing that we do in fact describe or explain—is itself defned by the account that we do in fact give of the thing in question. As I say, Nietzsche does not say this, but this would seem to be the logical conclusion—the logical extension—of the point that he appears to be making here. At a later point in Te Will to Power (Aphorism 636), Nietzsche then has this to say on the subject of the natural sciences: Physicists believe in a “true world” in their own fashion: a frm systemization of atoms in necessary motion, the same for all beings—so for them the “apparent world” is reduced to the side of universal and universally necessary

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being which is accessible to every being in its own way (accessible and also already adapted—made “subjective”). But they are in error. Te atom they posit is inferred according to the perspective of consciousness—and is therefore itself a subjective fction. Tis world picture that they sketch difers in no essential way from the subjective world picture: it is only constructed with more extended sense, but with our senses nonetheless—And in any case they lef something out of the constellation without knowing it: precisely this necessary perspectivism by virtue of which every centre of force—and not only man—construes all the rest of the world from its own view-point, i.e., measures, feels, forms according to its own force—Tey forgot to include this perspective-setting force in “true being”—in school language: the subject. Tey think this is “evolved,” added later; but even the chemist needs it: it is being specifc, defnitely acting and reacting thus and thus, as may be the case (1968: 339–340; emphasis added).

Te natural scientifc approach then—or the scientifc world-view as we might well call this—is therefore just another perspective on the world, one among many others, and not the best placed one at that according to Nietzsche. ‘Even in the domain of the inorganic’, Nietzsche says, ‘an atom of force is concerned only with its neighbourhood: distant forces balance one another. Here [then] is the kernel of the perspective view and why a living creature is “egoistic” through and through’. (1968: 340; emphasis added). Tere is then a rather interesting discussion in Te Will to Power of the overlap between the terms quantity and quality when viewed from a perspectivist point of view and in fact, at one point, Nietzsche even goes so far as to equate what he calls ‘perspective “truths” ’ with supposed qualitative diferences. Our ‘knowing’ [something] Nietzsche argues, ‘limits itself to establishing quantities; but we [human beings] cannot help feeling these diferences in quantity as qualities. Quality is a perspective truth for us; not an ‘in-itself’ (1968: 304; Aphorism 563; emphasis in original). ‘Qualities’, Nietzsche says, are insurmountable barriers for us; we cannot help feeling that mere quantitative diferences are something fundamentally distinct from quantity, namely that they are qualities which can no longer be reduced to one another. But everything for which the word ‘knowledge’ makes any sense refers to the domain of reckoning, weighing, measuring, to the domain of quantity; while, on the other hand, all our sensations of value (i.e., simply our sensations) adhere precisely to qualities, i.e., to our perspective “truths” which belong to

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us alone and can by no means be “known”! It is obvious that every creature diferent from us senses diferent qualities and consequently lives in a different world from that in which we live. Qualities are an idiosyncrasy peculiar to man; to demand [claim?] that our human interpretations and values should be universal and perhaps constitute values is one of the hereditary madnesses of human pride (1968: 304–305; emphasis added).

To claim that merely quantitative diferences are in fact apparently qualitative diferences, Nietzsche appears to say, is to universalise what is in fact only our particular and limited human—‘all too human’—view of the world. We human beings cannot help doing this even where there is no basis in reality for what we do; this is simply part of the human condition. ‘Tis perspective world, this world for the eye, tongue and ear, is very false’, Nietzsche says, ‘even if compared for (sic) a very much more subtle sense apparatus’ (1968: 326; Aphorism 602). But its intelligibility, comprehensibility, practicability, and beauty begin to cease if we refne our senses; just as beauty ceases when we think about historical process; the order of purpose is already an illusion. It sufces that the more superfcially and coarsely it is conceived, the more valuable, defnite, beautiful, and signifcant the world appears. Te deeper one looks, the more our valuations disappear—meaningless approaches! We have created the world that possesses values! Knowing this, we know, too, that reverence for truth is already the consequence of an illusion —and that one should value more than truth the force that forms, simplifes, shapes [and] invents (1968: 326; emphasis added).

It is not at all clear at this point whether Nietzsche is criticising or recommending this view of the world. If he is recommending such a superfcial approach ‘the force that forms, simplifes, shapes and invents’ this would appear to be one that makes the world look less beautiful and less valuable than it otherwise would—the deeper one looks the more our valuations disappear as he says—while if on the other hand he is criticising this approach it is not clear how his own far from superfcial perspective can escape the criticism that this is also too sophisticated. Later on however, in Aphorism 804 subtitled the ‘Origin of the beautiful and the ugly’, he has the following to say which perhaps makes his meaning here a little clearer:

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[T]he beautiful and the ugly are recognized as relative to our most fundamental values of preservation. It is senseless to want to posit anything as beautiful or ugly apart from this. The beautiful exists just as little as does the good or the true. In every case it is a question of the conditions of preservation of a certain type of man: thus the herd man will experience the value feeling of the beautiful in the presence of different things than will the exceptional or over-man (1968: 423).

Here then we see that Nietzsche is arguing that just as ideas of what is good (the good life for example?) and ideas of what are true (the biblical account of creation perhaps?) change over time, so too do our ideas of what is beautiful. He also points out that what he calls the ‘herd man’, and what we would today more usually call ‘the masses’—mass society—appears to value some things very differently—more or less anything that can be consumed in fact—from what a more cultivated person (Nietzsche’s exceptional or ‘over’ man) might value, which, rather interestingly, would appear to be anything that cannot, or perhaps should not, be consumed and which hence might well be conserved. Summing up his thoughts on this question (if Nietzsche can be said to ‘sum up’ his thoughts at all), Nietzsche then has this to say in Aphorism 636: Perspectivism is only a complex form of specificity. My idea is that every specific body strives to become master over all space and to extend its force (—its will to power:) and to thrust back all that resists its extension. But it continually encounters similar effort on the part of other bodies and ends up coming to an arrangement (“union”) with those of them that are sufficiently related to it: thus they then conspire together for power. And the process goes on—(1968: 340).

But, if that is the case, what reason then do we have to believe in or agree with anything that Nietzsche says here? As a description of the atomic world what Nietzsche says here perhaps makes some sense, but as a description of the social world—or even of the natural world at the macro level— what he says here seems much less satisfactory. Nevertheless what Nietzsche says here, if it does nothing else, provides us with a very good definition of Nietzsche’s concept of ‘the will to power’ which, as we see, refers to the attempt to become ‘master over all space and to extend its force’. According to Nietzsche [Aphorism 675] ‘All “purposes,” “aims,” [and] “meaning” are only modes of expression and metamorphoses of one will that is inherent

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in all events: the will to power’ (1968: 356). Nietzsche then goes on to say that ‘All valuations are only consequences and narrow perspectives [at that] in the service of this one will: [e]valuation itself is only this will to power’ (1968: 356). Finally, in Aphorism 804, Nietzsche argues that: It is the perspective of the foreground, which concerns itself only with immediate consequences, from which the value of the beautiful (also the good, also of the true) arises. All instinctive judgments are short-sighted in regard to the chain of consequences: they advise what is to be done immediately. Te understanding is essentially a brake upon immediate reactions on the basis of instinctive judgments: it retards, it considers, it looks further along the chain of consequences (1968: 423; emphasis added).

Summing up what Nietzsche has to say concerning the concept of perspectivism in Te Will to Power I think we can then say the following. Nietzsche, if I can put it this way, seems to go too far or, as I think we might well say, to over-think the matter too much here. He has already given us a very clear statement of the perspectivist viewpoint in On the Genealogy of Morality. Why then did we need any more than this? What he has to say about this concept in Te Will to Power is in many ways less comprehensible than what he has already said about this matter in On the Genealogy of Morality. And yet, for all that, there do seem to be some very important additional insights into Nietzsche’s understanding of this concept here which, taken together, might help to round out his general view on the subject of perspectivism. Here then we have in Nietzsche’s writings—albeit in a highly fragmentary and sometimes as it seems even a contradictory manner8—a rough and ready or preliminary statement of the concept of perspectivism. However, it is also quite possible that Nietzsche’s views on the concept of perspectivism, especially in Te Will to Power, do not in fact amount to a coherent whole and this is of course why they require further elaboration. Nevertheless the basic idea of perspectivism seems clear enough. Just as we would not dream of claiming that we had given a full and complete account of a physical object without describing this from all its many diferent sides, so too we would not say—should not say—that we have given a full and complete account of any concept or idea without describing this from a number of diferent points of view—as many as we can in fact—and then, having done this, draw all these diferent perspectives together into a single general or total description of the thing in question. Having once then defned the

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object in question fully and completely—or at least as fully and completely as we are able to do so at that time—we might then just about be in a position to try to begin to explain this. (iv) Nietzsche on the Concept of ‘Truth’ Before we go on to conclude this discussion of Nietzsche’s views on the subject of perspectivism, it seems appropriate at this point to say a bit more here about his views on the concept of truth and the, as it seem, inseparable relation between these two concepts in his thinking. Nietzsche’s views on the concept of truth have been extensively discussed by Richard Schacht in his excellent study Nietzsche (1983) and we will therefore accordingly make use of what Schacht has to say on this question here. According to Schacht, for Nietzsche it is possible to say something about the ‘truth’ of a proposition—we can indeed make knowledge claims of this kind—but this is only possible where we realise the limited nature of the knowledge claim that we are making. ‘Truth’ is the property of a proposition but this property is of a complex relational kind, which such propositions only possess (a) in the context in which they are situated, and (b) ‘by conditions pertaining to the standpoint and concerns of those by whom they are or might be asserted’ (Schacht, 1983: 60). Both of these things then need to be taken into account in order to understand exactly what kind of claim it is that we are making when we assert that something is ‘true’ or not. However, in taking this position, Schacht argues that Nietzsche ‘considered it necessary to go further than analyses (sic) which safely stop at the water’s edge, and say no more than that the predication of [the] ‘truth’ of a proposition is tantamount merely to the emphatic or deliberate assertion of that proposition, or that the truth of a proposition is simply a matter of what it asserts [as] being so’ (Schacht, 1983: 60–61).

Tere are many diferent kinds of truth propositions or, as we might rather say, many diferent ways in which we might claim to know that something is ‘true’ or not, and Nietzsche argues that this fact in itself—the range of opinions from which this question has been approached—cannot be ignored. ‘[T]here are diverse sorts of ordinary and special (non-philosophical) discourse in which propositions are employed and adjudged to be true and untrue’ (1983: 61). However, Nietzsche argues that we would be ‘ill-advised to conclude from this variety of claims that “truth” requires to be given a

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diferent analysis and has a diferent meaning in each case’. Rather, it suggests the possibility ‘that more might be involved here than a mere diference of particular truth-conditions in at least some such cases and that what is [instead] called for may be a characterization of the nature of ‘truth’ in diferent terms where this is so’ (1983: 61). Schacht argues that Nietzsche ‘takes this to be the case, at diferent times sounding conventionalist, coherence, correspondence, and pragmatic themes in dealing with the ‘truth’ of diferent sorts of claims’ (1983: 61). For example, Nietzsche criticises the correspondence theory of truth (as traditionally understood) on the grounds that, in his view, ‘it cannot be the case that the ‘truth’ of any such proposition—and indeed of any propositions at all—is a matter of their standing in a correspondence-relation to a reality that has an intrinsic structural articulation and ordering, because there is no such reality for propositions to correspond to. Te world, as he conceives it, has the character of ‘becoming’ rather than of ‘being’, of ‘fux’ rather than of structure, and at bottom of ‘chaos’ in the sense of absence of an inherent, immutable order of any sort’ (1983: 61–62). Tis then raises the awkward question: does this mean that we have to take seriously the claim that is ofen made by the devoutly religious that what is written in the Bible, or the Koran, or the Torah etc. is ‘true’, and that we must therefore situate these claims to ‘truth’ alongside other philosophical-logical or scientifc claims to know that something is true? Nietzsche’s view would appear to be that we do have to say this—certainly many people claim that the ‘word of God’ as expressed in various religious books is ‘true’ and that this concept of truth is at least as worthy of this name as other more rationalist or natural scientifc concepts. Tis does not mean that we have to say that such claims to ‘truth’ are of the same order (kind, extent or scope) as scientifc or philosophical/logical claims to truth—they might well be more or less limited in some way—and this does not mean that we have to accept that such claims are in fact talking about the same things at all as philosophical/scientifc claims to know that something is true. Te religious idea of ‘truth’ might well have an entirely diferent object of enquiry to its natural scientifc counterpart (although creationist claims of the natural sciences that all the matter in the known universe appeared out of nothingness at the moment of the so-called ‘Big Bang’, and the religious sensibilities of many natural scientists throughout history, must seriously undermine any hard and fast distinction between these two schools of thought). It might well be the case that religious claims to ‘know’ that something is true—by divine revelation for example—can be shown to be part of an entirely diferent concept of truth which, this being the case,

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might be better called something else altogether—the concept of ‘faith’ perhaps—even though the knowledge claims made on behalf of the concept of ‘faith’ commonly go by the name of ‘truth’. However, unless some such claim for ‘faith’ can be made—that this is in fact an entirely diferent form of ‘truth’ altogether from the natural scientifc concept—then it seems that the religious concept of truth must be situated within the perspective of the standard general form (Smith, 2002a) of what the term ‘truth’ is commonly understood to mean. On the whole then, I think it is better that we should do this (that where possible it is better to keep all these diferent claims to ‘know’ that something is true together in the same general concept), without however making any claim to know that what such truth claims assert is in fact the case—the question whether something is in fact true being logically distinct from the claim that is being made that something is true—just so long as we understand that this qualifcation applies equally well to the truth claims of the natural and social sciences as it does to the truth claims of religion or faith. Schacht then comments on this point as follows. Te religious idea of ‘truth’ he says (which from now on I think we might well call ‘revealed truth’ in order to distinguish this from other concepts of truth) highlights the problem that there may well be something wrong with the present natural scientifc concept of ‘truth’ which, in other words, we should not therefore accept uncritically any more than we would accept uncritically the claims of revealed truth. In short, if the religious idea of ‘truth’ is open to doubt, we may well not be able to claim to know the ‘truth’ of anything else very much either, either in a religious or in the scientifc sense, and this is precisely what makes it so difcult to establish the ‘truth’ of many of the present claims of the natural sciences.9 Nietzsche’s views on the claims of the natural science to ‘know’ anything are therefore of interest to us here. He claims that such knowledge claims are possible, but that these claims are limited by, and hence limited to, this perspective itself. As Schacht says on this point: Nietzsche makes much of the point that in operating with such [natural scientifc] conceptions, and in refning and elaborating the models and accounts of the phenomena thereby designated, natural scientists achieve no more than a conditional and perspectival understanding of certain features of reality. On his view, however, this understanding may nonetheless come to approximate to it sufciently closely to warrant the ascription of limited epistemic status to it – in part precisely by virtue of the instrumental value it proves to have

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in facilitating our eforts to achieve practical “mastery” of our environing world. Where models and hypothesis can be tested by experience, scientifc knowledge is possible. And such testing does not simply function as a criterion in terms of the superior satisfaction of which something qualifes as a piece of scientifc knowledge. It also can indicate that one has gotten hold of some feature of the world, however superfcial and contingent that feature may be, and even if only in a rough and ready way (Schacht, 1983: 91; emphasis added).

In the natural sciences we might well be able to claim to know with some confdence that some things are false (where falsifability or refutation rather than verifcation is understood to be the scientifc standard of proof) without necessarily or strongly making any claim to know that something else—the opposite of the claim that has been refuted—is in fact ‘true’. Tis then leads to a much more contingent notion of truth in Nietzsche’s view, as Schacht goes on to explain: A fundamental idea underlying [Nietzsche’s] analysis of all such ‘truths’ is that none of them can plausibly be regarded as holding true in virtue of standing in a relation of correspondence amounting to a picturing, representing or modelling a reality which is as it is independently of our experience of it. [Rather] they are inextricably bound up with the domains of discourse (and associated forms of life) in which they occur, and in terms of which the standards or conditions are set by reference to which they may qualify as ‘truths’. Tis idea, of what I [Schacht] shall call their D-relativity, is at the heart of his [Nietzsche’s] celebrated doctrine of ‘perspectivism’, according to which they may be considered to hold true only from some particular perspective, and thus only in the context of some particular ‘language-game’ played in accordance with rules more or less strongly conditioned by various contingent circumstances (1983: 61; emphasis in original).

What is said to be ‘true’ then is to be understood as being so only in this more limited or particular sense and this concept of perspectival truth is clearly of a lower status than that which is usually to be found in religion or the natural sciences. It is important to note here then that Nietzsche is not denying that some things can be said to be ‘true’ in some meaningful sense of this term, but only that such knowledge claims cannot be made independently of our experience of them. Truth is therefore still a possibility but it is just that we cannot claim to know that this is the case with any degree of certainty. ‘Certain sorts of truth’ are possible and Nietzsche

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is even prepared to go so far as to agree that there is something to be said for the correspondence theory of truth, it is just that what this concept of truth corresponds to is not ‘reality independent of experience’ but rather reality mediated by experience. Tis correspondence is then made possible and conditioned by a form of life or ‘perspective’ which embraces and links (a) what obtains in experience with (b) what is thought and said (Schacht, 1983: 62–63). Hence ‘Nietzsche’s insistence on the existence of very considerable diferences among various sorts of commonplace ‘truths’ does not preclude the possibility of his giving any general formal characterisation of what it means for at least most such propositions to be ‘true’ (Schacht, 1983: 64). As Schacht says, In Te Gay Science ‘Nietzsche suggests in one of his [most celebrated] aphorisms that “a thinker” is one who “knows how to make things simpler than they [really] are”’ (1974: 189)…. But as Schacht goes on to say (1983: 91) ‘it does not follow that nothing at all is grasped thereby other than these thought-products themselves. Rather, as we have seen, Nietzsche is prepared to speak of such cognition as an afair in which one “grasps a certain amount of reality” (1968: 480) even though we can never be certain that what we claim to know is in fact ‘true’.10 Conclusion What can we say then in conclusion to this brief discussion of Nietzsche’s concept of perspectivism? Te concept of perspectivism itself enjoins us to try to situate his many and varied views on this question on diferent ‘sides’ of the same highly complex/multi-dimensional object or thing: what we might then call a ‘perspectival concept of perspectivism’ in fact. One thing that we can do here however is to lay to rest once and for all the ghost of the criticism that has dogged Nietzsche’s discussion of this question—and in fact of Nietzsche’s writing generally (see for example Clark, 1990; cited in Horstmann 2014: xxii fn.23)—that Nietzsche’s own highly sceptical philosophy of the nature of truth must be subjected to, and hence fall victim of, his own critique and that, if it is not possible to ‘know’ the nature of the real world in which we live, then Nietzsche cannot claim to know this either. Nietzsche argues that thinking is ‘an arbitrary fction, arrived at by selecting one element from the process and eliminating all the rest, an artifcial arrangement for the purpose of intelligibility’ (1968: 264), but then if this is the case so too must what Nietzsche says here—what Nietzsche himself thinks—be just such an arbitrary fction and hence this opens up the spectre of an absolute contradiction in Nietzsche’s thought: that what

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he says about the limitations of the thought of others must also be true of his own philosophy. However, we have already seen enough to know that this criticism is in fact mistaken: Nietzsche does allow some limited space for a concept of ‘truth’, albeit not of the conventional ‘absolute’ kind. Hence what Nietzsche says here is not subject to an absolute contradiction and, as Rolf-Peter Horstmann has explained in his excellent introduction to the Cambridge University Press edition of Beyond Good and Evil (2014) it is in fact the concept of perspectivism that rescues Nietzsche from this unjustifed accusation. By way of a conclusion then to our all too brief and fragmented discussion of Nietzsche’s views on this question we can hardly do better it seems than to reproduce in detail Horstmann’s magisterial summing up of Nietzsche’s views on this question. Horstmann argues that while Nietzsche was ‘suspicious’ (and I think it would be better to say ‘sceptical’ here) of almost every subject that he discusses in Beyond Good and Evil, and while it is undeniable that the main task of his philosophy is critical, there is nevertheless an undeniably constructive side to what Nietzsche has to say, and here Horstmann singles out for special mention three things, perspectivism, the will to power, and Nietzsche views on the nobility (Vornehmheit) of human life (2014: vii). Leaving to one side what Horstmann has to say about Nietzsche’s views on the will to power and the nobility of human life, and confning our attention to what Nietzsche has to say on the concept of perspectivism alone, this is what Horstmann then has this to say about this matter: Tis doctrine in its most trivial reading amounts to the claim that our view of the world and, consequently, the statements we take to be true, depend on our situation, on our “perspective” on the world. Perspectivism thus understood gives rise to the epistemological thesis that our knowledge claims can never be true in an absolute or an objective sense, partly because of the necessary spatial and temporal diferences between the viewpoints that each knower is bound to occupy when relating to an object, and also because of the fact that we can never be certain that what appears to us to be the case really is the case. Tough it is true that in some of his more conventional moods Nietzsche seems to have thought about perspectivism along these lines, this reading gives no hint whatsoever of why he should have been attracted to such a doctrine in his more inspired moments. In this epistemological version the doctrine is neither original nor interesting, but merely a version of skeptical or idealist claims that used to be connected in popular writings with names like Berkeley and Kant.

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However, perspectivism takes on a much more promising dimension if it is put into the broader context of the problem of justifying or at least of making plausible an insistence on integrating a personal or subjective element into the expression of one’s views as a condition of their making sense at all. By looking at this doctrine in this context, we can appreciate it as stating conditions for understanding an expression that purports to express something true, be it a text, a statement, or a confession. Tese conditions can be summarized in terms of two essential convictions. (1) In order to understand a claim for truth embodied in an expression, one has to have an understanding of the situation from which that claim originates, and this presupposes being acquainted with and involved in the personal attitudes, subjective experiences, and private evaluations which form the basis of the view expressed. (2) In order to judge the correctness, or perhaps merely the plausibility, of such a claim, one has to have an experiential or existential background similar to that of the person who made the claim. It is because of this insistence on integrating subjective aspects into the process of understanding, and because of the idea that judging the truth of a view presupposes shared experiences, that I call this the “socio-hermeneutical” reading of perspectivism. If perspectivism is understood in these terms, then much of what is going on in B[eyond] G[ood and] E[vil] and other texts by Nietzsche begins to look considerably less arbitrary and idiosyncratic than has been claimed. For example, his so-called “theory of truth” which he alludes to quite ofen in the frst two books of BGE, seems less absurd than many commentators have taken it to be. According to these critics Nietzsche’s perspectival conception of truth endorses the following three statements: (1) there is no absolute or objective truth; (2) what is taken to be truth is nothing but a fction, that is, a perspectival counterfeit or forgery (Fälschung) of what really is the case; and (3) claims (1) and (2) are true. Tese three statements together seem to imply the paradoxical claim that it is true that there is no truth. So the critic argues. However, when read in the light of the preceding remarks a much less extravagant interpretation of Nietzsche’s theory of truth suggests itself which is completely independent of the issue of whether he really subscribes to these three statements. On this interpretation, Nietzsche’s theory claims only (1) that there are no context-free truths, where a context is to be defned as the set of subjective conditions that the utterer of a truth is governed by and that anyone who wishes correctly to judge it is able to apprehend. It also claims (2) that as an utterer or judger of a truth we are never in a position to be familiar with a context in its entirety, that is, with all the conditions that defne it, and therefore we have to settle for an

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incomplete version of a context where the degree of incompleteness depends on diferences between our capacities to understand ourselves and others. From this it follows (3) that, given our situation, every truth is defned by this necessarily incomplete context. Tus every truth is a partial truth or a perspectival fction (2014: xx–xxiii; emphasis added).

I do not agree with what Horstmann says here about what he calls the ‘social hermeneutical’ interpretation of Nietzsche’s views on perspectivism as I think this emphasises too much—more than Nietzsche himself intended—the concept of understanding the meaning of action from the actors point of view and hence, as this seems to me, seeks to present Nietzsche’s views on this question as an early variant of Max Weber’s concept of verstehen or as a variant of Karl Mannheim’s views on the sociology of knowledge (see chapters 2 and 3 below for more on this point). I have already pointed out the diference between Nietzsche and Weber’s views on the issue of so-called value-freedom—an absurdity Nietzsche thinks—and elsewhere, in Te Joyful Wisdom for example, (see for example Aphorism 374, below), Nietzsche himself explicitly argues against any such hermeneutic understanding of his views on this question. However apart from this fairly major disagreement, I think what Horstmann otherwise has to say here about Nietzsche’s views on perspectivism is correct and this is why I have quoted this passage at length. Here then, in Horstman’s otherwise brilliant summary of Nietzsche’s views, we have Nietzsche’s philosophy on the question of perspectivism exactly. As Horstmann says, Nietzsche is accused of stating an absolute contradiction in the claim that there is ‘no such thing as truth’ when it seems that any statement of this kind must itself involve a truth claim and hence cannot be true. However, as we have seen, this is not in fact what Nietzsche says and Nietzsche himself—Nietzsche of all people as I think we might say—would surely have been only too well aware of the logical absurdity of any such contradiction. Rather what Nietzsche is saying is that there is such a thing as ‘truth’, but that this concept of truth is not the same thing at all as that of the conventional understanding of this term in religion and in philosophy. What Nietzsche calls ‘truth’ here is in fact badly limited by the context in which—or, in other words, the perspective from which—such a claim to know anything is made. We human beings cannot escape this perspectival view—we cannot ‘see around our corner’ as Nietzsche so brilliantly puts this (see below)—but this does not mean that what we say is not ‘true’ in this strictly limited sense: that it is limited to the scope of the thing

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that we do in fact explain. It is, if I can put this this way, true to itself rather than ‘true as such’ and hence Nietzsche’s concept of ‘truth’, as I will argue in the remainder of this study, would be much better described in terms of a concept of ‘objectivity’ or what I have in the general introduction to this study called the concept of ‘adequate truth’. Here then fnally, to conclude our discussion of Nietzsche, is the quotation from Aphorism 374 of Te Joyful Wisdom which I referred to above and which I have included here because, as I say, I believe this undermines Horstmann’s interpretivist/hermeneutic concept of perspectivism. Nietzsche entitled this aphorism ‘Our New “Infnite”’ due to what he saw as the infnite number of possible diferent ways of viewing the world from the perspectivist view that he was advocating, and this is what Nietzsche has to say on this question: How far the perspective character of existence extends, or whether it have (sic) any other character at all, whether an existence without explanation, without “sense” does not just become “nonsense”, [or] whether, on the other hand, all existence is not essentially an explaining existence—these questions, as is right and proper, cannot be determined even by the most diligent and severely conscientious analysis and self-examination of the intellect, because in this analysis the human intellect cannot avoid seeing itself in its perspective forms, and only in them. We cannot see around our corner: it is hopeless curiosity to want to know what other modes of intellect and perspective there might be: for example, whether any kind of being could perceive time backwards, or alternatively forward and backwards (by which another direction of life and another conception of cause and efect would be given). But I think that we are to-day at least far from the ludicrous immodesty of decreeing from our [own particular] nook that there can only be legitimate perspectives from that nook. Te world, on the contrary, has once more become “infnite” to us: in so far as we cannot dismiss the possibility that it contains infnite interpretations. Once more the great horror seizes us [that we cannot ‘know’ anything] but who would desire forthwith to deify once more this monster of an unknown world in the old fashion? And perhaps worship the unknown thing as the ‘unknown person’ in future? Ah! there are too many ungodly possibilities of interpretation comprised in this unknown, too much devilment, stupidity and folly of interpretation—our own human, all too human interpretation itself … ’ (1924: 340–341; emphasis in original).

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Notes 1. Some sources give the origin of this term—or at least the idea behind this—to classical Greek philosophy, and cite Plato’s account of Socrates dialogue with Protagoras as the ultimate source for this concept. However, as Joseph Schumpeter says in his History of Economic Analysis (1954: 65) ‘Tere is hardly an idea in the realm of philosophy that does not descend from Greek sources and … as I have been careful to point out, such background infuences should not be over emphasised’. And here I agree with George E. McCarthy, an expert on the relationship between Ancient Greece and nineteenth-century social theory, who gives Nietzsche unequivocally as the original source of this term and philosophy and does not cite any further or more distant Greek origin for this concept (McCarthy, 2009: 196 and 230). [Tere is, it is true to say, a very interesting discussion about the diferent ‘parts’ of the concept of virtue, in which Socrates compares these diferent parts to the parts of the human face (the eye the nose and so on) and asks with this comparison holds between the human face and the diferent parts of virtue. And, at one point Plato has Socrates saying that ‘justice is of the nature of a thing’ and later on that holiness is also a ‘thing’. Protagoras also says at one point that he ‘admits that justice bears some resemblance to holiness, for there is always some point of view in which everything is like every other thing; white is in certain ways like black [as colours] and hard is like sof [as qualities of things], and [even] the most extreme opposites have something in common’. But the outcome of this dialogue does not amount to what might reasonably be called a perspectivist philosophy because instead of concluding that all of these diferent perspectives have something to say about the matter, more or less limited or extensive as the perspective taken dictates, as a genuinely perspective view would conclude, the dialogue ends with Socrates forcing Protagoras to renounce one or other of the two ‘contradictory’ positions he has taken and Protagoras, overwhelmed by Socrates logic, and ‘with great reluctance’ as Plato says, agrees to do this (Plochmann, 1973: 206–211). Hence this does not amount to a perspectivist argument, or even a forerunner of this, but simply points out that objective things can indeed be viewed from diferent points of view, but without making the crucial break-through—attributable to Nietzsche—that each point of view might well be correct (a) in its own way, (b) from its own point of view and (c) from its limited and limiting perspective, etc.]. And see also here Fig.9.4 in the general conclusion to this book for a possible Hindu infuence on Nietzsche and Schopenhauer’s thought on this question. 2. Te infuence of Buddhism on Nietzsche can be demonstrated from the following citation from Te Will to Power (Section 55, Spring-Fall 1887): In Buddhism this thought predominates: “All desires, all that produces afects and blood, draw one toward actions”-only to this extent is one warned against evil. For action has no meaning, action binds one to existence: but all existence has no meaning. Tey see in evil a drive toward something illogical: to the afrmation of means to an end one denies. Tey seek a way of nonexistence and therefore they regard with horror all afective drives. E.g., take no revenge! Be no one’s enemy! Te hedonism of the weary is here the supreme measure of value. Nothing is further from Buddhism than the Jewish fanaticism of a Paul: nothing would be more repellent to its instincts than this tension, fre, unrest of the religious man, above all that form of sensuality that Christianity has sanctifed with the name “love.” Moreover, it is the cultured and even the over-spirited orders that fnd satisfaction in Buddhism: a race satiated and wearied by centuries of philosophical contentions, not, however, beneath all culture, like the classes from which Christianity aroseEmancipation even from good and evil appears to be of the essence of the Buddhist ideal: 11 Cf. my footnote to section 29 of Te Antichrist (Portable Nietzsche, p. 601). BOOK TWO: Critique of Highest Values 97 a ref ned state beyond morality is conceived that is identical with the state of perfection, in the presupposition that one needs to perform even good actions only for the time being, merely as a means-namely, as a means to emancipation from all actions. (1968: 96–97)

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3. Randall claims that there may well be as many as eleven dimensions of space-time. 4. Tis is what I, afer Gallie, call ‘the standard general form’ of the concept in question. Gallie refers to this as ‘the standard general use’ of concepts because, as his usage indicates, he is more concerned than I am with the way that a concept is being used, and hence miss-used. But I am more concerned with the objectivity of the thing in question—I am arguing that concepts too are three/four-dimensional things—and hence I prefer to use the word ‘form’ to emphasis the thinglikeness of the concept in question, rather than, as with Gallie, merely the use to which a particular concept is put. 5. On the subject of evaluation Nietzsche also has this to say in Te Will to Power, Section 254 What is the meaning of the act of evaluation itself? Does it point back or down to another, metaphysical world? (As Kant still believed, who belongs before the great historical movement). In short: where did it originate? Or did it not “originate”? Answer: moral evaluation is an exegesis, a way of interpreting. Te exegesis itself is a symptom of certain physiological conditions, likewise of a particular spiritual level of prevalent judgments: Who interprets? (1968: 148) 6. And once again this is all very reminiscent of Émile Durkheim’s view on the subject of organic solidarity. 7. See also on this point 1968: 285: (section 528, 1886–1887). ‘Principal error of psychologists: they regard the indistinct idea as a lower kind of idea than the distinct: but that which removes itself from our consciousness and for that reason becomes obscure can on that account be perfectly clear in itself. Becoming obscure is a matter of [the] perspective of consciousness’. 8. I am thinking here of the reference that Nietzsche makes to perspectivism in Te Will to Power as ‘only a complex form of specifcity’ (1968: 340) which, as far as I understand what he is saying here, seems to be completely inconsistent to what he has to say about this concept more generally elsewhere. 9. And here I think it is worth reminding ourselves of the metaphysical nature of many of the claims of the natural science—the idea of the ‘Big Bang’ for example and the creation of all the matter in the entire universe out of nothing. As Bertrand Russell argued persuasively, the one thing that the natural sciences cannot investigate by the use of the scientifc method is the basis of its own claims to know anything (Russell 1961 Chapter VI). Accepting their permanently tentative nature—they are always open to revision afer all—it seems that it would be better to regard all of the current theories of the natural sciences as hypotheses rather than ‘true’. 10. At one point in Te Will to Power Nietzsche describes his views on the subject of perspectivism not just—not merely—as an alternative epistemology but in fact as an alternative to epistemology altogether. Tis claim is of course incorrect. It is not the case that perspectivism supersedes epistemology altogether, whatever Nietzsche himself might have thought about this matter, but rather, as we have seen, that the views that Nietzsche expresses are just another epistemology—another theory of knowledge—among many others. Nevertheless, the claim that Nietzsche makes here is a very interesting one since it seems to involve him in an absolute contradiction—how is it possible that Nietzsche himself thought that his own perspectivist theory is not a theory of knowledge and what then is it?—and therefore deserves a little more of our attention than it has received so far. Here then, in Book Two of Te Will to Power (which is subtitled ‘the Critique of Highest Values’, Spring-Fall 1887; 1968: Aphorism 255), is what Nietzsche has this to say on this most unusual and interesting claim: Fundamental innovations: In place of “moral values,” purely naturalistic values. Naturalization of morality. In place of “sociology,” a theory of the forms of domination. In place of “society,” the culture complex, as my chief interest (as a whole or in its parts).

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In place of “epistemology,” a perspective theory of afects (to which belongs a hierarchy of the afects; the afects transfgured; their superior order, their “spirituality”). In place of ‘metaphysics’ and religion, the theory of eternal recurrence (this as a means of breeding and selection). (1968: 255; emphasis added) Clearly much of the strength of the argument that Nietzsche is making here depends on what he means by the concept of ‘afects’. In what way, we might ask ourselves, is a ‘theory of afects’ (whatever that might mean), diferent from a ‘theory of knowledge’? In what follows we will therefore look at Nietzsche concept of ‘afects’ in Te Will to Power in a little more detail to see what efect, if any, what he has to he say here has on his concept of perspectivism. In Te Will to Power Nietzsche identifes what he refers to as ‘Te period of the three great afects’. Tese are said to be ‘contempt, pity, destruction’ (1968: 39). Later on, on page 62, under the heading ‘On Afects’ he identifes what he here calls ‘the grand afects’ with (a) being the will to power, (b) the will to enjoyment, [and] (c) the will and capacity to command. What relation the ‘three great afects’ have to these three ‘grand afects’ is not made clear. On the question of power however Nietzsche says this: ‘Te psychological logic is this. When a man is suddenly and overwhelmingly suf used with the feeling of power—and this is what happens with all great afects—it raises in him a doubt about his own person: he does not dare to think himself the cause of this astonishing feeling-and so he posits a stronger person, a divinity, to account for it.’ (1968: 86; emphasis added) On the subject of pity then Nietzsche has this to say in Aphorism 368 (1883–1888): ‘Pity a squandering of feeling, a parasite harmful to moral health. “it cannot possibly be our duty to increase the evil in the world.” If one does good merely out of pity, it is oneself one really does good to, and not the other. Pity does not depend upon maxims but upon afects; it is pathological. Te sufering of others infects us, pity is an infection’. (1968: 199) “Tinking,” then, Nietzsche says, at least as far ‘as epistemologists conceive it, simply does not occur: it is a quite arbitrary fction, arrived at by selecting one element from the process and eliminating all the rest, an artifcial arrangement for the purpose of intelligibility’ (1968: 264; emphasis added). ‘Tat which has been feared the most, the cause of the most powerful sufering (lust to rule, sex, etc.), has been treated by men with the greatest amount of hostility and eliminated from the “true” world. Tus they have eliminated the afects one by one-posited God as the antithesis of evil, that is, placed reality in the negation of the desires and afects (i.e., in nothingness). (1968: 309. Aphorism 576 (1883–1888). Te task then is: To win back for the man of knowledge the right to great afects! afer self-efacement and the cult of “objectivity” have created a false order of rank in this sphere, too. Error reached its peak when Schopenhauer taught: the only way to the “true,” to knowledge, lies precisely in getting free from afects, from will; the intellect liberated from will, cannot but see the true, real essence of things. Te same error in art:” as if everything were beautiful as soon as it is viewed without will. (1968: 329; Section 612 (Spring–Fall 1887) Finally Nietzsche sums up his argument on the question of ‘afects’ and their relation to epistemology as follows in a section entitled ‘Te belief in “afects” ’ (Aphorism 670, 1883–1888) Afects are a construction of the intellect, an invention of causes that do not exist. All general bodily feelings that we do not understand are interpreted intellectually; i.e., a reason is sought in persons, experiences, etc., for why one feels this way or that. Tus something

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disadvantageous, dangerous, or strange is posited as the cause of our ill humor; in fact, it is added on to ill humor, in order to render our condition comprehensible. Frequent rushes of blood to the brain accompanied by a choking sensation are interpreted as “anger”: persons and things that rouse us to anger are means of relieving our physiological condition.- Subsequently, afer long habituation, certain incidents are so regularly associated with certain general feelings that the sight of certain incidents arouses the corresponding feeling and in particular brings with it this congestion of blood, production of semen, etc., through- closeness of association. We then say that “the afect is aroused.” (1968: 354) In sum then ‘the afrmative afects’ as Nietzsche calls them are: ‘pride, joy, health, love of the sexes, enmity and war, reverence, beautiful gestures and manners, strong will, the discipline of high spirituality, will to power, gratitude toward earth and life-everything that is rich and desires to bestow and that replenishes and gilds and immortalizes and deifes life-the whole force of transfguring virtues, everything that declares good and afrms in word and deed’ (1968: 533 Aphorism 1033; March–June 1888). While ‘Blind indulgence of an afect, totally regardless of whether it be a generous and a compassionate or a hostile afect, is the cause of the greatest evils’ Nietzsche tells us (Aphorism 928; 1968: 490). However, ‘Greatness of character does not consist in not possessing these afects— on the contrary, one possesses them to the highest degree—but in having them under control. And even that without any pleasure in this restraint but merely because—’ [and here the text breaks of]. (1968: 490) How then does this concept of ‘afects’ amount to something that goes beyond epistemology? Te answer I think is quite clear. Clearly it does not.

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Chapter Two Karl Mannheim, Perspectivism and the Sociology of Knowledge

Te controversy concerning visually perceived objects (which, in the nature of the case, can be viewed only in perspective) is not settled by setting up a non-perspectivist view (which is impossible). It is settled rather by understanding, in the light of one’s own positionally determined vision, why the object appears diferently to one in a diferent position. Likewise, in our feld also, objectivity is brought about by the translation of one perspective into the terms of another. (Mannheim, 1976: 270–271)

I

f Nietzsche takes us only so far in developing the concept of perspectivism—quite a long way I think, but nevertheless we are still not all the way there yet—then the next person who made a signifcant attempt to develop this idea was the sociologist Karl Mannheim [1893–1947], especially in the fnal essay of his most famous book Ideology and Utopia. Oddly enough there are very few references to Nietzsche in Mannheim’s book— just three in fact, and none of these refer to perspectivism explicitly—which suggests either that Mannheim came to the idea of perspectivism independently of Nietzsche or that he was unaware of his debt to him. Mannheim has clearly read Nietzsche—the three references he makes to Nietzsche in Ideology and Utopia prove this to be the case—but he does not appear to have been especially infuenced by him in any way.

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Mannheim’s object in Ideology and Utopia is not the same as ours. He  was not concerned to develop the concept of perspectivism in this book but, as is well known, he was mainly concerned with the attempt to establish his views on the subject of ‘the sociology of knowledge’, or, in other words, to demonstrate the social origins as he saw this of all thought. In this respect Mannheim’s work is similar to Émile Durkheim (see Chapter  four below) who also over-emphasised the importance of social factors at the expense of more material conditions in determining life-chances (Smith,  2014: 158–160). In what follows however we will not have very much to say about Mannheim’s ideas on the sociology of knowledge—other people have already discussed this question extensively (Rex, 1961; Kettler, et al., 1984; Longhurst, 1989)—but we will only consider what he has to say on this question in so far as this has any bearing on the subject of ‘perspectivism’. And here my argument will be that what Mannheim has to say on the subject of the sociology of knowledge actually gets in the way of, and prevents him from developing, the much more important and interesting things he might otherwise have said about the concept of perspectivism. So concerned was Mannheim to demonstrate that all knowledge derives from our position in society he could not see that what he was advocating was simply one perspective amongst many others that might also have been applied to this question. Tis said however, we are still on very much stronger ground with Mannheim on the subject of perspectivism than we were with Nietzsche if only because Mannheim, whatever his other shortcomings might be, doggedly pursued this idea as a new and possibly fruitful concept in the philosophy of the social sciences—one part of his sociology of knowledge as it were—whereas for Nietzsche perspectivism is just one among a number of other fascinating ideas that he considered but which he did not develop fully. According to David Kettler, Volker Meja and Nico Stehr (1984: 34) everything that Mannheim wrote was written in essay form and he never published a full length book during his lifetime which was not made up of a collection of such essays. ‘His best-known works, Ideology and Utopia (1936) and Man and Society in an Age of Reconstruction (1940) were collections of essays, diferent in English and German, and were each expressly announced as assembling [what Mannheim called] “thought experiments” exploring related but not necessarily consistent theoretical possibility’ (1984: 34). Originally published as a series of four separate essays in Germany during the 1920s, Ideologie and Utopie was not published in book form until 1929, and was not translated into English, with the addition of

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a new ffh chapter on the subject of the sociology of knowledge, until 1936 afer Mannheim had been forced to leave Germany in 1933 due to the Nazi persecution of Jewish intellectuals at that time (Wirth and Shils, 1976: xi). In their Forward to Ideology and Utopia, Louis Wirth and Edward Shils, the translators of the frst English edition, are then remarkably dismissive of this essay on the sociology of knowledge.1 ‘Stylistically’, they say, ‘the frst four parts of this book [an introductory essay with the title ‘Preliminary Approaches to the Problem’, and then the essays on ‘Ideology and Utopia’, ‘Te Prospects of Scientifc Politics, and ‘Te Utopian Mentality’] will be found to difer markedly from the last. Whereas the former develop their respective themes rather fully, the latter, being originally an article for an Encyclopaedia, is scarcely more than a schematic outline’ (1976: xi). But, whatever the stylistic diference there might be between the fve essays that make up the English edition of this book, this comment by Wirth and Shils badly understates the importance of the new essay which Mannheim added to the English edition in which he not only outlined an entirely new branch of sociology but also, as we will see, helped to develop the concept of ‘perspectivism’. Since the idea of perspectivism as a philosophy of the social sciences (as opposed to the more conventional use of the term ‘perspective’) is not discussed at all by Mannheim in any of the frst four essays of Ideology and Utopia, in what follows I will focus my attention on the ffh and fnal essay on the subject of the sociology of knowledge. I will start by giving a very brief account of what Mannheim has to say on the subject of the sociology of knowledge in the frst part of this fnal essay (and even then only as this relates to the concept of perspectivism), before going on to look in more detail at what he has to say on the concept of ‘relationalism’ in the middle part of this chapter, and then in much more detail at what he has to say on the subject of ‘perspectivism’ specifcally towards the end of the essay, particularly in the section which is actually entitled ‘Te essentially perspectivistic (sic) element in certain types of knowledge’ (1976: 262–275) (i) Mannheim and the Sociology of Knowledge (1976: 237–251) Mannheim’s essay on the sociology of knowledge—Part V of the English edition of Ideology and Utopia—begins with a very clear statement of his thesis: ‘[A]s theory’, Mannheim tells us, the sociology of knowledge ‘seeks to analyse the relationship between knowledge and existence; [while] as historical-sociological research it seeks to trace the forms which this relationship

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has taken in the intellectual development of mankind’ (1976: 237). Te sociology of knowledge, Mannheim argues, ‘is closely related to, but increasingly distinguishable from, the theory of ideology. Te study of ideologies has made it its task to unmask the more or less conscious deceptions and disguises of human interest groups, particularly those of political parties’ (1976: 238). Te sociology of knowledge, by contrast, ‘is concerned not so much with distortions due to the deliberate efort to deceive as with the varying ways in which objects present themselves to the subject according to the diferences in social settings’ (1976: 238; emphasis added). And Mannheim continues: In accordance with this distinction we will leave to the theory of ideology only the frst forms of the “incorrect” and the untrue, while one-sidedness of observation, which is not due to more or less conscious intent will be separated from the theory of ideology and treated as the proper subject-matter of the sociology of knowledge (1976: 238; emphasis added).2

In defning the sociology of knowledge in this way—as being concerned with distortions which are due more to one-sided orientation towards an object rather than with any deliberate intention to deceive—Mannheim situates what he wants to say on the subject of the sociology of knowledge closer to the concept of perspectivism we are interested in here, even though at this early stage in this essay this does not consciously seem to have been his intention. Mannheim then has this to say on the subject of his new concept of the sociology of knowledge: In the older theory of ideology, no distinction was made between these two types of false observations and statements. Today, however, it is advisable to separate more sharply these two types, both of which were formerly described as ideologies. Hence we speak of a particular and a total conception of ideology. Under the frst we include all those utterances the “falsity” of which is due to an intentional or unintentional, conscious, semi-conscious, or unconscious, deluding of one’s self or of others, taking place on a psychological level and structurally resembling lies. We speak of this conception of ideology as particular precisely because it only refers to specifc assertions which may be regarded as concealments, falsifcations or lies without attacking the integrity of the total mental structure of the asserting subject. Te sociology of knowledge, on the other hand,

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takes as its problem [the subject matter of this new feld of enquiry] precisely this mental structure in its totality, as it appears in diferent currents of thought and historical-social groups. Te sociology of knowledge does not criticize thought on the level of the assertions themselves, which may well involve deception and disguise, but examines them on the structural or noological level,3 which it views as not necessarily being the same for all men, but rather as allowing the same object to take on diferent forms and aspects in the course of social development (1976: 238; emphasis added).

Here then we have a clear reference by Mannheim, as one part of his interest in the sociology of knowledge more generally, to the important part that perspective plays in the formation of thought, and he then goes on to defne the term ‘perspective’—but does not yet make use of the term ‘perspectivism’ as such—as follows: In the realm of the sociology of knowledge we shall then, as far as possible, avoid the use of the term “ideology”, because of its moral connotations, and shall instead speak of the “perspective” of a thinker. By this term we mean the subject’s whole mode of conceiving things as determined by his historical and social setting (1976: 239; emphasis added).

In this preliminary attempt by Mannheim to defne the concept of ‘perspective’ as something more than just a particular point of view (or ‘perspectival thinking’ as I think we might well call this), we can see all too clearly the limitations that his attempt to develop a sociology of knowledge imposes upon his attempt to develop the concept of perspectivism. Here  the ‘perspective’ in question is clearly that of the knowing subject only, and Mannheim makes no reference at all to the nature of the object in question—the thing that we are trying to describe or explain—while his one-sided focus on the historical and social setting of the subject in question means that he is unable to see that these things might simply be one perspective amongst many other that might also be brought to bear on this question. Crucially then, at least at this early stage in this essay, Mannheim has nothing to say about the actual form and/or the content of the thing that we are trying to describe or explain. All of his attention is focused on the nature of the knowing subject him or her self even though the ‘existential determination’ of those things that we are interested in explaining (where ‘existential’ factors are defned by Mannheim himself as ‘extra-theoretical factors of the most diverse sort’ 1976: 240) are much greater than the social

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or historical situation of the knowing subject who is observing the object in question and includes the nature and the form etc. of the thing itself that we are trying to explain. Mannheim continues: Te world is known through many diferent orientations because there are many simultaneous and mutually contradictory trends of thought (by no means of equal value) struggling against one another with diferent interpretations of “common” experience. Te clue to this confict is therefore not to be found in the ‘object in itself’ (if it were, it would be impossible to understand why the object should appear in so many diferent refractions) but in the very diferent expectations, purposes and impulses arising out of experience (1976: 241).

Here then I think we can see clearly that Mannheim goes too far in his attempt to establish the sociology of knowledge since the reasons he gives for rejecting an argument in terms of the nature of the object of enquiry itself are simply not adequate to the point that he is making. Contrary to what Mannheim says here, the clue to this problem that we are considering is precisely to be found in the nature of the object itself that we are trying to explain and it is entirely possible to understand why this object might well appear to us in the form of so many diferent refractions once we realise that this is because the object in question is itself a highly complex, multidimensional phenomenon. Contrary to what Mannheim says here then there is no very good reason—and Mannheim himself certainly does not provide us with one—why we cannot say that at least a part of the diference in the various perspectives that he here attributes solely to the social and historical setting of the knowing subject is also at least in part attributable to the complexity of the object that we are trying to explain. What we are interested in here then is not, as Mannheim seems to think, merely just a question of the diferent viewpoints, purposes or impulses of the observer, but this is also a matter of the nature of the object in question itself. When we come to consider the subject matter of the social sciences in particular (but also I think the natural sciences to a lesser extent) there seems to be no very good reason why the things we considered in the social sciences should not appear to us in a highly diverse way according to the many diferent dimensions that these things have in themselves. In just the same way that, for example, light appears to us to be ‘white’ when it is not refracted through a prism but appears to us to be made up of many diferent colours when it is refracted, here we can see that, contrary

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to what Mannheim says, it is precisely that nature of the ‘object in question’—both  the complex structure of light itself and the diferent colours of which it is composed as well as the existence or otherwise of something that is capable of refracting light—rather than merely just the subjective disposition of the observer, that makes the objects of enquiry in this case quite so difcult to grasp. In the same way then we have only to think here of the nature and complexity of the social scientifc concepts of ‘power’ for example when compared to the simplicity of the natural scientifc concept which goes by the same name (and see Part Two of this book, chapter 5, for more on this point) to believe that this concept itself, quite apart from the diferent theoretical or even political opinions, biases and viewpoints from which the idea of ‘power’ can be observed or debated, is itself a multi-sided four-dimensional object, and, this being the case, we would then have every reason to believe that this object not only could but in fact would appear in any number ‘of diferent refractions’ when viewed from a number of diferent perspectives. Mannheim then goes on to comment further on this point himself, as follows: Just as in art we can date particular forms on the ground of their defnite associations with a particular period of history so in the case of knowledge we can detect with increasing exactness the perspective due to a particular historical setting. Further, by the use of pure analysis of thought-structure (sic), we can determine when and where the world presented itself in such, and only in such, a light to the subject that made the assertion, and the analysis may frequently be carried to the point where the more inclusive question might be answered, [namely] why the world presents itself to us in precisely such a manner as it does (1976: 243–244; emphasis in original).

Although Mannheim does not give us an answer to this question here, the answer to this question is in fact fairly obvious. Te reason why the world presents itself to us in the manner that it does is the fact that both the natural and the social world4 in which we live are composed of three or four-dimensional things (four where we include time, as of course we must, in most social scientifc enquiries, but especially in the case of history) and perhaps for all we know even more dimensions than this of which we are presently unaware (Randall 2005), and it follows from this that the objects that we are concerned with here are of course necessarily and unavoidably highly complex. Tey present themselves to our consciousness

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in a many-sided form precisely because they are many-sided/multifaceted objects which therefore cannot be adequately understood from any one or two-dimensional perspective. Some objects of enquiry are much simpler than others and hence much easier to explain—and this is especially so in the case of arithmetic and mathematics more generally which rely upon hypothesis which cannot be tested and where things are therefore only true by defnition (Russell, 1961: 139)5—but this is also the case for those natural sciences which deal with objects of enquiry which seem to change only very slowly and over long periods of time and where, in some cases, this relatively unchanging form may even appear to be fxed or permanent (for example in terms of the geological features of our planet), but this is much less so with social scientifc phenomena which change all the time and therefore cannot usually be understood at all except as multifaceted/ multi-dimensional things. Mannheim is therefore on very much stronger ground where he goes on to suggest, as he shortly does (apparently without realising the contradiction between this and what he has said before) that the problem that we are considering in the social sciences has something very much more to do with the nature of the object itself rather than merely the way in which we view these thing, although, as we will see, his focus here is still far too much on the social origins of the knowing subject and not enough on the nature of the object of enquiry itself. As he says on this point: ‘Perspective’ in this sense signifed the manner in which one views an object, what one perceives in it, and how one construes it in his [or her] thinking. Perspective, therefore, is something more than a merely formal determination of thinking. It refers to qualitative elements in the structure of thought, elements which must necessarily be overlooked by a purely formal logic. It is precisely these factors which are responsible for the fact that two persons, even if they apply the same formal-logical rules, e.g., the law of contradiction or the formula of the syllogism, in an identical manner, may judge the same object very diferently (1976: 244; emphasis added).

But if this is the case and perspectival thinking is more usually concerned to establish qualitative rather than quantitative ‘elements in the structure of thought’ then it might also be the case that those things which we think about and which we are concerned to explain in the social sciences are also of this more qualitative kind (and see in this connection Chapter One of the present study for Nietzsche’s very similar views on this question) and

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that it is precisely for this reason—by contrast to the quantitative focus of the natural sciences—that we have so much difculty in describing these things. He then goes on in the remainder of this section of his essay on the Sociology of Knowledge [1976: 245–250] to discuss the concept of ‘freedom’ in some detail (apparently to provide us with a case study of the point that he is trying to make), but we need not concern ourselves further with this point here. However, before we leave this discussion of Mannheim’s preliminary comments on the nature of the concept of ‘perspectival thinking’ (if  not yet quite the concept of ‘perspectivism’ as such) there is one other truly astonishing reference here which no book on the subject of the philosophy of the social sciences could pass by without mentioning, and this is where Mannheim in a section subtitled ‘Te Special Approach Characteristic of the Sociology of Knowledge’ refers to the idea of people ‘talking past’ one another. What makes this reference quite so remarkable is that today the idea of people ‘talking past each other’ is commonly attributed to Tomas Kuhn in his book Te Structure of Scientifc Revolutions (frst published 1962; revised edition 1970), although, as a matter of fact, Kuhn never actually used the expression ‘talking past’ one another, but twice uses the very similar expression to ‘talk through’ each other (1970: 109 and 148). What Mannheim’s had to say on this point in 1936 therefore clearly predates any reference that Kuhn makes to this idea and for this reason alone is worth quoting in full: Two persons, carrying on a discussion in the same universe of discourse—corresponding to the same historical-social conditions—can and must do so quite distinctly from two persons identifed with diferent social positions. Tese two types of discussion, i.e., between socially and intellectually homogeneous participants and between socially and intellectually heterogeneous participants, are to be clearly distinguished … .But how do they carry on this [intellectual/academic] struggle. As far as intellectual antagonisms are concerned, they usually do so with but few exceptions by “talking past one another”.6 Consciousness for both [participants] is crystallised about the concrete issue. For each of the participants the ‘object’ has a more or less diferent meaning because it grows out of the whole of their respective frames of reference, as a result of which the meaning of the object in the perspective of the other person remains, at least in part obscure. Hence ‘talking past one another’ is an inevitable phenomenon of the ‘age of equalization’.7 On the other hand, the divergent participants may also be approached with the intention of using

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each theoretical point of contact as an occasion for removing misunderstandings by ascertaining the source of the diferences. Tis will bring out the various presuppositions which are implied in the two respective perspectives as consequences of the two diferent social situations. In each case the sociologist of knowledge does not face his antagonist in the usual manner, according to which the other’s arguments are dealt with directly. He seeks rather to understand him by defning the total perspective and seeing it as a function of the certain social position (1976: 251–252).

Mannheim then continues: Te sociologist of knowledge8 has been accused, because of this procedure, of avoiding the real argument, and not concerning himself with the actual subject-matter under discussion, but, instead, of going behind the immediate subject of debate to the total basis of thought of the assertor in order to reveal it as merely one basis of thought among many and as no more than a partial perspective (1976: 252; emphasis added).

What Mannheim says here seems to imply that this is somehow not so, and hence that he is being treated unfairly, but in fact since the whole point about Mannheim’s sociology of knowledge is precisely to claim that all knowledge depends on the perspective of the knowing subject, then this universal claim must also apply without exception to the claims that Mannheim is making on behalf of his own sociology of knowledge. If all knowledge is determined by the social situation of the knowing subject then so too must Mannheim’s claim to know something about the sociology of knowledge be determined by his own social situation and he cannot therefore reasonably complain. We see here therefore that Mannheim in particular, and the sociology of knowledge more generally, falls victim to the absolute contradiction that Nietzsche so narrowly avoided in his discussion of perspectivism in the previous chapter of this study. Mannheim then continues: Going behind the assertions of the opponents and disregarding the actual argument [the specifcs of the debate] is legitimate in certain cases, namely, wherever, because of the absence of a common basis of thought, there is no common problem. Te sociology of knowledge seeks to overcome the ‘talking past one another’ of the various antagonists by taking as its explicit theme of investigation the uncovering of the sources of the partial disagreements which would never come to the attention of the disputants because of their

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preoccupation with the subject-matter that is the immediate issue of the debate. It is superfuous to remark that the sociologist of knowledge is justifed in tracing the arguments to the very basis of thought and the positions of disputants only if and in so far as an actual disparity exists between the perspectives of the discussion resulting in a fundamental misunderstanding. As long as discussion proceeds from the same basis of thought, and within the same universe of discourse, it is unnecessary [to interfere]. Needlessly applied it [talking past one another?] may become a means for side-stepping the discussion (1976: 252).

Mannheim implies here that there is a ‘true’ situation which the sociologist of knowledge somehow has a privileged insight into, but the problem with any such argument is of course how he could ever possibly claim to know that this was the case. Mannheim then goes on to consider another very important question which he calls ‘relationism’, but which I, for reasons I will explain in due course, prefer to call ‘situationalism’. (ii) Mannheim on Relationism and Partiality (1976: 252–260 and 264–266)9 Mannheim’s discussion in his essay on the Sociology of Knowledge of what he calls ‘relationism’ begins in the section entitled ‘Te Acquisition of Perspective as a Pre-condition for the Sociology of Knowledge’ (1976: 252). Mannheim begins his discussion of this question with a rather unusual example of the son of a peasant who has grown up in the narrow confnes of a village and who then comes to a town and is exposed to an entirely diferent ‘urban’ culture. As a result of adaption to city life the previously unquestioned rural mode of living and thinking ceases to be something taken for granted. Te son of a peasant by changing his location has won a certain detachment from his upbringing and Mannheim argues that in this detachment is the frst beginning of that approach which the sociology of knowledge seeks to develop in greater detail. ‘Tat which within a given group is accepted as absolute appears to the outsider [to be] conditioned by the group situation and [is] recognized as partial … Tis type of knowledge presupposes a more detached perspective’ (1976: 253). Tis more detached perspective, Mannheim says, can be gained in the following ways: (a) a member of a social group leaves his social position (by ascending to a higher class, emigration, etc.); (b) the basis of existence of a whole group

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shifs in relation to its traditional norms and institutions; (c) within the same society two or more socially determined modes of interpretation come into confict and, in criticizing one another, render one another transparent and establish perspectives with reference to each other. As a result, a detached perspective, through which the outlines of the contrasting modes of thought are discovered, comes within the range of possibility for all the diferent positions, and later gets to be the recognized mode of thinking. We have already indicated that the social genesis of the sociology of knowledge rests primarily upon that last mentioned possibility (1976: 253).

‘Relationism’ is then defned by Mannheim as follows: ‘What has already been said should hardly leave any doubt as to what is meant when the procedure of the sociology of knowledge is designated as “relational”. When the urbanized peasant boy no longer discusses the opinions of his relatives in the countryside as a homogenous participant in these views but ‘relates them to a certain mode of interpreting the world which, in turn, is ultimately related to a certain social structure which constitutes its situation [then] [t]his is an instance of the “relational” procedure’ (Mannheim, 1976: 253). And he continues: We shall deal later with the fact that when assertions are treated in this way it is not implied that they are [in any way] false. Te sociology of knowledge goes beyond what, in some such crude way as this, people frequently do today, only in so far as it consciously and systematically subjects all intellectual phenomena without exception to the question: In connection with what social structure [a] did they arise and [b] are they valid. (1976: 253–254; emphasis added).

Now this is what I, by contrast to Mannheim, prefer to call ‘situationalism’10 by which I mean the importance of situating one’s perspective on any question (a) in relation to all other perspectives on the same question and then, having done this, (b) showing to what extent these diferent perspectives overlap with each other or pointing out where, as is perhaps more usually the case, (c) the extent to which there is in fact no overlap at all. Te crucial importance of doing this is that where there is no overlap—and see on this point the above discussion of ‘talking past’ one another—then there must be every reason for saying that the two very diferent ‘perspectives’ on any given question are in fact talking about entirely diferent things and hence are not discussing the same object of enquiry at all. A debate

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may take place—and frequently can and does take place especially in the social sciences—where two people disagree bitterly with each other about the thing that they are discussing without any comprehension by either party that they are actually talking about two entirely diferent objects of enquiry. Te people taking part in this debate commonly use the same terminology—class, or power, or equality etc.—to describe what it is that they are interested in, but without ever realising that they are simply discussing entirely diferent things or, at best, diferent ‘sides’ of the same thing. Here the concept of ‘social class’ (Lee and Turner, 1996) is probably the best example of people ‘talking past’ each other in the social sciences. Mannheim then goes on to consider the relationship between his concept of ‘relationism’ and what he understands by the problem of relativism (1976: 254). Relating individual ideas to the total structure of a given historico-social subject should not be confused with a philosophical relativism which [a] denies the validity of any [absolute?] standards and [b] of the existence of order in the world. Just as the fact that every measurement in space hinges upon the nature of light does not mean that our measurements [of space] are arbitrary, but merely that they are only valid in relation to the nature of light, so in the same way not relativism in the sense of arbitrariness, but relationism applies to our discussion. Relationism does not signify that there are no criteria of rightfulness and wrongness in a discussion. It does insist, however, that it lies in the nature of certain assertions that they cannot be formulated absolutely, but only in terms of the perspective of a given situation (1976: 254; italics in original).

By substituting relationism for relativism in this way—by situating diferent explanations in relation to one another and seeing to what extent they either overlap with each other or do not do so at all—Mannheim argues we can overcome the vague, ill-considered, and sterile form of relativism with regard to scientifc knowledge which, as he says ‘is increasingly prevalent today’ (1976: 237). Rather than seeing diferent viewpoints as all equally valid—all equally ‘as good’ as one another and hence with nothing very much to choose between any of them—relationism suggests that all of these diferent perspectives are all equally worthwhile—worthy of a hearing—but that this does not means that they are all equally as good as one another. For example, one explanation might well be more comprehensive than another, and hence ‘better’ in this sense, while another explanation,

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although less comprehensive, might nevertheless be more detailed and hence ‘better’ in this respect too. In short, both might well be of some value even where they seem to disagree with one another. Tere is however an obvious problem with the argument that Mannheim is presenting here and this is the one that we have previously considered in term of his discussion of the problem of ‘talking past’ one another. Te claim that Mannheim is making here (“that they cannot be formulated absolutely”) is itself an absolute claim and therefore, since he is himself willing to make certain—and in fact very many highly absolute claims (see for example the above claim that there is indeed such a thing as ‘order in the world’)—he must if he is being consistent, accept that he is making a claim that can only be understood in terms of the perspective of the given situation (let us say, (a) the place and (b) the time, and (c) the social class etc.) from which he, Mannheim, is viewing this problem; namely from his own social and historical situation.11 Now—and I think that Mannheim would agree with this: I cannot see how given his theory of the sociology of knowledge he could reasonably deny this—if this is the case then I think that he also needs to say something here about (d) the nature of object that one is viewing and especially (e) whether this is a complex or simple thing since this would then allow us to determine whether these things belong to the category of ‘certain assertions’ (see above) about which we can or cannot make absolute claims. I would argue that we can more easily make such claims about certain things—for example the relationship of mass to gravity in the natural sciences—than about others—the relationship of human individuals to social classes for example in the social sciences—depending upon the nature of the object itself. Mannheim then goes on to talk about something which he calls ‘particularization’, which appears to refer to the way in which a ‘particular’ explanation redefnes our object of enquiry—the object in question—and in this way returns to the issue of the truth or falsity of the explanation that we are trying to give (1976: 254). Having described the relational process as conceived by the sociology of knowledge, the question will inevitably be raised: what can it tell us about the validity of an assertion12 that we would not know if we had not been able to relate it to the standpoint of the assertor? Have we said anything about the truth or falsity of a statement when we have shown that it is to be imputed to liberalism or Marxism?’

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Mannheim says that three answers may be made to this question: (a) ‘it is sometimes said that the validity of an assertion is denied when its structural relationship to a given social situation has been shown’—in other words that this amounts to a refutation of the opponents viewpoint—and we could therefore use this method ‘as a device for annihilating the validity of all assertions’ (1976: 254). But (b) in opposition to this claim, Mannheim says that the alternative viewpoint is that the relationship between a statement and its assertor tells us nothing concerning the truth-value of the assertion, since, according to this view, ‘the manner in which a statement originates has nothing to do with its validity’. However, Mannheim goes on to say (c) that there is a third possible way ‘of judging the value of assertions that the sociologist of knowledge makes’ and this third way appears to represents his own view on this question. Against the frst claim, Mannheim says that this ‘implies only the suspicion that the assertion [in question] might represent merely a partial view’ (1976: 255), while against the second view he claims that ‘it would be incorrect to regard the sociology of knowledge as giving no more than a description of the actual conditions under which an assertion arises (factual genesis)’, but rather that: ‘Every complete and thorough sociological analysis of knowledge delimits, in content as well as structure, the view to be analysed. In other words, it attempts not merely to establish the existence of the relationship, but [also] at the same time to particularize its scope and the extent of its validity’ (1976: 255; emphasis added). Now this is a very important point indeed I think—even more important than Mannheim himself seems to believe is the case—because what Mannheim is saying here, if I understand him correctly, is that the account that we give of any particular question actually redefnes the nature and the scope, the degree and the extent, of the object in question—the actual object of enquiry—that we are trying to explain rather than, as we might well have supposed, the object that we thought we were enquiring into or initially set out to explain. And although Mannheim does not quite go so far as to say this himself, what he appears to mean by this claim is that the explanation that we give of this ‘object’, once its scope has been redefned in this way by the explanation we give of this thing itself, is nevertheless still an “objective” one because, as we see, we do still provide a full and complete account of the object in question—the thing that we do in fact explain. Hence, where objectivity is defned in terms of giving a full and complete account of something, we do still give a completely objective account of the thing that we do in fact describe or explain—the side of the Moon that we can observed from the Earth for example—even though of course this

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might well not be a full and complete account of another object to which this object is closely related—for example the so-called ‘dark side’ of the moon—or still less another object altogether (the totality of the Moon as a whole for example) of which this object—the thing that we do actually explain—is merely one part. Mannheim then, if I understand him correctly, is claiming for the sociology of knowledge that it can provide objective accounts of those things—those limited objects of enquiry—which it does in fact explain and is not claiming to be able to explain (a) anything more than this or (b) any other objects of enquiry which it might have originally set out to explain and to which it might be closely related. In this way then Mannheim makes a very important point indeed when he says the sociology of knowledge ‘reaches a point where it becomes a critique by redefning the scope and the limits of the perspective implicit in given assertions’ (1976: 256; emphasis added). At this point then Mannheim appears to have made a breakthrough in his argument and the sociology of knowledge seems to have become something which it was not before; namely a critical method in the philosophy of the social and the natural sciences. But no sooner has he made this argument than he appears to draw back from the full implications of what he is saying when he immediately goes on to say the following: Te analyses characteristic of the sociology of knowledge are, in this sense, by no means irrelevant for the determination of the truth of a statement; but these analyses, on the other hand, do not by themselves fully reveal the truth because the mere delimitation of the perspectives is by no means a substitute for the immediate and direct discussion between the divergent points of view or for the direct examination of the facts. (1976: 256).

Once again then I think we have to say that what Mannheim says here is simply mistaken. Contrary to what Mannheim says, the explanation that we do in fact give both delimits and delineates the object of enquiry that we do in fact explain. Te thing that is in fact explained is redefned by the process of explanation itself and therefore what is in fact explained by each particular perspective is a full and complete account of what it explains and hence true in this partial sense—true to itself as we might well say—whereas Mannheim appears to think that it is only in the totality of the whole thing—all the diferent perspectives brought together into some overriding or ‘relational’ synthesis as it were—that true objectivity can be achieved.

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Mannheim then goes on to discuss the question of ‘partiality’ (1976: 264–266) and what he refers to as an ‘activist’ element in knowledge, the ‘bias’ involved in our selection of an object of enquiry. But this as we will see is just another pointless aside—a dead end in fact—from his main argument, which I will argue would be much better understood in terms of the above discussion of particularity. Te next task of epistemology, in our opinion’ Mannheim says, ‘is [then] to overcome its partial nature by incorporating into itself the multiplicity of relationships between existence and validity (Sein und Geltung) as discovered by the sociology of knowledge and to give attention to the types of knowledge operating in a region of being which is full of meaning and which afects the truth-value of the assertions. Tereby epistemology is not supplanted by the sociology of knowledge, but a new kind of epistemology is called for which reckons with the facts brought to light by the sociology of knowledge (1976: 264).

In the idealistic conception of knowledge, Mannheim argues, knowing is regarded mostly as a purely ‘theoretical’ act in the sense of pure perception and has its background in the contemplative life. But Mannheim points out that: [T]his great esteem for the contemplatively perceived is not the outcome of the ‘pure’ observation of the act of thinking and knowing, but springs from a hierarchy of values based on a certain philosophy of life. Te idealistic philosophy insisted that knowledge was pure only when it was purely theoretical (1976: 265).

And he continues: Idealistic philosophy was not upset by the discovery that the type of knowledge represented by pure theory was only a small segment of all knowledge, that in addition there can be knowledge where men (sic), while thinking, are also acting, and fnally that in certain felds knowledge arises only when and in so far as it itself is action, i.e., when action is permeated by the intention of the mind, in the sense that concepts and the total apparatus of thought are dominated by and refect this activist orientation. Not purpose in addition to perception but purpose in perception itself reveals the qualitative richness of the world in certain felds (1976: 265).

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Mannheim then is arguing that it is not pure perception alone, as the idealist philosophers would have this, but purpose in perception—the activist purpose which itself provokes the perception—that also provide us with knowledge in certain felds of enquiry. And he continues: Also the phenomenologically demonstrable fact that in these felds the activist genesis [as Mannheim calls this here]13 penetrates into the structure of the perspective and is not separable from it could not deter the older noology and epistemology either from overlooking this type of knowledge which is integrated with action, or from seeing in it only an “impure” form of knowledge’ (1976: 265–266).

How then does Mannheim answer the objection of bias and distortion that the value judgments involved in this ‘activist’ perspective unavoidably entail? Te answer to this question is that he has nothing to say about this matter here even though he has already provided us with the solution to this problem in his earlier discussion of the changing nature of the object of explanation. As we have already seen, although the perspective in this case is afected by the activity of selecting a particular topic as an object of enquiry, and then by the further fact that the explanation that one gives of this object is distorted by one’s social position etc. and in short by [a] ‘the manner in which one views an object, [b] what one perceives in it, and [c] how one construes it in his [or her] thinking’ (1976: 244), it is also the case, [d] that the scope of the object in question which we are in fact enquiring into has been altered by the process of enquiry itself and hence is not the same object as the one we set out to investigate or that which someone else is looking at from a diferent, albeit equally biased, perspective. Hence this ‘object’ in question—our actual object of enquiry—is not the same as the one we set out to explain or as that of another person apparently discussing the same question but actually—because of their own slightly diferent or perhaps even very diferent values—is a very slightly or perhaps even very diferent question altogether. Nevertheless—and this is the really crucial point—the unquestionably biased/distorted explanation that we do in fact give of this object—our actual object of explanation—is not without objectivity itself. Tis is because the explanation that we do in fact give actually redefnes the object in question that we do in fact explain, and hence we do therefore give a full and complete account—and hence a completely objective account—of this thing. If I can put it this way, the explanation we give is what it is and does not claim to be something else

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(which however it might closely resemble and in fact be mistaken for) and therefore, viewed in this way, we can see that the problem is in fact one of particularity—our own values and interests and the explanation that we do in fact provide—rather than, as Mannheim has this, partiality in the selection of our initial object of enquiry. It is this we see—the confusion of our undeniably partial initial object of enquiry with our particular or actual object of explanation—that is the basis of the whole problem that we are considering here. Mannheim then concludes this section (1976: 262–266) by giving the following account of what it is that he says the sociology of knowledge hopes to achieve: Te problem henceforth consists not in rejecting this type of knowledge from the very beginning, but in considering the manner in which the concept of knowing must be reformulated so that knowledge can be had even where purposeful action is involved. Tis reformulation of the noological problem is not intended to open the gates to propaganda and value-judgments in the sciences. On the contrary we speak of the fundamental intent of the mind (intentio animi) which is inherent in every form of knowledge and which afects the perspective, we refer to the irreducible residue of the purposeful element in knowledge which remains even when all conscious and explicit evaluations and biases have been eliminated (1976: 266).

But ‘the manner in which the concept of knowing must be reformulated’ is in fact perfectly clear and Mannheim has already provided us with the answer to this question in the previous section of his essay, and he is simply going round in circles. He then concludes as follows: It is self-evident that science (in so far as it is free from evaluation) is not a propagandistic device and does not exist for the purpose of communicating evaluations, but rather for the determination of facts. What the sociology of knowledge seeks to reveal is merely that, afer knowledge has been freed from the elements of propaganda and evaluation, it still contains an activist element which, for the most part, has not become explicit, and which cannot be eliminated, but which, at best, can and should be raised into the sphere of the controllable (1976: 266).

And how is this level of ‘control’ to be achieved? It is by recognising that this ‘activist element’ in the choice of our object of enquiry and the value

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judgments which this choice unavoidably entails do not undermine the objectivity of those things that we do in fact explain. (iii) The Concept of Perspectivism in Mannheim’s Sociology of Knowledge (1976: 266–280) Finally then, afer a long and really tortuous path, it is only towards the end of his essay on the sociology of knowledge that we come to anything that might reasonably be described as an explicit discussion of the concept of perspectivism. Tis discussion begins in a section which is subheaded by Mannheim himself as ‘Te Essentially Perspectivist Element of Certain Types of Knowledge’ (1976: 266) and extends to the end of the essay fourteen pages later, but the problem with this subheading from our present point of view—and with Mannheim’s discussion of perspectivism more generally—is that, as this subheading clearly says, for Mannheim the perspectivist element is applicable only to ‘certain types of knowledge’ and hence by implication does not apply to other types of non-perspectivist knowledge. What then is the status of this knowledge for which a perspectivist view is apparently not required? Mannheim does not answer this question here but at one point in this fnal section of his essay on the sociology of knowledge (1976: 268; and see also 263) and elsewhere in the other essays included in Ideology and Utopia, Mannheim gives the example of 2 × 2 = 4 apparently as an illustration of the type of knowledge he has in mind here that (a) everyone can agree on but which (b) is true only in terms of the strictly limited feld within which such knowledge claims are made. Looking at this from a perspectivist point of view—and therefore contrary to what Mannheim himself appears to have believed—arithmetic (and mathematics more generally) might be said to be concerned with problems that take place on a one-dimensional plane where, because everyone is viewing this problem from the same one-sided direction or perspective, it is much easier for everyone to agree upon the nature of the object in question and hence the explanation provided. However if Mannheim is claiming a privileged status for mathematical knowledge then he would be granting to mathematics a much higher degree of certainty than most modern philosophers or even mathematicians would attribute to it.14 We will return to this very important question at a later stage. Putting to one side those areas of knowledge to which perspectivism does not apply, Mannheim then begins his discussion of perspectivism proper as follows:

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Te second point of which we must take cognizance is that in certain areas of historical-social knowledge it should be regarded as right and inevitable that a given fnding should contain the traces of the position of the knower. Te problem lies not in trying to hide these perspectives or in apologising for them, but of inquiring into the question of how, granted these perspectives, knowledge and objectivity are still possible. It is not a source of error that in the visual picture of an object in space we can, in the nature of the case, get only a perspectivistic view. Te problem is not how we might arrive at a nonperspectivistic picture but how, by juxtaposing the various points of view, each perspective may be recognized as such and thereby a new level of objectivity obtained. Tus we come to the point where the false ideal of a detached, impersonal point of view must be replaced by the ideal of an essentially human point of view which is within the limits of a human perspective, constantly striving to enlarge itself (1976: 266–267; emphasis added).

We have here fnally the ‘perspectivist’ argument exactly in which we can see that Mannheim recognises apparently for the frst time that knowledge and objectivity are still possible despite the fact that a perspectivist view is unavoidable. An objective view is still possible, Mannheim seems to say, and this despite the fact that each individual person or particular explanation is coming to the object in question from a very slightly diferent point of view or perhaps even from a very diferent point of view. How is such ‘objectivity’ still possible then? As we have seen this is because each individual view, although partial and hence limited to its own extent, nevertheless does indeed have something to say about the thing in question that it describes. Where each of these diferent points of view are describing the same object it therefore becomes necessary to juxtapose the various claims that are being made here in relation to one another and to situate these claims in relation to the overall object of enquiry. However it is equally possible and perhaps even more likely that these various diferent points of view which do indeed describe accurately the things that they are trying to explain—this last point being true by defnition—are not discussing the same things at all and therefore might not overlap with one another in any way. And in this case any attempt to ‘situate’ the various diferent claims ‘in relation’ to one another—a relationship that they do not in fact have—would obviously be a very serious mistake. However there is still another problem here with Mannheim’s own perspective—a limitation as we might say, on what he has to say—and this is as follows: we can see from what Mannheim says here that for him some

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perspectives can still be said to be ‘false’, in this particular case, the ‘ideal of a detached impersonal point of view’ (1976: 267), whereas, as I have already argued, I think it would be much better—and Mannheim would be on much stronger ground—to say that this ideal of a detached impersonal point of view is merely a limited one—one amongst many others that might be made and limited to the extent of the knowledge claim that it is making—but that it is still possible to provide an objective explanation within the limitations of this perspectivist point of view. Why? Because as we have seen, to say anything else here—to make an absolute claim of truth and falsity on behalf of one perspective or another as Mannheim does—is to open up his own theory to the same critique that he is applying to everyone else. Commenting on this point, Mannheim then has this to say: [T]he ideal of a realm of truth as such (which, so to speak, pre-exist independently of the historical-psychological act of thought, and in which every concrete act of knowing merely participates) is the last of-shoot of the dualistic world-view which, alongside of (sic) our world of concrete immediate events, created a second world by adding another dimension of being (1976: 267).

Even though he does not go so far as to say this explicitly here, Mannheim is clearly implying that the ‘ideal of a realm of truth’ is simply mistaken. But, if this is the case, then it cannot any longer be the case that perspectivism can say that certain beliefs—not even the ideal of a detached or impersonal point of view—are ‘false’ while other claims are ‘true’. Rather it would be much better to simply say that any claim—even a deliberate lie for example—is true insofar as it goes—it is a true lie as we might well say, but that, contrary to what Mannheim seems to be suggesting here, such a claim is clearly limited—delimited—by the scope of the object that it claims to explain. Such claims are, if I might put it this way, true to themselves or, as we might otherwise say, true within the limitations of the claim that is being made by them or on their behalf. Rather than claim that these view are false therefore—a very strong knowledge claim indeed for Mannheim to make and one which I think he simply cannot justify—it would be much better to say that these perspectives are undoubtedly and inevitably onesided, but are nevertheless despite this true to themselves. Here then we see—and not for the frst time either—that Mannheim’s attempt to establish the social origins of all knowledge appears to get in the way of the much better argument that he might otherwise have made; namely, that all these perspectives are indeed equally ‘true’—that is to say

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equally likely to be true or false, we cannot know this—within the limitations of their own perspective and that it is therefore not possible to argue that some are somehow more true or false than others. All are equally limited by their perspective just as much as any other knowledge claim is. Some explanations or descriptions are more or less extensive than others, but this does not matter because all are nevertheless fully and completely objective in so far as what they do in fact explain not only defnes but also delimits the scope of the knowledge claim that they are making. A lie has only limited validity not because it is untrue—we cannot know this for sure15—but rather because the scope of a lie is limited by the extent of the knowledge claim that is being made for it or on its behalf. As Mannheim says on this point: Te positing of a sphere of truth which is valid in itself (an ofshoot of the doctrine of ideas) is intended to do the same for the act of knowing as the notion of the beyond or the transcendental did for dualistic metaphysics in the realm of ontology; namely to postulate a sphere of perfection which does not bear the scars of its origins and, measured by which, all events and all processes are shown to be fnite and incomplete (1976: 267; emphasis added).

Now clearly, for Mannheim, no such ‘sphere of perfection’ can possibly exist because, all knowledge as Mannheim rightly insists unavoidably bears the scars of its origins. Nevertheless, as we have seen, this does not mean that objectivity is not possible. Te claim to truth or knowledge that is being made here is both limited and complete, both ‘false’—because limited—and ‘true’—because it does nevertheless provide a full and complete account of what it does in fact explain. ‘In other words’: [T]he sociology of knowledge regards the cognitive act in connection with the models to which it aspires in its existential as well as it meaningful quality, not as insights into “eternal” truths, arising from a purely theoretical, contemplative urge, or as some sort of participation in these truths (as Schiller still thought), but as an instrument for dealing with life-situations at the disposal of a certain kind of vital being under certain conditions of life (1976: 268; emphasis added).

Tese limitations are then once again spelt out by Mannheim in the following terms where he says that: ‘All these three factors, the nature and

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structure of the process of dealing with life-situations, the subject’s own make up (in his biological as well as [his] historical-social aspects), and the peculiarity of the conditions of life, especially the place and the position of the thinker—all of these infuence the results of thought. But they also condition the ideal of truth which this living being is able to construct from the products of thought’ (1976: 268). However, as we have seen, although these three limitations do undeniably infuence the results of thought, they do not undermine the ‘truth’ of the knowledge claim that is being made on their behalf. All they do is to specify the limitations of exactly what it is we mean when we make such a knowledge claim: in this case a claim to know the ‘truth’ or ‘falsity’ of something. All such claims are true to some extent, even a lie, and the truth or falsity of these claims is only limited to the extent of the thing that they do in fact describe. Mannheim then concludes his refections on these matters (1976: 269– 273) by outlining two very diferent directions which he believed epistemology might take in the future in the light of the criticism that the sociology of knowledge has made. Te frst of these directions (which I will here label [A]) emphasises the prevalence of what he now calls ‘situational determination’ which maintains that in the course of the progress of knowledge this element is ineradicable, and that, therefore, even one’s own point of view must always be expected to be peculiar to one’s position (1976: 269). Te second direction (which I will label [B]) will be discussed in a moment. [A]. Te ‘situational’ view, as we have already seen, is basically the relational viewpoint that Mannheim has outlined to us so far in his essay on the sociology of knowledge and in his other writings on this subject in the rest of his book Ideology and Utopia. As he says on this point: ‘[J]ust as the essentially perspectivistic nature of visually perceived objects is admitted without question’, so too such an epistemology would require a complete ‘revision of the theoretical basis of [all] knowledge by setting up the thesis of the inherently relational structure of human knowledge’ (1976: 269; emphasis added). Tis solution [Mannheim says] does not imply renunciation of the postulates of objectivity and the possibility of arriving at decisions in factual disputes; nor does it involve an acceptance of illusionism according to which everything is an appearance and nothing can be decided. It does imply rather that this objectivity and this competence to arrive at decisions can be attained only through indirect means. It is not intended to assert that objects do not exist or that reliance upon observation is useless and futile but rather that

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the answers we get to the questions that we put to the subject-matter are, in certain cases16 in the nature of things, possible only within the limits of the observer’s perspective (1976: 269–270).

Even here however, Mannheim says, the result ‘is not relativism in the sense of one assertion being as good as another’. [Rather] ‘relationalism, as we use it, states that every assertion can only be relationally formulated. It  becomes relativism only when it is linked to the older static ideal of eternal, unperspectivistic truths independent of the subjective experience of the observer, and when it is judged by this alien ideal of absolute truth’ (1976: 270; emphasis added). However, as Mannheim goes on to say, as soon as we abandon this idea of absolute truth we can see that: [O]bjectivity comes to mean something quite new and diferent: (a) there is frst of all the fact that in so far as diferent observers are immersed in the same system, they will on the basis of the [common] identity of their conceptual and categorical apparatus, and through the common universe of discourse thereby created, arrive at similar results, and be in a position to eradicate as an error everything that deviates from this unanimity; (b), and recently, there is the recognition of the fact that when observers have diferent perspectives “objectivity” is attainable only in a more roundabout fashion. In such a case, what has been correctly but diferently perceived by the two perspectives must be understood in the light of the diferences in structure of the varied modes of perception. An efort must [therefore] be made to fnd a formula for translating the results of one [of these perspectives] into those of the other and to discover a common denominator for these varying perspectivistic insights (1976: 270; emphasis added).

But, as we have already seen, this common denominator already exists and we know what this is: it is not just ‘differences in the structure of the various modes of thought’, as Mannheim says here, but rather it is differences in the structure of the object itself–the ‘thing in question’— that we are here trying to explain and, except where this object is purely symmetrical, the fact is that it is unavoidably complex and hence must appear differently to us when it is viewed from different physical and theoretical perspectives. ‘Once such a common denominator has been found’, Mannheim continues:

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[I]t is [then] possible to separate the necessary diferences of the two views from the arbitrarily conceived and mistaken elements which here too should be considered as errors (1976: 270; emphasis added).

But, as we have already seen, it is Mannheim who is ‘mistaken’ here. Tese diferent points of view are, as we have seen, not mistaken exactly, but are simply viewing the same object from sometimes diferent perspectives and, very ofen, diferent objects altogether sometimes from the same perspectives. Where we are confdent that we are discussing the same object, albeit sometimes from very diferent points of view, all that we need to do is to situate these diferent accounts in relation to one another, as Mannheim says, and where this is not the case—where we are unable to do this—then we must recognise that these diferent accounts, however much they appear to be talking about the same thing, are in all probability not discussing the same object at all. In these cases all that we need to do—having found it impossible to ‘relate’ one account in any meaningful way to another—is to point out this fact. Hence all talk of ‘error’ by Mannheim here, or of ‘mistaken’ points of view, is simply incorrect and there can be as we have seen no basis for making any such claim. All people of good will who consider the same question will arrive at much the same answer (see chapter four of the present study for more on this point). Where disagreements occur or persist then this can only be because they are looking at (a) the same things from diferent sides [and the object in question is not symmetrical] or (b), sometimes (and this happens very ofen in the social sciences) they are looking at completely diferent objects altogether but believing that they are discussing the same thing or more likely simply calling something by the same name which is in fact entirely diferent. In other words there is in these case a necessary diference in the two [diferent] viewpoints, as Mannheim says, and it is this diference that goes a long way towards explaining diferent opinions in each case. ‘Te confict concerning visually perceived objects (which, in the nature of the case, can be viewed only in perspective) is not settled’ Mannheim concludes, ‘by setting up a non-perspectivist view (which is impossible)’ (1976: 270).17 It is settled rather by understanding, in the light of one’s own positionally determined vision, why the object appeared diferently to one in a diferent position. Likewise, in our feld also, objectivity is brought about by the translation (sic) of one perspective into the terms of another. It is natural that here

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we must ask which of the various points of view is the best. And for this too there is a criterion. As in the case of visual perspective, where certain positions have the advantage of revealing the decisive features of the object, so here pre-eminence is given to that perspective which gives evidence of the [a] greatest comprehensiveness and [b] the greatest fruitfulness in dealing with empirical material (1976: 270–271; emphasis added).

Here then Mannheim concludes by arguing from a situationalist or relational point of view that the more comprehensive an explanation or a description is, and/or the more useful it is to us in helping us to solve the problems we confront as human beings, the better this is.18 But, once again I think, Mannheim is simply wrong in what he says here. A more detailed account of something, which is by defnition therefore less extensive than a more general account, might well be more illuminating precisely because of the greater detail that it provides (I am thinking here of any number of very important and revealing qualitative accounts of problems in the social sciences) while the greater ‘fruitfulness’ of certain research methods, although not without interest, seems to me to unnecessarily distort the social sciences towards large scale quantitative research projects (I am thinking here of the famous saying that abstract research is research that simply has not found an application yet) rather than towards more abstract theoretical questions. If one account is more comprehensive than another or even more fruitful in producing ‘fndings’ etc. then this may well be a very good thing, but as we have seen this does not mean that a less comprehensive and/or less fruitful account is any less interesting to us or invalid in any way since this might simply be one part of the more comprehensive explanation. But, as a matter of fact, everything that Mannheim has said up to this point, is only true of the frst direction which he says epistemology might take in the future in the light of the criticisms that the sociology of knowledge has made. Tere is, Mannheim tells us (1976: 269) a second direction which epistemology might take and this, as we shall see, is very much more like the Nietzschian concept of perspectivism that we have looked at so far. [B]. Tis is what Mannheim has to say on this second point: Te theory of knowledge [epistemology] can also pursue a second course by emphasizing the following facts: Te impetus to research in the sociology of knowledge may be so guided that it will not absolutize the concept of “situational determination” (1976: 271; emphasis added).

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But ‘rather, it may be directed in such a fashion that precisely by discovering the element of situational determination in the views at hand, a frst step will be taken towards the solution of the problem of situational determination itself’ (1976: 271; emphasis added). As soon as I identify a view which sets itself up as absolute as representing merely a diferent angle of vision, I neutralise its partial nature in a certain sense. Most of our earlier discussion of this problem moved quite spontaneously in the direction of the neutralization of situational determination by attempting to rise above this (1976: 271; emphasis added).

Here then is a second direction for epistemology to take and it is one that is very much more promising than the situational/relational one we have considered so far precisely because, as Mannheim explains here, this approach does not treat the ‘situation determination’ of all ideas as absolute. Te major problem with the situation approach, as we have already seen, is that Mannheim would have had to treat his own ideas on the subject of the sociology of knowledge as equally situationally determined—which of course they are—but then this would have involved his own theory in an absolute contradiction of the kind that we previously saw was not a problem for Nietzsche. But, as soon as these absolutist assumptions are dropped all such problems disappear. Rather than an absolutist view of situational determinism—the basis of Mannheim’s own sociology of knowledge up to this point—the neutralisation of all such absolutist claims by the observation that all ideas are situationally determined exposes the partial nature of any claim that is now made to know something. Once we know that every claim, however universal this appears to be, or represents itself as being, is in fact partial—once everyone is aware of this fact—then the damage done by the belief that any particular view is universal (or as Mannheim says ‘absolute’) is largely done away with since we can then begin to situate any one view in relation to all the other competing viewpoints and see to what extent these overlap or to what extent they are in fact not even discussing the same question. As Mannheim goes on to say on this point: Te idea of the continuously broadening basis of knowledge, the idea of the continuous extension of the self and of the integration of various social vantage points into the process of knowledge—observations which are all based on empirical facts—and the idea of an all-embracing ontology which is to be sought for—all move in this direction. Tis tendency in intellectual

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and social history is closely connected with the process of group contact and interpenetration. In its frst stage this tendency neutralizes the various conficting points of view (i.e., deprives them of their absolute character); in the second stage, it creates out of this neutralization a more comprehensive and serviceable basis of vision. It is interesting to note that the construction of a broader base is bound up with a higher degree of abstractness and tends in an increasing degree to formalize the phenomena with which we are concerned. Tis formalizing tendency consists in regulating to a subordinate position the analysis of the concrete qualitative assertions which lead in a given direction, and substituting in place of the qualitative and confgurative description of phenomena a purely functional view modelled afer a purely mechanical pattern (1976: 271; emphasis added).

Here then we have the Nietzschian view of perspectivism exactly. Tis ‘purely functional’ view of objectivity modelled afer ‘a purely mechanical pattern’—in which the work of the social and the natural sciences is simply to work out in a mechanical fashion in what way every view can be situated in relation to every other viewpoint—is exactly the concept of ‘perspectivism’ that Mannheim has been struggling to develop throughout his essay on the sociology of knowledge. However, as we can now see, all that we have to do is to ask ourselves the question on what object exactly does a particular enquiry—natural or social scientifc—bear: what is the actual object of enquiry in question as opposed to the initial or purported object of enquiry? Ten, once we have done this, we can situate the actual explanation given in relation to all other objects of enquiry, with some of which it will overlap and others it will not. Tis is the only question that matters or which should concern us here. And Mannheim continues: All the categories justifably formulated by formal sociology are products of this neutralizing and formalizing operation. Te logical conclusion to this approach is that, in the end, it sees only a formal mechanism in operation. Tus, to cite an illustration from formal sociology, domination is a category which can only be abstracted from the concrete positions of the persons involved (i.e., the dominator and the dominated), because it contents itself with emphasizing the structural interrelationship (the mechanism so to speak) of the behaviour involved in the process of interaction. Tis it does by operating with concepts like sub- and super-ordination, force, obedience, subjectibility, etc. Te qualitative content of domination in the concrete (which would immediately present “domination” in an historical setting) is

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not accessible through this formula, and could be adequately portrayed only if the dominated as well as the dominator were to tell what their experiences actually were in the situations in which they live.19 For not even the formal defnitions that we discover foat in thin air; they arise rather out of the concrete problems of a situation (1976: 272; emphasis added).

And it is at this point then, and only at this point—having outlined the second direction which epistemology might take in the future under the infuence of the sociology of knowledge, a direction which, although this idea is certainly not abandoned by Mannheim, no longer emphasises to the same extent situational or relational elements in the social determination of knowledge—that Mannheim fnally gets round to using the term ‘perspectivism’ for the frst time (having previously only ever used the term ‘perspectivist’ and ‘perspectival’ etc.). As he now says on this point: At this point the notion arises, which of course needs detailed verifcation, that the problem of perspectivism concerns primarily the qualitative aspect of a phenomenon. Because, however, the content of social-intellectual phenomena is primarily meaningful and because meaning is perceived in acts of understanding and interpretation, we may say that the problem of perspectivism in the sociology of knowledge refers, frst of all to what is understandable in social phenomena. But in this we are by no means denoting a narrowly circumscribed realm. Te most elementary fact in the social sphere surpass in complexity the purely formal relations, and they can only be understood in referring to qualitative contents and meanings. In short the problem of interpretation is a fundamental one (1976: 272–273; emphasis added).

Here then Mannheim uses the term ‘perspectivism’ for the frst time, but without however any reference to or acknowledgement of Nietzsche’s prior use of this term. Interestingly enough however Mannheim does refer to Nietzsche in passing on the last two pages of this essay (1976:  278–279) even though this is only to observe that Nietzsche ‘combined concrete observations in this feld with drives and a theory of knowledge which reminds one of pragmatism’. Nevertheless this reference suggests that Mannheim might have had Nietzsche in mind in writing what he has to say here about the concept of perspectivism even though he does not acknowledge any debt to him. However, what Mannheim says here about the problem of interpretation being ‘fundamental’ is very poor indeed especially if this is to be understood to mean a return to a version of the

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Weberian problem of interpretation (and with this an inevitable focus on the problem of the unavoidable bias of the knowing subject) rather than the alternative and much more promising focus on the complex nature of the multi-dimensional objects of enquiry in the social sciences. Mannheim then makes clear his own indecisiveness on this question: As already indicated, we are not yet in a position to-day to decide the question as to which of the two above-mentioned alternatives the nature of the empirical data will force a scientifc theory of knowledge to follow. In either case, however, we will have to reckon with situational determination as an inherent factor in knowledge, as well as with the theory of relationalism and the theory of the changing basis of thought (1976: 274).

But, as a matter of fact, we are already in a position to decide between these two alternatives and it is rather astonishing that Mannheim cannot see this for himself. We—he—must adopt the latter of these two possibilities because otherwise, as we have seen, his earlier absolutist/situational/ relational view (to which he still seems somehow strangely committed) must involve his own sociology of knowledge in an inevitable and unavoidable absolute contradiction and then we would have no reason to attach any weight at all to the epistemological status of his own thoughts on this question or to take seriously anything that he has to say on the subject of perspectivism either. Instead of coming to the conclusion that one might have thought had been forced on him by the logic of his own argument, Mannheim reverts to his earlier and, as we can now see, entirely incorrect view that ‘In either case we must reject the notion that there is a “sphere of truth in itself” as a disruptive and unjustifable hypothesis’ (1976: 274). But as we have seen the ‘sphere of truth’—where truth is identifed with the object of the explanation that is actually given rather than the initial object of enquiry—is not an unjustifable hypothesis. Such a thing—a form of knowledge that is true within the limitations of its own assumptions—already exists in the form of arithmetic and mathematics and perhaps also, to a lesser extent, in the realm of geometry and the natural sciences too, which have the advantage over the social sciences that they are able, clearly and unequivocally, to state their actual object of enquiry. In seeking to break away from any idea of an absolute truth we see Mannheim moves too far in the other direction towards the view that there is no such thing as ‘truth’ at all, whereas, clearly, as we have seen above, there is much to be said for a concept of truth in

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between and below the idea of absolute truth, but above and beyond the idea that there is no such thing as truth at all.20 All that we have to do is to say clearly what the limitations of any such truth claim are when we make such a claim. Contrary to what Mannheim appears to have believed then, all we really need to say is that these things are indeed true in themselves— true within the limits of the claim that they make—and hence true to the actual object that they (a) do in fact describe albeit (b) from their own unavoidably limited perspective. Once this is done the idea of something being ‘true to itself’ can then be opposed to the idea of an ‘absolute sphere of truth’ which Mannheim is quite rightly so keen to criticise. Conclusion to Chapter Two Te argument that I have been trying to develop in this chapter is that it is possible to develop a more ‘objective’ methodology of the social sciences—a more material (as we might say) rival to Max Weber’s model which, as we shall see in the next chapter, focuses too much on the valueneutrality of the explanation given, or Mannheim’s more idealistic view which focuses relentlessly on the social determination of thought but not, for some reason, on the material nature of those things themselves which we are trying to explain. I have argued that this more objective account of the philosophy of the social sciences is to be found in Mannheim’s essay on the sociology of knowledge, even though he hardly seems to be aware of this himself. At the beginning of this chapter I cited Mannheim’s claim that everything he wrote was a type of “thought experiment” ‘exploring related but not necessarily consistent theoretical possibility’ (Kettler et al., 1984: 34), and here I think there can be no fner example of what Mannheim meant by this claim that his essay on the sociology of knowledge. It really is quite astonishing just how long it takes Mannheim to f nally get round to saying at the very end of this essay (1976: 274–280) what I think should have been obvious to him all along; namely, that it is only his second view of the direction as he calls this that epistemology might take in the future that is of any real interest to us here. And here I think we can make a useful distinction between what I think we might well call the more analytical concept of ‘perspectivism’ that Mannheim outlines at the end of his essay on the sociology of knowledge (one in which we try to say as clearly and as carefully as we can what in fact it is that

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we are trying to explain) and what I think we might well call his other much more synthetic view on the subject of the sociology of knowledge in the frst three quarters or so of this essay and sporadically in the frst four essay of his Ideology and Utopia. I call this earlier ‘perspectivist’ concept of the sociology of knowledge ‘synthetic’ because Mannheim claims that we can somehow relatively easily or unequivocally draw together and ‘situate’ in ‘relation’ to one another a number of competing views on the same question; a kind of meta-synthesis in fact. T is is a very interesting argument and might even be possible, but it raises the very serious problem of how this synthesis is to be achieved and by whom? Mannheim gives a privileged position to intellectuals like himself in making such a synthesis but it is difcult to see how this would not end up being just another ‘perspective’—one more perspective amongst many others in fact—on the same question? Rather than say this I have therefore argued that it would be much better to simply recognise that all explanations given of the same object of enquiry probably do have something interesting to say about the object in question. Some explanations are undoubtedly more extensive than others and some no doubt are capable of producing more useful results, but this does not make them either ‘better’ than one another or for that matter ‘true’ in any absolute sense of this term. Contrary to what Mannheim appears to have believed himself, I wish to argue that everything, including Mannheim’s own concept of the sociology of knowledge, is perspectival—i.e., comes to us from a necessarily limited or particular perspective—but that this is okay just so long as we understand and accept the limitations of the things that we do then actually explain. Te difculty that we have in explaining anything in the social sciences (and also in the natural sciences and in mathematics too I think to a greater or lesser extent) has as much to do with the nature of the object of enquiry—the complexity and multi-dimensionality of the thing that we are trying to explain in the social sciences—as it does with the value-neutrality or otherwise of the person making the enquiry. Objectivity in the natural and social sciences I think is both a question of the nature of the object of enquiry and the nature of the knowing subject. But, providing only that we are careful to make sure that we are all discussing the same thing, all of these diferent perspectives can and most likely do have something interesting to say about the object in question and hence are equally valid—equally objective—in this strictly limited sense of this term.

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Notes 1. On this point see Jeferson Pooley’s essay entitled ‘Edward Shils’ Turn Against Karl Mannheim: the Central European Connection’ (Am. Soc. 2007 38: 364–382), in which Pooley argues that Shils, an early devotee and translator of Mannheim, later turned against him under the infuence of Karl Popper and Friedrich Hayek at the post-war London School of Economics. 2. Te conception of ‘ideology’ that Mannheim employs in his essay on the Sociology of Knowledge—that of deliberate one-sidedness—is not the same as that which he had applied in his earlier writings on this subject. Mannheim’s concept of Ideology in the frst four parts of Ideology and Utopia is very diferent indeed to that in his essay on the sociology of knowledge. For example, in the essay entitled ‘Te Utopian Mentality’, which forms Part IV of his book Ideology and Utopia, Mannheim outlines three points of view, ideology—which looks back towards the past: a golden age which perhaps never existed, and of which all forms of ‘conservatism’ would perhaps be the best example—utopia, which looks towards the future—and of which Mannheim gives as an example (1976: 175) the Christian idea of ‘brotherly love’ during the Middle Ages in a society that was actually founded on the basis of serfdom—and his third state which he, afer the anarchist writer Gustav Landauer [1870–1919], rather interestingly calls ‘topias’. ‘Topias’, he says, refer to ‘every actually existing and ongoing social order’ (1976: 174) while ‘existence’ is here defned as ‘that which is “concretely efective”, i.e., a functioning social order’. Utopia is then defned as follows: ‘A state of mind is utopian when it is incongruous with the state of reality within which it occurs … It is oriented towards objects which do not exist in the actual situation...Rather they have always aimed to control those situationally transcendent ideas and interests which are not realizable within the bounds of the present order (1976: 173). In Mannheim’s earlier writing on this subject any set of beliefs is therefore said to be ‘ideological’ which concerns itself with a social order which is not existent, and this can be either in the past, with a society which is no longer existent or perhaps never did exist in the form is which it is idealised, or in the future, with a society that has not yet come into existence and which perhaps never will (1976: 173). Tus, for Mannheim, a conservative ideology which glorifes a no longer existent past may be defned as ‘ideological’ just as much as a socialist ideology which looks forward to an as yet non-existent future state and which therefore might more usually be called ‘utopian’. 3. Mannheim’s use of the term ‘noological’ here (from the Greek νοῦς, nous or noos meaning ‘mind’) refers to the systematic study and organisation of everything that is knowable to the human mind. It is therefore sometimes used to describe the science of the development of intellectual phenomena and especially to the study of images of thought. See also in this connection the work of the psychologist Viktor Frankl [1905–1997] who apparently used this term to refer to a third ‘dimension’ of reality. 4. It is a great mistake to make a distinction between the natural and social worlds, and hence, by extension, between the natural and social sciences, since there is of course nothing more natural to human beings than for us to form ourselves into societies. In fact, we human beings simply cannot bear to be alone for any length of time and go mad when we do. 5. See also on this point the comments of C. S. Peirce (1955:139–140) who, comparing philosophy to mathematics, argues that mathematics deals exclusively with hypothetical states of things, and, as Peirce says, asserts no matters of fact whatever with regard to reality. 6. And see also on this point Louis Wirth’s Preface to Ideology and Utopia (1976: xxvi): ‘Tey speak [and act?] as though their diference were confned to a single point—the point under discussion—and entirely neglect that the person they are speaking to has a completely diferent world view to that of their own’. 7. Tis rather peculiar expression is not explained further by Mannheim here. 8. Tis appears to be a reference to Mannheim himself. 9. For a parallel discussion of this point see also Mannheim’s earlier essay on the subject of ‘ideology and utopia’—chapter II of his book of the same name—where he says the following:

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A modern theory of knowledge which takes account of the relational as distinct from the merely relative character of all historical knowledge must start with the assumption that there are spheres of thought in which it is impossible to conceive of absolute truth existing independently of the values and position of the subject and unrelated to the social context. Even a god could not formulate a proposition on historical subjects like 2 × 2 = 4, for what is intelligible in history can be formulated only with reference to problems and conceptual constructions which themselves arise in the fux of historical experience … .Once we recognize that all historical knowledge is relational knowledge, and can only be formulated with reference to the position of the observer, we are faced, once more, with the task of discriminating between what is true and what is false in such knowledge (1976: 70–71). But I would argue that Mannheim has not got this point quite right. We are not being asked to choose between such views, but to choose all such viewpoints and situate them, as Mannheim says, in relation to one another. To what extent then do they overlap, or perhaps there is no overlap between them at all? And to what extent are they discussing the same question/ object, or are they in fact discussing entirely separate questions but simply appear to be talking about the same thing because they are using the same terms to describe them?. As Mannheim says himself on the next page of this essay: ‘Provisionally and for the sake of the simplifcation of the problem, no judgements are made about the correctness of the ideas to be treated [but rather] the approach confnes itself to discovering the relations between certain mental structures [concepts and theories] and the life situations [contexts?] in which they exist’ (1976: 72). 10. But see here also Mannheim 1976: 244 where Mannheim refers to something which he also calls ‘the situational relativity’ (‘Situations-gebundenheit’) of an object of enquiry, which appears to refer to the relationship of the thing in question to the underlying reality. 11. And see on this point Mannheim 1976: 244 where Mannheim says that: “ ‘Perspective’ in this sense signifed [a] the manner in which one views an object, [b] what one perceives in it, and [c] how one construes it in his [or her] thinking”. 12. Or of a ‘thing’ as I would say. Everything is either a ‘statement’ or an ‘assertion’ with Mannheim and nothing seems to be about actual things themselves or the object of enquiry in question. And this is where he goes wrong I think. 13. Te reference by Mannheim here to something which he calls the ‘activist genesis’ is very interesting because this term can also be compared to other similar references that he makes to the general idea of ‘genesis’ throughout his essay on the Sociology of Knowledge, frst to something which he calls the ‘historical genesis’ of ideas (1976: 250), then to ‘factual genesis’ (1976: 255), then ‘meaningful genesis’ (1976: 264), and fnally to something which he calls the ‘social genesis’ of ideas (1976: 271). Te concept of ‘genesis’ then, it would seem, provides a hierarchical structure to Mannheim’s sociology of knowledge which would proceed from frst the historical to the factual and then to the activist until fnally we arrive at the social (1976: 271–272). Te term ‘Genesis’ is not precisely defned by Mannheim although he does at one point say that ‘the theory of increasing abstractness will be designated as the theory of social genesis of abstraction’ (1976: 271–272), while elsewhere under the heading ‘Revision of the Tesis that the Genesis of a Proposition is under all Circumstances Irrelevant to its Truth’ (1976: 262–263) there is a fuller discussion of what he means by this term which does not however amount to a defnition. More generally the term ‘genesis’ means the coming into being or the origin of something and Mannheim seems to have something like this in mind when he refers to the history of an idea from the lowest, or most primitive, historical genesis of an idea, through the ‘stage’ of its factual genesis and its meaningful genesis, which is then somehow transforms itself into it ‘activist’ genesis and ultimately becomes—in a way that seems undeniably Hegelian in origin—its ‘social’ genesis (or the unfurling of an idea as it reveals itself to us through history as Hegel might well have said). Te factual genesis is defned by Mannheim ‘as giving no more than a description of the actual conditions under which an assertion arises’ (1976: 255). Te historical genesis is not defned, but presumably just refers to the historical origin of a particular idea. Te meaningful genesis (Sinngenesis) appears to have something to do with its social existence, while the

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‘activist genesis’ as we see here, appears to have something to do with purposive social action. Mannheim’s discussion on this point appears to be infuenced by George Herbert Mead’s 1925 essay ‘Te Genesis of the Self and Social Control’, which Mannheim cites in the bibliography to Ideology and Utopia. 14. Te philosopher and mathematician Bertrand Russell has some very interesting things to say on this point in his History of Western Philosophy (1971). At one point he says: First, the world of the intellect is distinguished from the world of the senses; then intellect and sense-perception are in turn each divided into two kinds. Te two kinds of sense-perception need not concern us; the two kinds of intellect are called, respectively, “reason” and “understanding.” Of these, reason is the higher kind; it is concerned with pure ideas, and its method is dialectic. Understanding is the kind of intellect that is used in mathematics; it is inferior to reason in that it uses hypotheses which it cannot test. In geometry, for example, we say: “Let ABC be a rectilinear triangle.” It is against the rules to ask whether ABC really is a rectilinear triangle, although, if it is a fgure that we have drawn, we may be sure that it is not, because we cannot draw absolutely straight lines. Accordingly, mathematics can never tell us what is, but only what would be if. . . . Tere are no straight lines in the sensible world; therefore, if mathematics is to have more than hypothetical truth, we must fnd evidence for the existence of super-sensible straight lines in a super-sensible world. Tis cannot be done by the understanding, but according to Plato it can be done by reason, which shows that there is a rectilinear triangle in heaven, of which geometrical propositions can be afrmed categorically, not hypothetically (1971: 139). At another point he then says: I come now to understanding of numbers. Here there are two very diferent things to be considered: on the one hand, the propositions of arithmetic, and on the other hand, empirical propositions of enumeration. “2 + 2 = 4” is of the former kind; “I have ten fngers” is of the latter. I should agree with Plato that arithmetic, and pure mathematics generally, is not derived from perception. Pure mathematics consists of tautologies, analogous to “men are men,” but usually more complicated. To know that a mathematical proposition is correct, we do not have to study the world, but only the meanings of the symbols; and the symbols, when we dispense with defnitions (of which the purpose is merely abbreviation), are found to be such words as “or” and “not,” and “all” and “some,” which do not, like “Socrates,” denote anything in the actual world. A mathematical equation asserts that two groups of symbols have the same meaning; and so long as we confne ourselves to pure mathematics, this meaning must be one that can be understood without knowing anything about what can be perceived. Mathematical truth, therefore, is, as Plato contends, independent of perception; but it is truth of a very peculiar sort, and is concerned only with symbols. Propositions of enumeration, such as “I have ten fngers,” are in quite a diferent category, and are obviously, at least in part, dependent on perception. Clearly the concept “fnger” is abstracted from perception; but how about the concept “ten”? Here we may seem to have arrived at a true universal or Platonic idea. We cannot say that “ten” is abstracted from perception, for any percept which can be viewed as ten of some kind of thing can equally well be viewed otherwise. Suppose I give the name “digitary” to all the fngers of one hand taken together; then I can say “I have two digitaries,” and this describes the same fact of perception as I formerly described by the help of the number ten. Tus in the statement “I have ten fngers” perception plays a smaller part, and conception a larger part, than in such a statement as “this is red.” Te matter, however, is only one of degree. (1971: 168–169) And again at a third:

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One result of the work we have been considering is to dethrone mathematics from the lofy place that it has occupied since Pythagoras and Plato, and to destroy the presumption against empiricism which has been derived from it. Mathematical knowledge, it is true, is not obtained by induction from experience; our reason for believing that 2 and 2 are 4 is not that we have so ofen found, by observation, that one couple and another couple together make a quartet. In this sense, mathematical knowledge is still not empirical. But it is also not a priori knowledge about the world. It is, in fact, merely verbal knowledge. “3” means “2 + 1,” and “4” means “3 + 1.” Hence it follows (though the proof is long) that “4” means the same as “2 + 2.” Tus mathematical knowledge ceases to be mysterious. It is all of the same nature as the “great truth” that there are three feet in a yard. (1971: 785–786). All of this causes us to refect, at least for a moment, on the very strong claims that are made by mathematics (and to a lesser extent the natural sciences) to know that anything is ‘true’. 15. I am of course thinking of the famous liar paradox here. 16. It is peculiar that Mannheim says here only ‘in certain cases’. But why only in certain cases; why is not all knowledge only possible ‘within the limits of the observer’s perspective’ and what then is the nature of this knowledge or type of thing which is non-perspectivist? 17. And see Nietzsche on this same point in chapter one of this study. 18. If I understand him rightly I believe that this is also John Scott’s view of this matter (see Scott, John, 2013, ‘Relationalism and Dynamic Synthesis’, pp.33–58 in Letherby, Scott, and Williams, Objectivity and Subjectivity in Social Research, Sage Publications). 19. One is reminded at this point of the similar observation that Mannheim makes in an earlier essay in Ideology and Utopia, where he says at the beginning of Chapter IV on the subject of the utopian mentality that ‘Te idea of Christian brotherly love, for instance, in a society founded on serfdom remains an unrealizable and, in this sense, ideological idea, even when the intended meaning is, in good faith, a motive for the conduct of the individual’ (1976: 175). An even better example to have given might have been the later case of slavery at the height of the Atlantic slave trade with America. 20. Tis is the concept that I have elsewhere called ‘adequate truth’.

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Chapter Three Max Weber’s Concept of Objectivity in the Social Sciences

T

he classical sociological discussion of objectivity in the social sciences is the three essays written by Max Weber [1864–1920] between 1905 and 1917 which were translated into English by Edward Shils and Henry Finch and published in 1949 with the title Te Methodology of the Social Science [hereafer referred to as the Methodology]. As a matter of fact however these three essays—‘Te Meaning of Ethical Neutrality in Sociology and Economics’; ‘“Objectivity” in Social Science and Social Policy’; and ‘Critical Studies in the Logic of the Cultural Sciences’—form only about one half of a much larger set of writings by Weber on the subject of the methodology of the social sciences which were collected together and published in 1922, shortly afer Weber had died, by Weber’s wife Marianne with the title Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Wissenschafslehre (Collected Essays on the Philosophy of Science). Recently these writings have been translated into English by Hans Henrik Bruun and Sam Whimster with the title Max Weber Collected Methodological Writings (2012) amongst which the most important are two essays on the logical problems of historical knowledge, originally published separately in three parts between 1903 and 1906, but collected together by Weber with the titled ‘Roscher and Knies und die logischen Probleme der historicaischen Nationaloekonomie’ and previously translated into English in 1975 by Guy Oakes as Roscher and Knies: the Logical Problems of Historical Sociology [hereafer referred to as Roscher DOI: ./-

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and Knies]. In addition to these fve essays, Edward Shils in his introduction to Weber’s Methodology tells us that another important section of the Gesammelte Aufsätze—‘Methodische Grundlagen der Soziologie’ (Methodological Foundations of Sociology)—had already been translated into English by Talcott Parsons and published as chapter I of his Te Teory of Social and Economic Organization (1949) while in 1968 a very similar translation of this important essay was included in Part One of Weber’s Economy and Society (1978: 4–24). With the translation by Bruun and Whimster of the one remaining part of the Gesammelte, an essay entitled ‘Über einige Kategorien der verstehenden Soziologie’ (Some Categories of Interpretive Sociology), we now fnally have all of Weber’s major writings on methodology in English, but for reasons of convenience and unless reference is made to this fnal essay, in what follows I will continue to cite where necessary the more widely available translations by Shils, Finch and Oakes. According to Weber, the process by which we select a given object of enquiry is logically distinct from the question of the validity of anything we might say about this object once we have selected it, and while Weber thought it was impossible for us to be objective in our selection of a particular object of enquiry—given the multiplicity of all the other topics we might well have chosen to study—he nevertheless thought that this point had no bearing whatsoever on the objectivity of any possible explanation that we might eventually give about the object in question. While he therefore thought it was impossible for us to be unbiased in our selection of a particular object of enquiry, and even in our evaluation of the most important causes and conditions that we attach to this particular event, he nevertheless thought it was perfectly possible for us to present an entirely objective (or, as he also says, a value-neutral) explanation of any given object of enquiry once we had selected it for explanation. Te problem we have here however, is that although Weber seems to be quite clear on this point in his own mind, and in fact ofen seems to believe that this claim is self-evident, he somehow never quite gets round in his numerous and lengthy discussions of this point to explaining to his readers exactly how or why what he says here is possible. Weber, if I can put it this way, seems to have worked out his ideas on this question in his two/three essays on the logic problems of historical explanation, and then, having resolved this matter to his own satisfaction here, applies this argument without further explanation in his three later essays on the methodology of the social sciences. In order to illustrate this point in what follows I will look in some detail in the frst part of this chapter at what Weber has to say about this

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matter in each of his three essays on this subject in the Methodology, in which I will focus my attention in particular on the second of the two essays entitled ‘“Objectivity” in Social Science and Social Policy’, while in the second part of this chapter I will then try to develop more fully the concept of objectivity that I believe Weber had in mind in the three chapters of his Methodology, by looking more at what he had to say about this matter in his two earlier essays on Roscher and Knies in which he frst developed his argument that objectivity is possible in the context of history. Weber, I will argue, was correct to think that objectivity is possible in the social sciences but except perhaps in his essays on Roscher and Knies, he simply does not make out the case for this argument clearly in his many and varied discussions of this point. However, since this point is of such very great importance for the concept of perspectivism that I am attempting to develop here, we will try to make out this case for him. I. Weber on Objectivity in the Social Sciences In the essay entitled ‘“Objectivity” in Social Science and Social Policy’ (1949: 49–112), the essay in Weber’s Methodology in which he outlines his views on the subject of objectivity most clearly, Weber argues that ‘there is no absolutely “objective” scientifc analysis of culture or … of “social phenomena” independent of special and “one-sided” viewpoints according to which—expressly or tacitly, consciously or unconsciously—they are selected, analysed and organized for expository purposes’ (Weber, 1949: 72; emphasis added). ‘Te reason for this’, Weber says, ‘lie in the character of the cognitive goal of all research in social science which seeks to transcend the purely formal treatment of the legal or conventional norms regulating social life’ (1949: 72; emphasis in original). According to Weber: Te type of social science in which we are interested is an empirical science of concrete reality (Wirklichkeitswissenschaf). Our aim is the understanding of the characteristic uniqueness of the reality in which we move. We wish to understand on the one hand the relationships and the cultural signifcance of individual events in their contemporary manifestations and on the other the causes of their being historically so and not otherwise. Now, as soon as we try to refect about the way in which life confronts us in immediate concrete situations, it presents an infnite multiplicity of successively and co-existently emerging and disappearing events, both “within” and “outside” ourselves. Te absolute infnitude of this multiplicity is seen to remain undiminished

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even when our attention is focused on a single “object”, for instance, a concrete act of exchange, as soon as we seriously attempt an exhaustive description of all the individual components of this “individual phenomena”, to say nothing of explaining it casually (sic).1 All the analysis of infnite reality which the fnite human mind can conduct rests on the tacit assumption that only a fnite proportion of this reality constitutes the object of scientifc investigation, and that only it is “important” in the sense of being “worthy of being known”. But what are the criteria by which this segment is selected? (Weber, 1949: 72; emphasis in original).

Scientifc analysis, Weber argues, presupposes that we make a selection from the multiplicity of all possible events of only a very limited number of particular events which we treat as being especially signifcant or important (for example those which we treat as being the causes of the event in question or of the object of our enquiry). Furthermore, Weber claims, the selection of these culturally signifcant events presupposes a certain valueorientation towards them which is in fact unavoidable. Tis is because: Te concept of culture is a value-concept. Empirical reality becomes “culture” to us because and in so far as we relate it to value ideas. It includes those segments and only those segments of reality which have become signifcant to us because of this value-relevance. Only a small portion of existing concrete reality is coloured by our value-conditioned interest and it alone is signifcant to us. It is signifcant because it reveals relationships which are important to us due to their connection with our values. Only because and to the extent that this is the case is it worthwhile for us to know it in its individual features. We cannot discover, however, what is meaningful to us by means of a “presuppositionless” investigation of empirical data. Rather perception of its meaningfulness to us is the presupposition of its becoming an object of investigation (1949: 76; emphasis in original).

How then is it possible, this being the case, for us to present an objective explanation of what Weber calls ‘meaningful knowledge of concrete reality’—or indeed of anything at all—if all reality, even the empirical, is unavoidably dependent on our own personal values? At frst, Weber’s answer to this question seems to have something to do, not only with our own personal values, but also with what he calls ‘universal cultural values’.2 When we call an explanation ‘objective’ we do this not only in terms of our own personal values, which merely guides the selection of our initial object

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of enquiry, but also in terms of a wider social—and Weber says universal— system of values; for example, the present widely accepted cultural belief in the proper method of scientifc practice. However, this is not in fact the basis of Weber’s answer to this question. All that such a universal value system would give us, Weber thinks, is not objectivity but something more like a socially accepted bias in the explanation we present. Tis may well be the best that we can do—and certainly as far as an idealist philosophy of the humanities is concerned this is all that so-called ‘historical explanation’, the account of the victors as it were—amounts to (1949: 184), but in fact this is not Weber argument. On the contrary, for him the basis of an objective explanation seems to be the very same thing that makes such an explanation subjective; it is precisely our own particular viewpoint—our personal theoretical perspective as it were—which makes both value-neutrality impossible in the selection of our object of enquiry but, at the same time, possible (and I would argue unavoidable) in the explanation we give in the social sciences. Let us look at Weber’s very difcult argument on this point in more detail. All knowledge of cultural reality, as may be seen, is always knowledge from particular points of view. When we require from the historian and the social research worker as an elementary presupposition that they distinguish the important from the trivial and that he (sic) should have the necessary “point of view” for this distinction, we mean that they must understand how to relate the events of the real world consciously or unconsciously to universal “cultural values” and to select out those relationships which are signifcant for us (1949: 81–82; emphasis in original).

When we make our initial selection of an object of enquiry, and even when we then go on to make a further selection of those events which we feel are the most important in explaining that object, even though we make this selection not only in terms of our own personal values, but also in terms of what we perceive as the wider socially accepted standards of a meaningful explanation, nevertheless this more universal standard of explanation, is still unavoidably subjective because it ultimately derives (a) from our acceptance of this social standard of explanation and (b) within this, from our own personal viewpoint. As a result of this, one person within a given scientifc community—a historian for example—is perfectly capable of coming up with an explanation of a given event that is completely

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opposed to that of another person within the same scientifc community. Nevertheless, Weber insists—and this is really the key point that distinguishes Weber’s views on this question from those of a purely idealist philosopher—such an explanation ‘is entirely causal knowledge exactly in the same sense as the knowledge of signifcant concrete (individueller) natural events which have a qualitative character’ (1949: 82; emphasis in original). How then is this possible? As Weber explains on this point: Undoubtedly, all evaluative ideas are ‘subjective’. Between the ‘historical’ interest in a family chronicle and that in the development of the greatest conceivable cultural phenomena which were and are common to a nation or to mankind over long epochs, there exists an infnite gradation of “signifcance” arranged into an order which difers for each of us. And they are, naturally, historically variable in accordance with the character of the culture and the ideas which rule men’s (sic) minds. But it obviously does not follow from this that research in the cultural sciences can only have results which are “subjective” in the sense that they are valid for one person and not for others. Only the degree to which they interest diferent persons varies. In other words, the choice of the object of explanation and the extent or depth to which this investigation attempts to penetrate into the infnite causal web, are determined by the evaluative ideas which dominate the investigator and his (sic) age. In the method of investigation, the guiding “point of view” is of great importance for the construction of the conceptual scheme which will be used in the investigation. In the mode of their use, however, the investigator is obviously bound by the norms of our thought just as much here as elsewhere. For scientifc truth is precisely what is valid for all those who seek the truth (1949: 83–84; emphasis in original).

And this is really all Weber has to say on the question of the concept of objectivity in this essay. His discussion of objectivity breaks of at this point and the rest of this essay goes on to discuss purely methodological questions of the relevance of his concept of objectivity to the explanation of cultural knowledge and in particular for the application of his famous concept of ideal-types. While this is interesting enough in itself it has nothing to do with the question of value neutrality, the discussion of which is in fact taken up at a later stage in the frst essay published by Shils and Finch in their Methodology collection (‘Te Meaning of “Ethical Neutrality” in Sociology and Economics’), but which in fact was the third written of the three essays collected together in this book.3 All Weber seems to have

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done at this point with the reference he makes here to subjective validity for one person being somehow objectively valid for others is to bring us back to the point once again that he seemed to have abandoned only a few pages earlier, to the ‘universality’ as he says—or the widespread nature of agreement as we might say—within a particular academic community of the norms of meaningful scientifc argument. But this, as we have seen, is not objectivity in any meaningful sense of this term (in fact this would be better described as a kind collective subjectivity) and Weber himself seems to agree that this is the case. How then can Weber insist, as he does, that the social sciences—including history, sociology and economics—can be objective in a much stronger sense than this collective subjectivity implies when, as Weber might have said himself, it is our perception of the meaningfulness of the general scientifc standard of practice that presupposes our claim for the objectivity of any causal explanation we might present in terms of such a general standard of scientifcity and on which the objectivity of any such explanation therefore clearly depends? Weber then, we see, is very confdent indeed that objectivity is possible in the social sciences but without somehow being able to explain to the rest of us—his readers—just why this is the case. All is not lost however. Tere is a way out of this problem and the clue to this lies in a number of points that Weber’s makes in his general discussion of this problem. Te most important of these points is the distinction Weber makes in the last few sentences of the above quotation (1949: 84) between the selection of an initial object of enquiry—what he calls “the method of investigation”—for which he rightly insists that our own personal viewpoint is of crucial importance, and the nature of what I, afer Nietzsche, call the actual object of explanation, that we present at the end of a process of social scientifc enquiry—and what Weber refers to above as ‘the mode of their use’—and which I will argue is an entirely separate matter from our initial object of enquiry. In order to develop this understanding of Weber’s concept of objectivity it is, however, necessary to depart for the moment from the method I have used so far of examining Weber’s writings in detail and to look in more detail (and in fact defne clearly) exactly what we mean by the concept of ‘objectivity’. II. What is Objectivity? What exactly do we mean then when we claim that an explanation is ‘objective’? General defnitions of this term—even those in dictionaries

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of  sociology—are more than usually unhelpful here, since they do not seem to get to the essence of this term. In fact they might well deny that any essential defnition is possible; one’s defnition of this concept being dependent on one’s own value judgements and hence being likely to vary from person to person. However, assuming that this is the case, a much more useful way to approach this problem it seems to me is to stand this question on its head and instead of asking ourselves what it is about certain explanations that we think are objective we might instead ask ourselves what it is about other explanations that we are sure are not objective. In other words, although we may not have a frm idea why we feel a particular explanation is objective, we nevertheless usually feel quite sure that we know when one is not. As we have seen, according to Weber, selection impairs objectivity because any selection, however minor, inevitably involves value judgements. However as Weber also explains, making such a selection is only necessary in the social sciences and history because of the infnite totality of causes from which we might have chosen to explain any actually existent event. My frst criticism of Weber then is this. I wish to suggest that Weber is wrong to emphasise the importance of valuejudgements in making such a selection. Rather, I suggest, it is the necessity to make a selection at all, rather than the value-laden way in which such a selection is made, that is the fundamental problem here and hence the key to a proper understanding of the concept of objectivity; the fact that this selection is value-laden is merely a side issue and a bad distraction at that. When we claim that an explanation is ‘objective’ we usually mean that it presents a value-free account of what it claims to describe. For example, if someone witnessed a trafc accident in which, except as a witness, they personally were not involved, we might well expect them to give a valueneutral (or unbiased) account of what they saw. Another way of expressing this point is to say that their explanation is ‘impartial’ and, although we do not usually spell out exactly what we mean when we say that something is impartial we commonly mean that it gives a full and complete account of the event in question (that is to say, an account which literally is not ‘partial’ in this sense of the term). When we say then that an explanation is objective what we mean is that it presents the whole picture—a full and complete account of the thing or the event in question—and not just one part of this, and when we say that objectivity is not possible in the social sciences what we usually mean is that it fails to present the whole picture, usually because it is being given from a particular ‘point of view’, and hence is incomplete so far as the totality of the whole event is concerned.

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It is this concept of objectivity that Weber has in mind when he says that while objectivity is not possible in our selection of our initial object of enquiry because, as we have seen, this always involves knowledge from our particular point of view (and which is therefore unavoidably limited and restricted in its scope) objectivity is nevertheless possible in the explanations that we do actually provide in the social and cultural sciences because these do provide a full and complete account of those things that we do actually explain. Weber is correct in what he says in so far as our initial object of enquiry is concerned—impartiality clearly is not possible here—however he is incorrect for this reason to go on to argue in his essay on ethical neutrality (see more on this below) in favour of value-neutrality in the explanations that we do actually provide since, as we shall see, neutrality is not actually required in order to give a full and complete explanation of those things that we do actually explain. Value neutrality is not the question here then, but rather the key question is this: what is the nature of the thing that we do end up explaining—the account that we do in fact provide—and does this thing, this object, require us to be value neutral in order for us to give a full and complete account of it? In short, does this explanation—the one that we do in fact give and not the one we set out to explain—involve a process of selection? And the answer to this question is that it does not. If, as I have argued here, it is the fullness and completeness of an explanation—its lack of partiality in this sense—that is the measure of its objectivity, then I suggest that (a) when Weber insists that social science can present fully objective explanations of those things which they do in fact explain, despite the fact that (b) the way in which those things have been chosen and the causes attributed to them are nevertheless all highly partial, then if Weber is correct (c) that can only be because we do somehow present a full and complete explanation of those things—our actual object of explanation—that we do in fact explain even though the process by which this object of explanation has been selected and the causes attributed to this explanation are anything but impartial. Te question then becomes, is there anything that we do in the social sciences and in cultural studies more generally (and here I am thinking in particular of so-called historical ‘explanation’) that even approaches this standard of objectivity? Do we ever give a full and complete account of anything, and therefore in this sense a fully and completely objective account of the thing in question that we do in fact explain? And the answer to this question is that we do do just this kind of thing all the time in the social sciences and this is what Weber meant when he argued that objective explanations

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are possible in the social and cultural sciences. In order to illustrate this point we need to look more closely at what Weber has to say about the infnite totality of all possible causes from which we draw our explanation. An actual example of what I mean here might help us to come down from the high level of abstraction at which Weber normally discusses these questions and since Weber himself was concerned not only with the objectivity of sociological explanations generally, but also of historical explanation, I will give the following fairly trivial example of what I mean here in terms of a frequently debated historical event, the causes of the First World War. Let us begin by saying that the infnite totality of all the possible causes of a highly complex event like the First World War is represented by the set of conditions A–Z. Te set A–Z therefore includes such events as the rise of European nationalism, German rearmament, the collapse of the Ottoman Empire, trouble in Sarajevo, but also, and more to the point perhaps, other much more remote events in history such as the defeat of Napoleon Bonaparte (which lef a power vacuum in Europe during the 19th century), the earlier collapse of the Holy Roman Empire (for the same reason) and even the rise and then the decline of Islam (which although not normally considered in an explanation of the causes of the First World War undoubtedly had some bearing on this event even if this was only in its efect on the Ottoman Empire). Such a set of causes would of course, as Weber insists, involve an infnite regression, so that the set A–Z would properly speaking include all those events in human history which preceded the First World War such as the collapse of the Roman Empire, the birth of Jesus Christ, the end of the last ice-age, the creation of the solar system and of the universe in which we all live, and in fact every single event which ever happened prior to the First World War. And why not? Surely a fully comprehensive explanation of such a highly complex event as the First World War should include every other historical event which ever preceded it? However in presenting an explanation of an event like the First World War, we typically require the historian to select out only the most important causes of the event in question. Typically a historian will select fve or six ‘main’ causes (let us call then A–F) from the totality of all possible causes (A–Z) of this event, and exclude all the other possible causes (G–Z) as being either less important or indeed completely irrelevant to such an explanation. A typical historical explanation might well include: (a) the rise of European nationalism, (b) imperialist rivalries between the newly formed nation-states of Europe, (c) the weakness of the Russian, Austro-Hungarian and Ottoman Empires, (d) German naval armament, (e) Belgian neutrality,

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and (f) the personality of Kaiser Wilhelm II. But such an explanation would be unlikely to include even a passing reference to Napoleon Bonaparte and would probably include none at all to Charlemagne even though most historians would probably agree that the collapse of the Holy Roman Empire had a signifcant impact on the development of European nationalism in the 19th century. Since the explanation A–F of the First World War involves a selection from the multiplicity of all possible causes A–Z of this event, A–F is clearly not an objective account (in the above sense) of the totality of all possible causes of the real historical event A–Z (the First World War). Nevertheless, the explanation A–F does unquestionably provide us with a full and complete account—and hence I would argue a completely objective account in the sense described above—of what in fact it does explain, the event A–F. What it explains is not the event A–Z—this is an impossibility— but merely one aspect of this event, the abstraction A–F. In short, the event A–Z is a real historical event [the First World War] but the explanation A–F [an account of the causes of the First World War] is another thing entirely; an abstraction from a real event. Nevertheless this abstraction is fully and completely explained by the account that we give of this abstraction and, in fact, its parameters are defned as such. Although we are not usually aware of this—and, with one or two notable exceptions,4 historians in particular seem conspicuously uninterested in matters of this kind—when we give an account of something in history or the social sciences, what we explain is never actually a real existent historical event itself (in the above case, the First World War), but is always an abstraction from this. In a very real sense it would be impossible to ‘explain’ the First World War without actually recreating it (reliving it) in full. Such events are really so complex that any explanation which really did try to include every single cause of the event would be as incomprehensible to us—rather like a map of the world which was as big as the world—as the First World War itself was no doubt incomprehensible to the millions of people who actually took part in this historical event. However, when we set out to present an academic explanation of an event like the First World War, or indeed any sociological phenomenon of this kind, what we do in efect is to redefne and delimit our initial object of enquiry in the process of developing and presenting our actual object of explanation. Instead of explaining the causes of the First World War—the real historical event— what historians actually do is to explain one view of this event, their own account of the major causes of the war: the abstraction from the totality of the event A–Z of the explanation A–F. However—and this is really the key

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to our understanding of Weber’s concept of objectivity—when we explain the abstraction A–F, although we do not explain the ‘causes of the First World War’ (the actual historical event), we do nevertheless give a fully and completely objective account of what we do in fact explain, the object A–F, and this explanation is therefore a completely objective account of this object of explanation A–F but not of course of the actual event A–Z. How can this be? Our initial object of enquiry was based on a valuejudgment. Weber insists that this is so. However the explanation A–F involves no selection from itself, and is therefore a totality in its own right. When we present an explanation of the object A–F therefore, we do indeed present a full and complete account—and hence a completely objective account—of the event A–F even though we do not of course present anything like a full and complete account of the event A–Z (which is of course an impossibility). A–F is an object of explanation which is in fact defned (and in fact redefned) by the causes and conditions we attach to it during the process of explanation. Paradoxically then what this means is that the objectivity of any explanation is in fact determined by the account that we give of it. Te actual causes of a real historical event like the First World War are, as we see, an unknowable infnite multiplicity of successively emerging and disappearing real events, the sheer complexity of which we can never hope to comprehend in their entirety, and which no one historian or even a group of historians could ever hope to explain. Luckily for us however—for historians and by extension for social scientists too—the events we hope to explain are nothing like this in their complexity. Rather these are abstractions from the real events which actually took place and are composed of a strictly limited number of causes and conditions which, moreover, we defne for ourselves.5 Tere is hence no very great difculty in understanding the nature of this object or in explaining its causes and conditions, and the fact that this object bears only a passing resemblance to the object we initially set out to explain—the real historical event—is neither here nor there as far at the objectivity of what we do in fact explain is concerned.6 III. Ethical Neutrality and Value Judgments Where then does this leave Weber’s famous claim in his essay on the subject of ‘Science as Vocation’ (Gerth and Mills, 1974: 146 152; Friedrichs, 1972: 80) that ‘whenever the man of sciences introduces his personal value judgments, a full understanding of the facts ceases’? A cursory glance at

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Weber’s essay on ‘Te Meaning of “Ethical Neutrality” in Sociology and Economics’—the frst essay in Shils and Finch’s collection—will show that much of what Weber has to say on this question is directed towards university professors at the time that he was writing. Tis essay, published in a revised version in the journal Logos in 1917, and hence at the height of the First World War, was apparently written four years earlier to serve as the basis of a private discussion and was not intended for publication (Shils, 1949: iv–v). Weber was a fervent German nationalist (Shils, 1949: v) and as such was desperate that Germany should not be defeated in the First World War.7 But he was also very angry indeed with other university professors who, as it seemed to him, were misusing, and in fact abusing, their position as lecturers to ‘preach’, as Weber describes this (1949: 4), their support for the war. A lecture, Weber tellingly says at one point, should be something diferent from a speech (1949: 4). ‘In the press, in public meetings, in associations, in essays, in every avenue which is open to every other citizen, he can and should do what his God or his daemons demand’ (1949: 5) just not in a lecture theatre.8 But, Weber is careful to add, ‘in no case, however, should the unresolvable question—unresolvable because it is ultimately a question of evaluation—as to whether one may, must or should champion certain practical values in teaching, be confused with the purely logical discussion of the relation of value-judgments to empirical disciplines such as sociology or economics’ (1949: 8). Weber defnes value-judgements as follows: he says these are ‘practical evaluations of the unsatisfactory or satisfactory character of phenomena subject to our infuence’ (1949: 1) and, as such, he thinks these have a useful role to play in the interpretive sociological method that he is advocating (1949: 150). So-called ‘ethicalneutrality’ however he thinks is quite a diferent matter altogether. Tis he describes as being a spurious and highly tendentious concept behind which—under the guise of ‘neutrality’—people disguise their support for the status quo (1949: 6). Te appearance of ‘neutrality’ in a situation which is in fact badly distorted in favour of one side or another is anything but genuine neutrality and Weber gives Marxism—the teaching of which was banned in German universities at the time he was writing—as an example of what he means (1949: 7).9 If the socialists and Marxists were free to make their opinions known within the university then, Weber appears to say, he would be happy for the anti-socialists to give their own opinion on this matter in the lecture theatre, but while the spokesmen for all parties are not given the same opportunity to speak, then it cannot be right for one side in the debate to promote their own views. But all of this—Weber’s

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views on ethical-neutrality in the classroom—have little or nothing to do with his views on the possibility of objectivity in scientifc explanation which, as we have seen, is solely concerned with the quite separate matter of value-judgements. Ethical neutrality and/or making value-judgments may or may not be desirable in the social sciences but, as I hope we can now see, none of this has anything very much at all to do with the question of presenting ‘objective’ explanations. Tis is because where objectivity is said to be impaired by selection—either because, as Weber says, our selection of its causes and conditions involves value-judgements on our part, or because, as I would say, the explanation we give is less than a full and complete account of something for any other number of reasons we might think of—the objectivity of what we do in fact explain in history and the social sciences is nevertheless unimpaired by the accounts that we do in fact give because, once this selection has been made, this newly redefned object meets all the above condition of a fully and completely objective explanation. Tis then gives us a clue to the intuition that historians have had all along when they not only claim, but actually insist, that the explanations they provide are indeed fully and completely, scrupulously and unavoidably, objective even when they know they disagree violently with each other and when they must realise that they cannot help being biased, frstly in their selection of the causes and conditions of this event, but secondly, as Weber insists, in their selection of their initial object of enquiry. Rather, as I hope we can now see, it is quite simply the case that they have diferent, albeit sometimes quite similar, objects of explanation; one explains a particular historical event (the Dardanelles campaign let us say) from a Turkish perspective, another from a British point of view, still another from an Australian perspective, and perhaps yet another from all three viewpoints taken together. All of these objects of explanation are partial in their selection both of the object of enquiry itself and in the causes and conditions they attribute to the explanation they give, but all are equally objective in so far as they do in fact actually explain some aspect of this general event from their particular point of view. Te selection of an object of enquiry and even its causes is inevitably partial, but once made, this selection redefnes the object of enquiry (now better described as the object of explanation) and there is nothing partial about this new object which is in fact fully and completely explained by the account that we give of this. Te above argument was developed by Weber in painful detail in his critical evaluation of the work of the historical economists Roscher and

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Knies.10 How is it that historians who do not even claim to be scientists are nevertheless able to claim objectivity for the explanations they provide of particular historical events? And if objectivity is possible in the humanities, how much easier must it be for the cultural sciences to achieve? Te main purpose of Weber’s essay on Roscher (1975: 55–91) is to refute the idea that history can develop law-like, or nomological, claims of the kind made by the natural sciences, and of which Weber takes Roscher, a former student of Ranke, to be a typical exponent. But within this critique Weber does nevertheless fnd the basis of a belief in objectivity in Roscher’s work. Roscher summarised his own methodological position by claiming that he had renounced in principle any attempt to rationally justify general ideals. However this does not mean that he ofers the following advice—‘be what you are’—to anyone who still turns to science for normative ideals. ‘On the contrary, at least from a theoretical point of view, he is convinced that there is an objective foundation for the establishment of norms’ (Weber, 1975: 87; emphasis in original). In concluding this essay, Weber then has this to say: Hand in hand with these views we can also identify a process of recovery. It could even be said that Roscher’s work represents progress in the objectivity of scientifc inquiry. Or—as this is ineptly put today—his work is committed to the view that scientifc research has a “presuppositionless status”. If Roscher did not succeed in following his path away from Hegel to its ultimate conclusion, then this circumstance is principally responsible: unlike Hegel, he failed to grasp the methodological importance of the logical problem concerning the relationship between a concept and its object (Weber, 1975: 90–91).

And this is all that Weber has to say on the question of objectivity in his essay on Roscher. Originally published in two halves (Oakes, 1975: 1), the frst half of Weber’s essay on Knies (1975: 93–176), is of very little interest to us here, since this mainly amounts to a critique of not just Knies (93–100 and 199–207), but of a whole school of psychologists including Wilhelm Wundt (101–124), Hugo Munsterberg (129–154), and Teodor Lipps (163–167) as well as the economic historian Friedrich Gottl (154–163), who taught with Weber at Heidleberg, and the idealist philosopher and historian Benedetto Croce (167–176) all of whom Weber regarded as having a damaging infuence on the study of economic history. Most of what Weber has to say about these historians, and especially what he has to say about

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the psychologists, is of very little interest to us here. Weber characterises their contribution as ‘two poles—the categorial, mathematical self-evidence of spatial relations and the phenomenologically conditioned self-evidence of mental processes which can be objects of “empathy”’—with neither of which he has any sympathy. However, the second ‘half’ of Weber’s essay on Knies (176–198), excluding the fnal section of this part (199–207) in which Weber returns to his critique of Knies, is a very diferent matter altogether. Here Weber fnally outlines his own views on this question. Infuenced by psychology, Knies had promoted the study of ‘personalities’ in history (199–207), but Weber is very much opposed to this. Contrary to what the psychologists assert, Weber argues that ‘the object of interpretation is not whatever those who historically participated in the production of the “valued” object subjectively “felt” from their own point of view’ (1975: 182) but rather: is an inquiry into those “values” which “we” can fnd “embodied” in these objects. It [history] is an inquiry into the invariably concrete “form” in which “we” fnd these values “embodied,” the “form” that constitutes these “entities” as objects of “historical explanation” (1975: 181; emphasis in original).11

In so far as knowledge of the subjectively felt value that those who participated in actual historical events is of any interested to us at all, Weber argues that knowledge of this sort is only of any heuristic use to us in so far as it could help us understand the particular values in question. But this is not what the historian is interested in. ‘On the contrary, what is interpreted is the value that “we” “can” fnd in the object—or perhaps even “should” fnd in the object’ (1975: 182). Tis is therefore a value that we as historians or as social scientists impute to the thing that we are interested in studying. ‘”Interpretation” in this sense’, Weber says, ‘constitutes “evaluation”’ (1975: 182). [W]e ascribe “value” to an item if and only if it can be the content of a commitment: that is, a consciously articulated, positive or negative “judgment”, something that appears to us to “demand validity” (1975:  182; emphasis added).

‘Te “validity” of a judgment is a “value” “for” us. Accordingly, it is accepted or rejected “by” us. Or it becomes the object of a value judgment in the most diverse contexts’ (1975: 182). ‘A closer analysis of the nature of “value

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judgments”’, Weber says, ‘cannot be undertaken here. However, for the purposes of the present discussion the following point should be made’: It is determinateness of content which removes the object of the value judgment from the sphere of that which is merely “felt” (1975: 183; emphasis in original).

Here then fnally we see the basis of Weber’s mature view on this question. Te content of the thing that we are enquiring into changes as this enquiry takes place. What started out as a value judgment on our part—an expression of interest for whatever reason in a particular historical event— becomes something else altogether, and in fact moves into a diferent sphere, as soon as it becomes the content of the thing that we do in fact enquire into (our actual object of explanation). ‘From a logical point of view’, Weber says, ‘the historical individual [the thing that we do in fact enquire into] can only be an “entity” synthetically produced by a value relation. For this reason, [therefore] “valuation” is the normal psychological transitional stage for “intellectual understanding” (1975: 183–184). As a result of this: Neither the ”substantive” qualities of its “object” nor the “ontological” peculiarities of the “existence” of this “object” nor, fnally, the kind of “psychological” conditions required for its acquisition are of any consequence as regards its logical content and the presuppositions on which its “validity” is based. Empirical knowledge in the domain of the “mental” and in the domain of the “external” “nature”, knowledge of processes “within” us and of those “without” us, is invariably tied to the instrument of “concept formation”. From a logical point of view, the nature of the “concept” in these two substantive “domains” is the same. Te  logical peculiarity of “historical” knowledge—in the logical sense of this expression—has nothing at all to do with the distinction between the “psychical” and the “physical”, the “personality” and “action”, on the one hand, and the dead “natural object” and the “mechanical process of nature”, on the other … Physical and psychical “reality”, or an aspect of “reality” comprehending both physical and psychical components, constitutes an “historical entity” because and insofar as it can “mean” something to us (1975: 185).

Logically there is therefore no necessary connection—none at all— between the thing that we set out to explain and the thing that we do in fact explain. ‘[W]ithin the domain of knowledge of real events’, Weber argues,

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‘rational “evaluation” functions exclusively as an hypothesis or as an idealtypical (sic) construct. We compare the actual action with the action which is, from a “teleological” point of view and on the basis of general causal generalizations, rational … .In both these cases, however, we are not concerned with a “psychological” analysis of “personality” undertaken with the help of some sort of peculiar theoretical device. On the contrary, we are concerned with the “objectively” given situation, an analysis that employs our nomological knowledge’ (1975: 188).

In short, we construct the content of our object of enquiry based on the interest that we have in answering a particular question, and the answer that we give to this question will be ‘objective’ because it relates to this object of enquiry alone and not to anything else. Finally Weber has this to say summing up his comments in this most important section of his essay on the claims of economic history to be an objective form of enquiry. ‘Even by employing rational interpretation, we do not infer … ”actual action”, but rather “objectively possible” complexes. Even in these constructions, teleological self-evidence does not constitute a peculiar criterion for empirical validity. On the contrary, the “selfevident” rational construct, if it is “correctly” constituted, can even make possible knowledge of the nonrational elements of actual economic action’ (1975: 190–191). Conclusion In this chapter I claim to have completed12 Weber’s account of how objectivity is still possible in the social sciences even though this is not possible (a) in our initial selection of an object of enquiry or even (b) in the causes and conditions we attribute to such an object. I have argued that Weber himself does not explain this point very well in his famous essay on ‘objectivity in social science’—he appears to think that what he has to say here is self-evident—and hence does not need to be explained clearly or even at all. Weber, I have argued, worked out this concept of objectivity in the social sciences in his earlier critical examination of the claims of economic historians Roscher and Knies to be able to present objective explanations in the study of history even when they introduced psychological factors into their explanation. If objectivity was possible in historical explanation—and despite his criticisms of psychological explanations in history he thought that this was possible—then he thought that this

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must also be possible—even easier—in the social and cultural sciences more generally. Te basis of my argument in this chapter has been in three parts, as follows: • First, I have argued against Weber that he places an undue emphasis on the problem of value-judgements in the social sciences and history. As we have seen, Weber believed that any selection could not be unbiased since it must depend both upon our own value judgements and on the general values (for example a widely held belief in the appropriate form of the scientifc method of enquiry) held by the society in which we live. But I have argued that this is not in fact the problem here. Te real problem I suggest is not that any selection we make will inevitably involve value judgements (this is a red-herring I think), but is rather that we have to make a selection at all. So long as we have to make any selection at all, I think, our explanation cannot be impartial; it therefore does not matter whether our selection of an object of enquiry is biased due to value-judgements or for any other reason. Weber cannot liberate his mind from his focus on value-judgments—I think we might even say that he was obsessed with this question—but in fact this is not the issue. Te issue is selection, frstly of our initial object of enquiry and then, secondly, of the causes which we attribute to this from the infnite multiplicity of causal factors which we might otherwise have chosen to emphasise and it does not matter why this selection is made. • Secondly, however, I have then made a very clear—and really a hard and fast or categorical—separation between the selection of our initial object of enquiry (which I agree with Weber is irredeemably biased) and what I have called our actual object of explanation (the thing that we do in fact, however limited, end up explaining), and I claim—and I believe that Weber thought so too as demonstrated by what he says in his essay on Knies—that there is absolutely no logical connection at all between the unavoidable selection involved in our initial object of enquiry—the initial stage of the process of explanation—and the absence of any such selection in what we do eventually end up explaining. Tese two issues, as Weber insists, are in fact logically separate. Te decisive point made by Weber is that the social scientist ought to be clear about what it is—the object in question—that he or she does in fact explain.13 Once this is done all objections to the objectivity or otherwise of the social sciences (or anything else for that matter) disappear.

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• hirdly, I have defned objectivity as presenting a full and complete account of something, and lack of objectivity (partiality) as anything less than this. I accept that this defnition of objectivity is not to be found in Weber’s writing on this subject—not even in either of the other two essays which go to make up Shils and Finch’s collection of Weber’s writings or anywhere else as far as I can see in his collected writings on methodology—however I would argue that this defnition is implied in Weber’s discussion of the infnite totality of all possible causes of actual historical events and the necessity to reduce this multiplicity of causes to a more manageable number—a new ‘totality’ in fact—in anything that we might reasonably call an objective explanation. No doubt other defnitions of objectivity are possible—ones which do not emphasis the totality of the thing in question which we do actually explain—but I still think that this was Weber’s defnition. As we have seen then, in order to overcome the problem of objectivity in the social sciences we need to overcome this problem of selection. Since all selection must inevitably be biased, there cannot by defnition be any selection in a completely objective explanation. From this we can either conclude that (a) objectivity is impossible in the social and cultural sciences since any meaningful explanation must involve some selection14 or (b) that there is a logical separation from the way in which an explanation is arrived at and the explanation that is eventually given, and that even though the methods by which we arrive at our conclusions may be biased, nevertheless our conclusion itself is wholly objective (no part of the selection process being evident in the defnition of the object which we do fnally explain). I accept in criticism of the argument that I am presenting here that the distinction I make between the initial object of enquiry and our actual object of explanation is much harsher in my account than it is in Weber’s, but I claim that the basis of this distinction (a) is to be found in Weber’s writing and (b) that it is a weakness of his position that he does not bring out this distinction more clearly in what he has to say. Weber, I suggest, accepts the strength of such a distinction, without ever quite being able to bring himself to make this distinction clearly; nevertheless the distinction is there in Weber’s writing, in the constantly repeated references he makes to the social scientist’s methods of investigation (which he thinks is biased) and what he calls the mode or the use of what they make of this (which he thinks is usually objective). If this distinction is not to be found in Weber’s writing then his position would be indistinguishable from that of any other

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purely idealist philosopher who would insist, for example, that all history is fction (the account of the victors as it were) and that any one historical or sociological explanation is as good as any other. But this is not Weber’s view. Although ‘the account of the victors’ is partial it is still nevertheless something: it is what it is. We do still know something about the battle of Marathon (Weber, 1949: 184)—for example we know that in all probability such an event did take place and, if it did, we know where this event was— even though everything that we know about this actual event itself is told from the winning side.15 Finally, I have argued that not only can social scientists and historians present completely objective accounts of what they do in fact explain— whatever its causes and conditions might be and however limited in scope these conclusions are—but I argue that they actually cannot help but do this since, clearly, whatever explanation they present must be completely objective in these terms (where the object of explanation is itself defned by the explanation we present of it and however much this difers from any other object of explanation or from our initial object of enquiry). I accept that this argument goes beyond what Weber actually says, but I would argue that this is the unavoidable consequence of the argument that he does in fact present. Not only is objectivity possible in history and the cultural and social sciences then, as Weber says, but, understood in this way, it is in fact unavoidable.16 Notes 1. Te word ‘casually’ here is almost certainly a misprint for the word ‘causally’, but I have lef this as I found it in the 1949 edition of Weber’s Methodology. 2. I am grateful to Professor William Outhwaite for pointing out to me that this was also Rickert’s position. 3. Edward Shils explains in his introduction to Weber’s Methodology that the second essay published in Shills and Finch’s collection (‘“Objectivity” in Social Science and Social Policy’) was in fact the frst to be published, in 1904. Te third essay in Shils and Finch’s collection (‘Critical Studies in the Logic of the Cultural Sciences’) was then the second to be published, in 1905. While the frst essay published in Shils and Finch’s book (‘Te Meaning of Ethical Neutrality in Sociology and Economics’) was in fact the third written, being published in 1917 and hence at the height of the First World War. Quite why Shils and Finch adopted this bizarre order of presentation we do not know because Shils does not say, but it probably has something to do with their feeling that the general reader would be more interested in Weber’s views on ethical neutrality and value-freedom in the social sciences than in his more general views on objectivity. Tis was probably true enough in America in the early 1950s but is much less so the case today. 4. I am thinking in particular of E. H. Carr here—see his wonderful What is History?— but perhaps Leon Trotsky might be another example; for example his History of the Russian Revolution.

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5. In his essay on ‘Objective Possibility and Adequate Causation in Historical Explanation’, the second part of his essay ‘Critical Studies in the Logic of the Cultural Sciences’ Weber at one point (1949: 178) speaks of turning our experiences into ‘categorically form “objects”’ and at another point on the same page of experience ‘when it is made into an “object”’ (emphasis added), and again at another point in the same essay he argues that ‘In order to penetrate to the real causal interrelationships, we construct unreal ones’ (1949: 186; emphasis in original. Now  this is exactly the idea of the abstractly constructed object of explanation—our actual object of explanation—that I believe Weber has in mind when he insists (1949: 188) that objective explanation is possible in the cultural and social sciences. 6. Norman Denzin, in his famous essay in which he proposed a synthesis between the claims of symbolic interactionism and ethnomethodology (Denzin 1969) argues that we may defne an ‘object’ as follows. An ‘Object consists of any event that one can designate in a unitary fashion and around which one can organize action. Te meaning of an object resides not in the object itself [Denzin says] but in the defnition brought to it, and hence must be located in the interaction process [itself]’ (Denzin, 1968: 923). 7. On this point see the following comment by Jack Barbalet 2001 ‘Weber’s Inaugural Lecture and its Place in his Sociology’, Journal of Classical Sociology, Vol.1 (2): 147–170. It has been shown that behind the question of value freedom is the idea of interests of national power, which, Weber says, rests on ‘deeply rooted psychological foundations in’ all strata, and that the ‘specifc function’ of leading strata is ‘to be the bearers of the nation’s sense of political purpose’ (1994 1985]: 21). It is the connection between this last proposition and the notion of value freedom that makes sense of Weber’s otherwise confusing treatment of values as both the basis of commitment and [as] free of factual infuence (Barbalet, 2001: 166). If I understand Barbalet correctly here what he means is that it was Weber’s own extreme nationalism that gave him his insight into the way in which national prejudice can distort historical explanation. 8. Joseph Schumpeter in his History of Economic Analysis (1994 [1954]: 770) gives the example of two named professors here. ‘Lujo Brentano addressed his classes as he would have political meetings, and they responded with cheers and counter cheers. Adolf Wagner shouted and stamped and shook his fsts at imaginary opponents, at least before the lethargy of old age quieted him down. Others were less spirited and efective but not less hortatory in intent’. Weber, as his lecture ‘Science as a Vocation’ shows only too well, strongly disapproved of this kind of thing. 9. Joseph Schumpeter in his History of Economic Analysis (1994 [1954]: 770) gives an example from the other side of the debate, the so-called Kathedersozialists (or classroom socialists) of whom he also cites Sidney Webb as an English example of the same (1994: 800, fn. 6). ‘Te German “socialists of the chair”’ (as Schumpeter translates this term) certainly fulf lled the idea of progressive politicians and laymen—the ideal of the professor who preaches reform and denounces obstructing interests. 10. Weber, who had been an undergraduate student of Knies at Heidelberg in 1882, succeeded Knies as professor in the chair of economics at Heidelberg in 1896. 11. Weber’s liberal use of quotation marks in his writing has been much commented on in the social sciences (see Swedberg 2005: 219–220). Confusingly the quotation marks seem sometimes to be distancing and at other times to be used for emphasis. It is therefore a matter of interpretation which is which. 12. See on this point Edward Shils’ 1949 Forward to Weber’s Methodology of the Social Sciences (1949: viii) in which Shils says that Weber’s essay ‘Objectivity in Social Science and Social Policy’ ‘brings the problem [of objectivity] before us in a most intriguing way but leaves it unsolved’. 13. On this point see Felix Kaufmann (1944: 214) who says that ‘Te decisive point made by Weber is that the social scientist ought to be clear about the limitations of his knowledge’. Tis is

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not quite right I think. Our knowledge is limited but only in the sense that it is limited to those things that we do in fact explain. 14. And of course this objection would also apply to the natural sciences too. 15. Tere is a very good ‘perspectivism’ quotation in John Rex’s book Key Problems of Sociological Teory (1970: .120–121). As Rex says: Many writers have noted that objectivity is not possible in the social sciences in the same sense as it [is suggested it] is in the natural sciences. But this arises from the fact that social relations and activities can be judged necessary or unnecessary, functional or dysfunctional, according to which of a number of conficting standpoints they are looked at. And these standpoints may be the standpoints of participant individuals, groups or classes, in the society (1970: 120; emphasis added). And Rex goes on to quote Max Weber from his essay “Objectivity” in the Social Science who refers to the ‘special and one-sided view-points according to which—expressly or tacitly, consciously or unconsciously—they are selected, analysed and organised for expository purposes.’ (1970: 121; emphasis added). Now this is perspectivism exactly of course except that, as I have argued, each of these ‘one-sided view points’ does still provide us which an objective account of that thing—that object—which has been selected for explanation, however limited this thing might be. 16. Talcott Parsons makes a similar point to this in his Te Structure of Social Action (1949: 256) where he observes that ‘Tis is no more true than the similar thesis that the role of knowledge is limited to th[os]e situations where it is precise and completely adequate’.

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Te other source of the modern theory of ideology and of the sociology of knowledge is to be found in the fashes of insight of Nietzsche who combined concrete observations in this feld with a theory of drives and a theory of knowledge which remind one of pragmatism (Mannheim 1976: 278–279).

Introduction: Pragmatism v. Pragmaticism

T

oday the concept of ‘pragmatism’ is normally associated with the American psychologist William James [1842–1910], brother of the novelist Henry James, who published a book in 1907 with the title Pragmatism, a New Name for Some Old Ways of Tinking and thereby popularised a term which apparently had been in use amongst James and his associates for some time before this. However Bertrand Russell [1872–1970], a near contemporary of the American philosopher John Dewey [1859–1952], gives equal weight in the foundation of pragmatism to Dewey and also to the, today, little known German philosopher F. C. S. Schiller [1864–1937] (Russell, 1971: 770), while Russell has remarkably little to say about the philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce [1839–1914], whom James himself credited with coining the term ‘pragmaticism’ and who James cites as one of the two main infuences on his own thinking about this subject along with

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the French philosopher Henri Bergson [1859–1941]. By all accounts William James seems to have led a charmed life. Russell—who knew him personally—says that he was ‘beloved’ by almost everyone that knew him (Russell, 1971: 766), while C. S. Peirce by contrast, much like Nietzsche, seems to have led a very difcult life. Only the saintly James seems to have had any time for Peirce, while the sociologist Émile Durkheim in his lectures on Pragmatism and Sociology (1983: 8) struggled to see why James should give Peirce any credit at all for developing the philosophy of pragmatism. And yet, contrary to what Durkheim believed, it seems that it was Peirce afer all, and not James, who frst coined the term pragmatism (Peirce, 1955: 270–271) and who was the major infuence in the development of pragmatism as a philosophy of the natural and social sciences.1 Te ideas that James popularised in the early 20th century then, it seems that Peirce, and to a lesser extent Henri Bergson, developed in the late 19th century. With James, the concept of pragmatism seems to have taken a distinctly idealistic ‘turn’ away from its more utilitarian origins in Peirce’s writings (Russell, 1971: 766). For example, in an essay published in 1904 entitled ‘Does Consciousness Exist’ James denied any distinction between consciousness and matter. Tese were all one and the same thing James argued, and therefore best described as neither material nor mental. Te basis of James’s idea was something which he called ‘neutral monism’; ‘monal’ because according to James the universe is composed of just one substance (or ‘stuf’, as he preferred to call this), and ‘neutral’ because we human beings, with our limited faculties, can never hope to know what the nature of this stuf is—material or mental—and hence must remain neutral between the two possibilities.2 Viewed from the perspective of the 21st century, James’s idea therefore seems to have some afnity with the 1960s notion that everything in the universe, both the thoughts we have in our minds and the material substances from which our brains and the rest of the universe are composed, is made of ‘star dust’.3 James does not say this himself but it seems likely that his thinking on this question in the early part of the 20th century is one of the sources of the ‘counter-culture’ movement in America in the 1960s.4 Viewed from the point of view of the concept of perspectivism, the idealistic—not to say explicitly religious5—direction which the concept of pragmatism took in the writing of James are not of much interest to us here. In what follows therefore this chapter will mainly be concerned with C. S. Peirce’s rather more materialistic and much more rationalistic views on the subject of pragmatism—or ‘pragmaticism’ as he rather pointedly

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called this in an essay he published in 1905, apparently in order to draw a clear distinction between his own views on this question and those of James (Durkheim, 1983: 6).6 Tat Peirce’s views on the subject of pragmatism are strikingly diferent from those of James is easily demonstrated. Whereas James was mainly interested in the concept of ‘truth’ (see below) which he essentially identifed with the notion of religious ‘truth’ or faith, Peirce argued that pragmatism is ‘no doctrine of metaphysics [and] no attempt to establish the truth of things’ (Peirce, 1955: 271). Rather, in a passage that is highly reminiscent of W. B. Gallie, he claimed that pragmatism, ‘is merely a method of ascertaining the meaning of hard words and of abstract concepts’. Peirce goes on to say that ‘All pragmatists of whatever stripe will cordially assent to that statement’ (1955: 271; emphasis added), but it seems highly unlikely that James would have agreed with Peirce on this point. In what follows therefore we will focus on what Peirce has to say on the subject of pragmatism, not just because of the undoubted infuence that Peirce had on Gallie’s concept of essentially contested concepts (Gallie, 1952a; Gallie, 1956b), but also because, as we shall see, Peirce’s writings on this question are much more relevant to the concept of perspectivism we are attempting to develop here than anything that James had to say on this subject. But why do we need to discuss the philosophy of ‘pragmatism’ at all in a book on the subject of perspectivism? Tere are at least two reasons for this. Apart from the probable infuence that the philosophy of pragmatism had on the development of Mannheim’s concept of perspectivism (Mannheim, 1976: 278–279), there is also the methodological point that we probably need to include some sort of pragmatic qualifcation to any perspectivist philosophy of the social sciences so that we can exclude from the standard general form of any particular concept those defnitions that I think we might well call ‘vexatious’,7 i.e., those which are made by people who are not well disposed towards the debate in question or the perspectivist concept that we are trying to develop here. Where someone insisted that their ‘defnition’ of a concept, although bearing absolutely no relation to any other defnition in a particular debate (and hence which seemed to be entirely perverse when viewed from this point of view), was just as good as any other defnition and must therefore be included in the standard general form of the concept in question (Smith, 2002a: 342, fn. 1) then, in these cases it seems to me that we need some way to say that this defnition does not need to be taken seriously or included in any genuinely perspectivist view of the standard general form of the concept in question and that it is just possible that a slightly more pragmatic approach to this problem might allow us to do this.

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I. Peirce on ‘Pragmatism’ Te student’s great efort is not to be infuenced by any tradition, any authority, any reason for supposing that such and such ought to be the facts, or any fancies of any kind, and to confne himself to honest, single-minded observation of the appearances [of things] (Peirce, 1955: 75)

Peirce’s collected philosophical writings on a very wide ranging number of subjects in the natural and social sciences were published in eight volumes by Harvard University Press in two main tranches between 1934 and 1958, volumes I-VI being published in 1934/5 and volumes VII to VIII in 1958. However all of Peirce’s most important essays on the subject of pragmatism have been collected together in a selection of his writings edited by Justus Buchler entitled Philosophical Writings of Peirce frst published in 1940 and then reprinted in 1955. In what follows I will make use of Buchler’s collection to look at what Peirce has to say in his most important writings on the subject of pragmatism but, once again—as with Nietzsche, Mannheim and Weber before—in what follows we will not be concerned with Peirce’s philosophical writings in general, including his many and diverse writings on the subjects of mathematics, logic, the philosophy of language, the history of the physical sciences, geodetics, and the theory of errors arising from observation, or even with some of the very interesting things he has to say on the subject of semiotics (the major concepts of which he developed at the same time as his near contemporary the much better known Ferdinand de Saussure [1857–1913]) except in so far as what he has to say about pragmatism is relevant to the concept of perspectivism. Te frst of Peirce’s essays that is of interest to us is entitled ‘How to Make Our Ideas Clear’ and was the second of two essays that he published in 1877 and 1878 in, of all places, a popular American science magazine called Popular Science Monthly (January 1878: 286–302). Afer some preliminary remarks on the philosophy of Descartes and Leibniz (Buchler, 1955: 23–28) which need not concern us here, this essay then contains two truly astonishing drawings (see below) which Peirce included in this essay to illustrate some ideas he had on the subject of belief. Tought, Peirce argues, ‘can never be made to direct itself towards anything but the production of belief’ (1955: 28). But what then is belief? Belief, Peirce argues, is ‘the action of thought which is excited by the irritation of doubt and which ceases when belief is obtained.’ (1955: 26 and 28). Belief, Peirce concludes, is therefore ‘thought at rest’ (1955: 28–29). Belief has ‘three properties: frst it is something that we are aware of; second it appeases the irritation of doubt, –120–

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and third, it involves the establishment in our nature of a rule of action, or, say for short, a habit’ (1955: 28; emphasis in original). ‘Te essence of belief is the establishment of habit and diferent beliefs are established’ he says ‘by the diferent modes of action to which they give rise’. ‘To believe’, Peirce says, ‘that any objects are arranged among themselves, as in Fig. 4.1 [below] and to believe that they are arranged as in Fig. 4.2, are one and the same belief’, he says, ‘yet it is conceivable that a man should assert the one proposition and deny the other’ (1955: 29).

Figure .

Figure .

At frst sight these two images appear to be slightly diferent to one another, although in point of fact they are identical in every way. If you do not believe this, all you have to do is to tilt your head slightly to one side as you look at fgure 4.2 and you will see that Fig. 4.2 becomes the same as Fig.  4.1. Being identical with each other both diagrams are of course composed of exactly the same number of dots, 97 in each case, and each diagram is an octagon of which all eight sides are alternately composed of either four or fve dots, so that in both cases four of the eight sides of the octagon are made up of fve dots while the other four sides are composed of just four dots. Te only ‘diference’, as we might well be tempted to describe this, between the two fgures—although a moments refection will show us that this is really no such thing—is in the way that each fgure is presented to our view, with one diagram, the frst, standing on a base of fve dot, while the other diagram, the second, is standing on a base of four dots. In other words both fgures are exactly the same as each other except that in one case the image has been rotated slightly by one eighth of its circumference and rolled over on one side when compared to the other diagram. Curiously enough however, although both fgures are identical, in the frst image the dotted lines appear to be both horizontal and vertical, while in the second –121–

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fgure these lines appear to be diagonal. In fact if one looks carefully at the second fgure this time without tilting one’s head to one side—and we see that it requires a certain amount of efort on our part to do this—one can see that there are still of course rows of horizontal dotted lines in the second fgure just as there are in the frst, but somehow our ‘mind’s eye’ does not wish to view these horizontal lines in the second fgure in this way. We are predisposed it seems to view the dots in the second fgure as being diagonal and as horizontal and vertical in the frst fgure. It is also worth noting here that, although identical in every way, at its widest point the second image is only eight dots wide while at its widest point the frst image is eleven dots wide. Tese two diagrams therefore perfectly illustrate the point that Peirce is trying to make here that it is solely the perspective from which we view these two identical objects that changes the way we see these images and hence what we have to say about them. Commenting on this point Peirce then says: ‘One singular deception of this sort, which ofen occurs, is to mistake the sensation produced by our own unclearness of thought for a character[istic] of the object we are thinking. Instead of perceiving that the obscurity is purely subjective, we fancy that we contemplate a quality of the object which is essentially mysterious.’ (1955: 29). And although Peirce does not go on to say this himself here, this is of course the ‘perspectivist’ argument exactly. A second essay by Peirce which is of interest to us here is entitled ‘Te Principles of Phenomenology’. Written sometime between 1903 and 1905, this essay is of particular interest to us because it contains a truly remarkable discussion—and by ‘remarkable’ here I mean remarkable from the multidimensional view point of the concept of perspectivism—of what Peirce calls the three ‘categories’ of ‘Firstness’, ‘Secondness’ and ‘Tirdness’ (1955: 75).8 ‘My view’, Peirce says, ‘is that there are three modes of being‘ (1955: 75; emphasis added). ‘I hold that we can directly observe them in elements of whatever is at any time before the mind [of the observer] in any way. Tey are [1] the being of positive qualitative possibility; [2] the being of actual fact, and [3] the being of law that will govern facts in the future’ (1955: 75). Peirce then goes on to elaborate on what he means by these three modes of being or, as I think we might better say, these three-dimensions of reality. Peirce does not explain at all clearly exactly what he means by the concept of ‘Firstness’, but this is what he has to say about this. ‘Firstness is the mode of being which consists in its subject’s being positively such as it is regardless of aught else’ (1955: 76). ‘We naturally attribute Firstness’, Peirce says, ‘to outward objects’ (1955: 76). ‘Secondness’ is then said by Peirce to refer to

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what he calls a ‘two-sided consciousness of efort and resistance’ which, he says, ‘seems to me to come tolerably near to a pure sense of actuality’. ‘On the whole’, Peirce says, ‘I think we have here a mode of being of one thing which consists in how a second object is. I call this Secondness’ (1955: 76; emphasis added). Finally, there is ‘Tirdness’. ‘Five minutes of our waking life’, Peirce says, ‘will hardly pass without our making some kind of prediction; and in the majority of cases these predictions are fulflled in the event’ (1955: 76). ‘If the prediction has a tendency to be fulflled, it must be that future events have a tendency to conform to a general rule’ [And] ‘A rule to which future events have a tendency to conform is ipso facto an important thing … Tis mode of being which consists … in the fact that future events of Secondness will take on a determinate general character, I call Tirdness’ (1955: 76–77). Te frst of these categories, Peirce says, ‘comprises the qualities of phenomena, such as red, bitter, tedious, hard, heartrending, noble; and there are doubtless manifold varieties [of this kind] utterly unknown to us’ (1955: 77). ‘Te second category of elements of phenomena’, Peirce says, ‘comprise the actual facts’ (1955: 77). ‘Te[se] qualities, in so far as they are general, are somewhat vague and potential’. ‘Qualities’, Peirce says: are concerned in facts but they do not make up facts. Facts also concern subjects which are material substances. We do not see them as we see qualities, that is, they are not in the very potentiality and essence of sense. But we feel facts resit our will. Tat is why facts are proverbially called brutal. Now mere qualities do not resist. It is matter that resists. Even in actual sensation there is a reaction. Now mere qualities, unmaterialized, cannot actually react. So that, rightly understood, it is correct to say that we immediately, that is [to say], directly perceive matter (1955: 77).

‘Te third category of elements of phenomena’, Peirce says, ‘consists of what we call laws when we contemplate them from the outside only, but which when we see both sides of the shield (sic) we call thoughts’ (1955: 77; emphasis added). Toughts are neither qualities nor facts. Tey are not qualities because they can be produced and grow, while a quality is [by defnition] eternal, independent of time and of any realization. Besides, thoughts may have reasons, and indeed, must have some reasons, good or bad … A thought is not a quality. No more is it a fact. For a thought is general … No collection of facts can constitute a law; for the law goes beyond any accomplished facts

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and determines how facts that may be, but all of which never can have happened, shall be characterized (1955: 78).

‘Te idea of First’, Peirce tells us, ‘is predominant in the idea of freshness, life [and] freedom’ (1955: 78). ‘Te idea of second is predominant in the ideas of causation and statical (sic) force’ (1955: 79). ‘By the [idea of] third’, Peirce tells us he means ‘the medium or connecting bond between the absolute frst and the middle third’ (1955: 80). ‘Te beginning is frst’, Peirce says, ‘the end is second, [and] the middle third’ (1955: 80) … ‘Position is frst, velocity, or the relation of two successive positions [is] second, acceleration or the relation of three successive positions is third’ (1955: 80). Te importance of this discussion of the ‘frst’; ‘second’ and ‘third’ dimensions of reality (although Peirce does not himself describe them as such) cannot be doubted I think in the context of perspectivism. What Peirce is not quite saying here is that we perceive these one two and three-dimensional things diferently or, as I think we might well say on his behalf, that we are less troubled by, and therefore we are less inclined to dispute, those things to which he attributes the category of ‘frstness’ (or immediacy as we might well say) even though these things—like the colour ‘red’ for example—really ought to be a matter of some dispute.9 Do we really all see the colour red the ‘same’ for example? Tis seems most unlikely but, except for people who are colourblind, we see it as the same enough for all practical purposes. Te second category of facts however—and Peirce’s gives the example of causation and ‘statics’ here—are much more problematic (Peirce does not explain what he means by his rather bizarre use of the term ‘shield’ here) and can only be regarded as ‘facts’—as phenomenon, as things—when we comprehend both sides of these things at once and unite these two categories in the form of thought.10 Finally, there are then some very interesting and astonishingly prescient observations by Peirce on the subject of what today we would call quantum mechanics, although Peirce of course does not use this term, in an essay published in 1891 entitled ‘Te Architecture of Teories’.11 Rather remarkably I think, given when they were written, Peirce argues that ‘Tere is room for serious doubt whether the fundamental laws of mechanics hold good for single atoms, and it seems quite likely that they are capable of motion in more than three-dimensions’ (1955: 318; emphasis added).12 Peirce then goes on to say the following: Now the only possible way of accounting for the laws of nature and for uniformity in general is to suppose them results of evolution. Tis supposes

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them not to be absolute, not to be obeyed precisely. It makes an element of indeterminacy, spontaneity, or absolute chance in nature. Just as, when we attempt to verify any physical law, we fnd our observation cannot be precisely satisfed by it, and rightly attribute the discrepancy to errors of observation, so we must suppose far more minute discrepancies to exist owing to the imperfect cogency of the law itself, to a certain swerving of the facts from any defnite formula (1955: 318).

Writing at much the same time as Nietzsche, and drawing together what Peirce has to say in this reference of 1891 about the possible greater than three-dimensionality of reality, with the two quite remarkable diagrams at the beginning of this chapter in an essay frst published in 1887, together with what he has to say about the ‘Firstness’, ‘Secondness’ and ‘Tirdness’ of appearance and reality in his essay of 1903/5, I think we have every reason to say that Pragmatism, at least in the work of Peirce, if not in the work of James (see below), is very closely related to the Nietzschian concept of perspectivism we are trying to develop here. II. W. B. Gallie on Peirce and Pragmatism ‘Imaginary distinctions are ofen drawn between beliefs which difer only in their mode of expression; the wrangling which ensues is real enough however’ (Peirce, 1955: 29).

Published in 1952, and therefore four years before the publication of his much better known essay on the subject of essentially contested concepts, W. B. Gallie’s book Peirce and Pragmatism, was specially written for a series of books edited by A. J. Ayer and published by Penguin Books as part of their Penguin Philosophy series. By contrast to William James, until the 1930s, when Peirce’s collected works began to be published by Harvard University Press, Peirce was best known—if he was known at all—because of his interest in the philosophy of language rather than for anything he had to say on the subject of pragmatism. According to Gallie, ‘pragmatism’ (from the Greek word pragmatikos, or pragma, meaning ‘to act or to do’) is the philosophical movement, centred on Peirce and James, which holds that practical consequences are the criterion of knowledge, meaning and value, and ‘pragmatics’ is the study of language that cannot be considered in isolation from its use’ (1952: 32). Tus, ‘pragmatics’ is defned by Gallie as an extension of Peirce’s interest in the philosophy

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of language rather than in any more general sense, while pragmatism is defned by Gallie as follows: Broadly, Pragmatism tells us that a statement has a meaning—of the kind that its outward form suggest—if, and only if, some distinctive consequence of an experimental character can be deduced from it (1952: 204–205; emphasis added).

Tere then follows a very interesting discussion in Gallie’s book— which is not however of any immediate use to us here—of the meaning of the term ‘signs’, and even the use of the words ‘signifcation’ and ‘semiotics’ in Peirce’s writings which therefore clearly parallel, if they do not in fact pre-date, the much better known usage of these terms in the structural linguistics of Peirce’s close contemporary Ferdinand de Saussure [1857–1913], to say nothing of the infuence of these ideas on the work of Roland Barthes [1915–1980] or Jacques Derrida [1930 - 2004].13 Peirce groups the use of the term ‘sign’ into three main classes: indexes, icons, and symbols (1952: 116). He argues that ‘an index is a sign whose peculiar mode of signifcation depends on an actual dynamic relation between it and its object: for example a weather-vane which indicates the direction of the wind as a result of the wind’s action upon it’ (1952: 116). An icon is a sign whose mode of signifying depends upon some likeness existing between it and the object it signifes without there being any deliberate intention that this thing should so signify the object in question. While, fnally, a symbol is a sign which has the efect of indicating something but without there being any direct connection with that object or even any actual resemblance between the symbol and the object it signifes; thus any word in any language is a symbol in this sense (1952: 117). According to Peirce a ‘sign’ is ‘essentially the kind of thing that can, at the very least [at minimum], be repeated’ (Gallie, 1952: 47). ‘[S]ince there can be no one (and only) sign of a given object, so there can be no one (and only) interpretation of any given sign: hence the meaning of a sign, or the conception answering to it, cannot be of a simple, single, ‘one and only’ nature. Tat is to say, there is no such thing as an absolutely self-sufcient conception: our apparently simplest conceptions—say our conception of a given shade of colour—are not absolutely simple, or unitary, or self-sufcient: and just the same must be true of certain conceptions, e.g., that of the soul, or of matter, or of God, or of knowledge, or of substance, or of quality, or of mere being … On the contrary, Peirce

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maintains that every genuine conception is essentially related to other conceptions’ (Gallie, 1952: 47–48; emphasis added). Here then is a possible origin of the relational concept that we have already encountered in Mannheim’s work. From our present point of view, however, much the most interesting part of Gallie’s treatment of Peirce’s work is his development of Peirce’s, as we have seen, relatively undeveloped view of the concept of three-dimensionality of space and the problems that this presents to both the natural and the social sciences (Gallie, 1952: 139–140; 192–193; and 209). Without discussing the concept of three-dimensionality specifcally—although clearly relying on this—Gallie identifes what he calls three distinct categories in Peirce’s general philosophy of signs. Tis is the distinction between (1) ‘terms’, which Gallie says logicians defne as ‘abstract words or conception’; (2) second the category of ‘arguments’ which is said to especially relate to one particular form of inference, those of a hypothetical kind; (3) and a third category (which might logically come second since its function is to combine the other two) called ‘propositions’, which is said to apply to informative statements. Without too much imagination it is fairly easy to see that these three diferent types of ‘signs’ might fairly easily be made to correspond to length, breadth and depth in physical space. Gallie then goes on to comment on this point as follows: Now Terms, Propositions and Arguments are one and all signs, but they are signs at diferent levels of explicitness. Any given Term suggests a possibility of information; e.g., the abstract noun ‘redness’ suggests the possibility of any statement of the form ‘x is red’. A Proposition on the other hand claims to give us information about some state of afairs. But Propositions do not arise and do not function in vacuo; there are, we may recall from Chapter IV, no absolutely frst premises or Cartesian Intuitions [in Peirce’s philosophy]; real information is always in the nature of a conjecture or supposition, based on other information provisionally accepted as true, and therefore essentially open to confrmation or correction. Tis we may recall, was Peirce’s main reason for regarding all informative statement’s as hypothesis—as ‘explanations of phenomena held as hopeful suggestions’; but it also explains why in his most sustained treatment of the subject (his Harvard lecture of 1903) he prefers to treat Pragmatism as a rule of inference—that which determines the admissibility of the conclusion of any hypothetic inference—rather than as a rule of defnitions or as a criterion of the meaningfulness of statements.…

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To sum up this part of our discussion, Peirce’s Pragmatism has the efect both of disclosing an important identity of function as between Term, Proposition and Argument, viz., that signs of any of these types contribute to or yield information only in so far as distinctive practical or experimental consequences can be derived from them, and at the same time of emphasizing that it is through one class of Arguments (sic), viz., the hypothetic[al] that this informative function is most fully and unmistakably disclosed (Gallie, 1952: 140–141).

Very interestingly, Gallie then goes on (1952: 184–186) to discuss Peirce’s ‘three universal categories’ or what he calls ‘one-term, two-term and three-term statements of facts’ and the character of these statements of fact is then outlined by Gallie in a little more detail. A man cannot conceive of a one-subject fact otherwise than as more or less analogous to a feeling of his own. He cannot conceive of a two-subject fact otherwise than as analogous to an action of his own. A three-subject fact is comprehensible and is analogous to an utterance, a speech or a thought (1952: 186).

Gallie comments on this observation by Peirce as follows: Peirce would maintain [that] just because his three categories are universal, every snippet of the ‘objective history of the universe’ must exemplify each of them [each of these three types of statements of fact which] must be, from one point of view, of a one-term or monadic character, but from other points of view of a dyadic [two-term] or triadic [three-term] character (1952: 184–185; emphasis added)].

Te nature of Peirce’s frst monadic category is then described more fully by Gallie as follows: Peirce’s frst category consists in a number of theses with regard to any experience irrespective of any interpretation we might properly or naturally put upon it, and irrespective of any reaction that we, or anything else, might make of it. (First is the conception of being or existence independent of anything else) (1952: 188).

And Gallie continues ‘whilst this distinguishes Peirce’s frst category from the logical category of quality, [it] also serves to explain why we tend to

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describe certain situations—those in which Firstness is prominent—by propositions of the ‘a has the quality of Q’ form. But while stressing this monadic feature of our experience Peirce insists that the same ‘quale element, which appears upon the inside as a unity, when seen from the outside is variety’ (1952: 189; emphasis added).

Where a ‘quale’—the Latin for ‘particular suchness’ according to Gallie (1952: 187)—is the name given by Peirce to those things which he is trying to describe that are in some way diferent from the usual idea of ‘quality’, and is, as I would argue, the idea of anything which has the quality that it appears in one way from one perspective—the ‘inside’ as it were— and in another way altogether from another perspective—the ‘outside’ as it were. Peirce’s second ‘category’ (or dimension as I think we might now reasonably call this) is then explained in more detail by Gallie (1952: 192) as follows: ‘Second is the conception of being relative to, the conception of reaction with, something else … To say that something has a mode of being which lies not in itself but in its being over [and] against a second thing is to say that that mode of being is the existence which belongs to [that?] fact.’ (1952: 192). Summing up Peirce’s argument on this second category, Gallie very interestingly has this to say: It might well be that if we were to analyse closely all our uses of words and phrases and sentences which appear to stand for facts of [a] two-term relational character, we would be led to the conclusion that in the great majority of such uses we are not [in fact] referring in any way to two-term facts at all.… Two individual objects can resemble one another in certain respects only; so that what will count as resemblance for one purpose, or when judged by one standard, will not count as resemblance for all purposes. Hence, in strictness, statements of the form ‘A resembles B’ require to be expanded into statements of the form ‘A resembles B when regarded or interpreted in a certain way, or by certain interpretant, C.’ Here, then, we have one example of apparently simple two-term relational facts which turn out to involve essentially three-term relations of signhood. [i.e., a process of interpretation as well]. And quite possibly a somewhat similar result would be obtained from the analysis of all apparently two-term relations save those of reaction and resistance between pairs of actual existents (1952: 192–193).

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Peirce’s third category is defned by Gallie as follows. ‘Tird is the conception of mediation, whereby a frst and a second [category statement of fact?] are brought into relation [with each other]. Tis process of ‘mediation’ is then somehow related by Peirce to the idea of natural or operative law, and then Gallie says: ‘Putting these two points together, Peirce proceeds to grope for—rather than reach—the frst distinctive tenet of his third category; viz. that the operation of a law is equivalent to a tendency for certain processes to develop, not only in a regular and predictable fashion, but in a continuous fashion (1952: 199). Summing up his understanding of this aspect of Peirce’s work, Gallie then has this to say: What is most original and important in Peirce’s categorical doctrine can now be summed up as follows: Every experience that we care to scrutinize and every state of afairs that we can imagine, display in some form each of three highly abstract characteristics—Firstness or Presentness, Secondness or Reaction, and Tirdness or Law. In any given experience one of these categories may be more prominent than the other two, but never in such degree as wholly to exclude them. Te main lesson to be drawn from the First category is that no limit can justifably be set on the potential qualitative variety of nature.… Te most important lesson suggested by the Second category is that we should take seriously so-called contingent facts —apparent accidents, coincidences and the like—since these, whether or not they be wholly fortuitous, display most clearly that character[istic] of facts which no law can possibly account for. Facts take place, compel, ofer resistance and reaction, here and now; laws do not—their action is essentially that of a tendency showing the eventual outcome of [that thing which] what does take place, compel, etc., [and is] here and now. Tis [then] suggests the main burden of Peirce’s Tird category [a combination of the other two as we have seen] viz., that the operation of natural laws cannot be regarded as something ultimate and unexplainable and therefore, by implication, fxed from eternity to eternity. On the contrary the operation of natural laws must be conceived by analogy with that of general signs which tend to produce habits of action to be exercised and developed into the indefnite future (1952: 203–204; emphasis in original).

Finally, discussing the problem of causality and the freedom or independence of the mind from matter, Gallie has this to say: Peirce’s categorial doctrine helps us to see the mistaken basis of the best known of all metaphysical problems. Te universality of each of the three

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categories requires that there shall be an element of real spontaneity, an element of brute compulsion, and an element of meaning or lawfulness in every conceivable state of afairs. It is therefore a sheer mistake to think of minds or mental actions as little islands of freedom in a universe that is otherwise subject to law or blind necessity; indeed the absurdity of this way of thinking is brought out [clearly] by the fact that we are ofen presented with the almost exactly contrary picture of human minds as pockets of purposive activity in a universe which is otherwise an afair of blind chance or chaos (1952: 209).

Here then we see we have, in embryo form at least, the beginnings of three-dimensional concept of ‘perspectivism’ in Peirce’s work. Here it is also worth noting Peirce’s disagreement with William James’ views on the subject of so-called ‘neutral monism’. While for James the entire universe is composed of the one same substance or ‘stuf’—neither mental nor material—the nature of which we simply cannot know, for Peirce it seems it is only those objects which we might well call one-dimensional which are truly monadic, while two-dimensional objects are relational (and see Mannheim on this point) and three-dimensional objects are those which in some sense—which unfortunately is not clearly explained by Peirce— seem to involve a process of ‘mediation’ between the frst two categories or dimensions and certain law like relations. Émile Durkheim comments further on this point (and see more on Durkheim below) that Peirce was completely opposed to William James’ rejection of rationalism (Durkheim, 1983: 6). ‘Peirce’, Durkheim argues, ‘never repudiated rationalism.’ For him, if action has any value, it is because it is a way of advancing reason’ (1983: 6). Before we leave this discussion of Gallie’s very interesting account of Peirce’s views on the subject of ‘perspectivism’—although we should note that Gallie himself nowhere uses this term—another major point of interest for us, at least as far as the concept of essentially contested concepts is concerned, is that Gallie provides us with at least three further very good examples in his study of Peirce of the kind of term which might well count as an essentially contested concept in his later essay on this subject. Since Gallie published Peirce and Pragmatism in 1952 he must presumably have written this sometime between 1950 and 1951, and hence about four or fve years before he wrote his essay on essentially contested concepts. Tis book therefore provides us with a guide to the background of his thinking when he was writing his essay on essentially contested concepts. Te three examples of an essentially contested concept that he mentions here— even though he does not yet call them such—are as follows: (1) the term

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‘Inquiry’ (1952: 85–92); the term ‘Inference’ (1952: 93–94) and the term ‘sign’ itself (1952: 109, and 112–114). To this is also added a discussion of the term ‘mutual’ by Gallie (1952: 45, 85 and 99) on which point Gallie has this to say: ‘Peirce gives a careful elucidation of some of the most important mutual relations between the words ‘belief’, ‘doubt’, ‘thought’, ‘knowledge’, and ‘experience’; and it is to achieve this elucidation that he introduces, in a technical sense of his own, the word ‘inquiry’ (1952: 85).

Tis being the case—and in the context of our interest in the concept of ‘perspectivism’—it then becomes a relatively easy matter to suggest that the six terms that Gallie refers to here might easily be included on the six-sides of a three-dimensional Necker cube concept of ‘knowledge’ which then, if these terms are taken together, might be said to describe a single or unifed ‘social phenomenon’. Belief, doubt, thought, knowledge, and experience are then, we see, all simply diferent aspects of the same general concept of ‘inquiry’ in Peirce’s work. Tus (1952: 85) the term ‘belief’ is defned by Peirce as ‘the establishment of a rule of action, or, say for short, a “habit”. We should also remark that a belief does not necessarily make us act at once, but rather ‘puts us into such a condition that we should behave in such a way when the occasion arises’. Similarly Peirce argues that ‘inference’ is the ‘essential function of the cognitive mind’ (1952: 84). Te concept of Intelligence (1952: 112) is then very nicely defned by Peirce as being ‘capable of learning by experience’.14 Finally, the concept of metaphysics is also extensively discussed by Gallie and defned by him in a number of very diferent ways. ‘Peirce’s account of the nature and logical status of metaphysics’, Gallie says, ‘are by no means easily unifed or rendered consistent with one another’, but of course these six defnitions are easily unifed and can be rendered ‘consistent’ with one another if only we take a perspectivist view of this question. Six major defnitions of metaphysics are given by Peirce as well as a seventh which is in fact his ‘three-dimensional’ view of the world as discussed above and which we therefore will not look into further again here and, rightly or wrongly, these are presented by Gallie (1952: 182) as being competing defnitions of the same term. But, of course, what is so interesting about these six defnitions from our present point of view is that, once again, it is a relatively easy matter to see how these very diferent defnitions of the concept of ‘metaphysics’ might easily be placed on the six diferent sides of a three-dimensional Necker cube and in this way made into a single

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complex defnition of the concept of metaphysics as discussed by Peirce. Te six defnitions Gallie cites are as follows: 1. Metaphysics seeks to give an account of the universe of mind and matter. 2. Its attitude towards the universe is nearly that of the special sciences from which it is distinguished by confning itself to such parts of physics and of psychics as can be established without special means of observation [i.e., as can be established simply by thinking about them?] 3. Metaphysics, even bad metaphysics, really rests upon observations, whether consciously or not; and the only reason that this is not universally recognized is that it rests upon [those] kinds of phenomena with which every man’s experience is so saturated that he usually pays no particular attention to them. 4. Metaphysical suggestions are merely adapted from those of formal logic, and therefore can only be apprehended in the light of a minutely accurate and thorough-going system of formal logic. 5. Metaphysical conceptions are primarily … thought about words or thoughts about thoughts. 6. Te list of categories … or ‘philosophical arrangements’ is a table of conceptions drawn from the logical analysis of thought and regarded as applicable to being. (Gallie, 1952: 182) Te infuence of Peirce’s views not just on the development of the concept of pragmatism, but also on W. B. Gallie concept of essentially contested concepts, is not to be doubted. III. Durkheim Lectures on Pragmatism and Sociology [W]hen one accepts that there is a single ‘truth’, when one does not understand that there is a reason for the diversity of judgement and opinion, one runs the risk of ending up in intolerance … .If truth is identical for all, conformity becomes the rule, [and] dissidence is an evil …’ (Durkheim, 1983: 20–21; emphasis added).

Durkheim’s lectures on pragmatism are mainly concerned with William James and hence are not of as much use to us as they would otherwise have been if Durkheim had been more interested in Peirce.15 Tis is because Durkheim’s main purpose in giving his series of lectures on pragmatism

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was, as he saw this, to defend the concept of reason—and by extension the concept of truth—from what he saw as the irrationalism of the pragmatists, and especially James.16 In fact, Durkheim not only criticises the pragmatists (excluding Peirce17) for their irrationalism, but he even goes so far as to argue that what they say is anti-French. France from the time of Descartes, Durkheim says, has been the home of rationalism and the entire French culture from the French Revolution onward is founded on this tradition. ‘If we had to accept the form of irrationalism represented by pragmatism’, Durkheim says, ‘the whole French mind would have to be radically changed’ (1983: 1). ‘If pragmatism were valid, we should have to embark upon a complete reversal of this whole tradition’. Pragmatism, which Durkheim claimed denies the very idea of ‘truth’, is also an attack on reason since ‘empiricism and rationalism’, according to Durkheim, ‘are basically only two diferent ways of afrming reason. Each in its own way insists on something which pragmatism tends to destroy, the cult of truth’ (1983: 1–2). ‘Empiricism bases its explanations on the nature of things, rationalism on reason itself, on the nature of thought. Both, however, recognize the obligatory nature of certain truths’ (1983: 2). ‘Both forms of dogmatism therefore consist in admitting that truth is given, either in the sensory world (empiricism) or in an intelligible world, in absolute thought or Reason (rationalism)’ (1983: 12). But this is just what is denied by pragmatism, which, in this respect, approaches sophism in the denial of all truths (1983: 2). According to the pragmatists, the world does not have the beautiful order that the rationalists perceive in it (1983: 27). Tus it is understandable that, since reality is not something which has yet been completed, truth cannot be something immutable (1983: 24). Tere is however one good thing to be said in favour of pragmatism and which Durkheim argues makes it worthwhile for us to consider here: it makes us reconsider again certain weaknesses in the ‘old’ rationalism [of the Enlightenment] which need to be reformulated in the 20th century (1983: 1 and 2). ‘Te problem’, Durkheim says ‘is to fnd a formula which will both preserve what is essential in rationalism and answer the valid criticism that pragmatism makes’ (1983: 2; emphasis added). However, in presenting his argument in this way, Durkheim distorts the problem we are considering and reduces the concept of ‘pragmatism’, in a way that is unfortunately all too typical of his usual method,18 to an essentialist ‘straw man’ that would have been entirely unrecognisable to most, if not all, of the main protagonists—Peirce, Dewey and Schiller certainly, if not perhaps James—in this debate. Despite the very great diversity of the

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pragmatists on any number of questions this does not prevent Durkheim from reducing the widely diferent views of James, Schiller and Dewey, and even sometimes Peirce, to that of a single school. Having done this to his own satisfaction, Durkheim then proceeds to destroy this essentialist concept of pragmatism which is in fact entirely of his own creation. ‘Tis diversity’ Durkheim says, ‘detracts to some extent from the unity of pragmatism … .and yet,’ Durkheim goes on to say, ‘it is not impossible to discover its basic theses and to fnd a common ground in them’ (1983: 10).19 But what if the pragmatists do not have a ‘general tendency’ that is ‘common’ to all of them, and what if this is precisely the reason for the considerable diferences between them?20 What is then criticised by Durkheim is a concept of pragmatism which is held by no one pragmatist philosopher in particular, not even James. ‘Te arguments we have described are not peculiar to James’, Durkheim says, ‘but are found in all other pragmatists, even if they do not always express their thought in such a well-defned way’ (1983: 33; emphasis added). But if they do not express their thoughts in this way—and here I am thinking in particular or Schiller and Peirce—why attribute these arguments to them at all?21 Why then should we consider Durkheim’s views on this school of thought at all if he presents his argument so badly? Tere are two main for doing this. Firstly because of what Durkheim has to say about the one-sidedness of James’s views on the subject of monism. But secondly, and this is perhaps the more important point, despite Durkheim’s one-dimensional view of the pragmatists he nevertheless does have some very interesting things about the concept of ‘truth’. (i) Durkheim on Perspectivism in James Durkheim provides us with some interesting references in William James’s writing on the subject of perspectivism which are worth mentioning here even though James himself does not (a) refer to the concept of perspectivism explicitly as such and more importantly, unlike Peirce, (b) does not appear to have had any real understanding of the implications of perspectivism for the argument he was presenting. Tus, as is well known, James described his own philosophy as being one of what he calls ‘radical empiricism’ (1983: 4) and Durkheim, commenting on this point, says that what this means for James is that: ‘For him, the only important things are those which appear in immediate experience: thought only ever moves on a single plane, not on two diferent planes’ (1983: 4; emphasis added). For James, ‘Everything takes place on the plane of phenomena’ (1983: 4; emphasis added). So here we can see clearly the infuence of Peirce’s perspectivist

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argument on James even though James does not develop this point himself. James clearly does not mean to deny that there are things underlying reality—although Durkheim seems to have thought that he did—but rather James is simply arguing that these things are unknowable to us as mere human beings. Tere might well be something else of course—I am sure that James thought there was—but this might simply be incomprehensible to us. But Durkheim, wrongly in my view, presents James’ argument as meaning that there is no such reality underlying the appearance of things. For James, Durkheim says, things do not possess this double aspect [dualism]. Tey all exist on the same level, on the same plane, and thought too moves on just this one plane (1983: 35). Having then constructed this onedimensional view of James’ empiricism and attributed this argument to Dewey too, Durkheim then criticises this view. According to Durkheim, neither James nor Dewey took into account the possibility that what they call ‘radical empiricism’ had already been resolved by what Durkheim calls ‘radical idealism’. Radical idealism, Durkheim says, ‘is only another way of expressing the continuist (sic) hypothesis of radical empiricism. Its authors [the radical empiricists] ‘would never have admitted such an interpretation’, Durkheim says, ‘but there is certainly a great afnity between the two concepts (1983:  35). We can now see, Durkheim says, that the radical pluralism of pragmatism is in fact nothing of the sort. Te idea does not imply absence of unity; it is what has been called an untidy unity. In one sense then it can be said that pragmatism is monistic (1983: 32–36). Man’s burning desire to transform [all] things is apparent in the thoughts of all the idealists. When we have an ideal, we see the world as something obliged to conform to it [to this]. Pragmatism however is not a form of idealism but a radical empiricism. What is there [then] in it which could justify such a desire to transform things? We have seen that for pragmatism there are not two planes of existence but only one, and consequently it is impossible to see where the ideal could be located (1983: 64; emphasis added).

Similarly James argues that there are ‘so many classifcations, each one of them good for so much, and yet not good enough for everything’ (Durkheim 1983: 19; emphasis added) and we can now see—even though James himself apparently could not—that this might almost serve as a defnition of the perspectivist thesis. For James more than the other pragmatists Durkheim says ‘there is also, between things and thought, simply a diference of aspect and point of view’ (1983: 40; emphasis added) and of

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course for ‘point of view’ or ‘aspect’ here we might just as well say ‘perspective’. A point is common to two lines if it lies at their intersection, James says (1983: 42), and one is reminded here of the discovery of the ‘vanishing point’ in renaissance painting where two lines which are supposed to be parallel ‘disappear’ when drawn in three-dimensional perspective on a two-dimensional plane. Durkheim, citing James, then goes on to say: ‘In the same way, an object can be at two diferent points in reality at the same time’, all of which of course is highly reminiscent of current thinking in quantum mechanics (and see the general conclusion to this study for more on this point). Similarly, James argues for a ‘pluralist conception of a malleable universe which presents itself to us not in a single guise but under forms which difer according to the way in which we wish to act on it’ (1983: 53), but rather than ‘act’ here, as James says, it would be much better from a perspectivist point of view to say that it is the way in which we view something that is most important here. Once more, Durkheim insists, the pragmatists’ pluralism ultimately leads to what is really monism; subject and object are made of the same substance (1983: 43). ‘Subject and object are therefore a single and identical reality which, in diferent circumstance, have diferent contexts’ (1983: 41; emphasis added). And Durkheim wonders ‘Whether with a given problem there is room for a plurality of mental attitudes all of which in a sense are justifed’ (1983: 91), and even goes so far as to say that ‘Everyone must be able to admit that someone else has perceived an aspect of reality which he himself has not grasped’ (1983: 92). Indeed they must and one wonders therefore why Durkheim could not have applied this insight to his own account of the pragmatist school of thought. (ii) Durkheim on the concept of ‘truth’ Much of Durkheim’s criticism of pragmatism and, as we have seen, especially of James, is directed against what the pragmatists have to say about the concept of ‘truth’. I have already argued that the concept of absolute truth is of little or no concern to the concept of perspectivism since perspectivism by and large accepts that what might well appear to be ‘true’ from one point of view may well appear to be ‘false’ from another point of view. However, although the concept of absolute truth does not have very much to do with the concept of perspectivism, the criticism of this concept most certainly does. In what follows then we will look at what Durkheim has to say about the pragmatists concept of truth in order to emphasise the perspectivist critique of this most troubling concept.

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According to James ‘Human truths are fugitive, temporary and perpetually in the process of transformation’ and, as James once famously said, ‘Today’s truth is tomorrow’s error’ (Durkheim, 1983: 18). According to Durkheim, the pragmatists—insofar as they can be treated as a school at all—criticise the idea of truth under the heading of dogmatism, by which they mean both the rationalist and empirical concepts of ‘truth’. ‘If truth is merely a transcription of reality’ what then is the purpose of truth? If that is all it is then it is ‘a useless redundancy’. Why do things need translating? (1983: 15). ‘If truth does nothing but duplicate reality, of what use is it? It seems useless.’ (1983: 13). However Durkheim argues against this that ‘We beneft from knowing the truth as it is’ (1983: 14). But is this really so? For James ‘Truth which had ceased to be fexible and malleable would be no more than “the dead heart of the living tree” ’(Durkheim 1983: 19). While for Schiller: ‘Why assume that even the ultimate “truth” must be one and the same for all? Why should not the “truth” [so to speak] adjust itself to the diferences of individual experience’ (1983: 19). Why indeed? Tere seems to be no very good reason from a perspectivist point of view why this should not be the case. Durkheim argues that the pragmatists accuse those who believe in eternal truths of supporting, even if only implicitly, a static conception of reality (1983: 21). Tis is the attitude that is characteristic of the rationalist mind which the pragmatists want to criticise (1983: 22). Herbert Spencer, a major infuence on Durkheim’s own sociology, is criticised by the pragmatists for basing his arguments on such notions as the indestructability of matter and the conservation of energy. Both these ideas are said by the pragmatists to be unfounded and unprovable and hence ideological. But Durkheim argues that such ‘Intransigent rationalism risks fnishing in scepticism since it places its ideal too high’ (1983: 19), at a level which in fact can never be attained. In Te Meaning of Truth James argues that ‘absolute or not absolute, the concrete truth for us will always be that way of thinking in which our various experiences most proftably combine’ (Durkheim 1983: 23). Reality is not something that is fxed and decreed. It advances ceaselessly with human experience (1983: 23). Te term “truth”, as Schiller says, is simply a “laudatory label” which is applied decoratively to our experience to indicate its value’ (1983: 44). ‘It is failure that characterises error’ (1983: 44). Te only diference lef between two orders of value—truth and falsity—is one of degree [quantity and] not kind [quality] (1983: 44). All judgements including judgements of truth as well as others are value judgements. For the pragmatists there is only one value and that is utility (1983: 44). ‘Truth here

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is a relation, not of our ideas to non-human realities, but of conceptual parts of our experience to sensational parts’. Concepts [on the other hand] have a quite diferent character (1983: 46). And Durkheim therefore asks whether: One might even wonder whether, for the pragmatists, there is properly speaking such a thing as ‘truth’ [at all]. We should rather speak of an identity between subject and object and that identity is so complete that there no longer seems any place for error (1983: 45; emphasis added).

Agreement with external things is therefore not the only condition of truth: internal repercussions must also be considered (1983: 51). For the pragmatists the word ‘truth’ is simply the ‘marrying of a previous part of our experience with newer parts’ (1983: 52). We have substituted the principle of verifability for verifcation (meaning that one does not actually have to verify something for oneself just so long as the thing in question is in principle verifable). ‘Truth lives in fact for the most part on credit’ (1983: 52) and for the most part we take other people’s word for this. Reality, like truth, is therefore largely a human product. Space, time and causation; all of these categories are by and large a human creation (1983: 53). But Durkheim argues that abstract ideas ‘coerce us’ (and see his Rules of Sociological Method for more on this point) and we cannot simply play fast and loose with them (1983: 53). Men (sic) have always recognised the truth as something that imposes itself upon them (and which hence to this extent is outside them). Such a universally held conception of truth cannot be entirely imaginary; it must correspond to something real. ‘It is one thing to cast doubt on the correspondence between symbols [for example language or mathematics] and reality, but it is quite another thing to confuse the things symbolized along with the symbols’ (1983: 68). Durkheim accuses the pragmatists of being utilitarians but he argues that their utilitarianism is of a peculiar kind which he therefore calls ‘logical utilitarianism’ (1983: 72). For James, Durkheim says (1983: 73), the truth is what is ‘expedient’, and in support of this point he cites James as follows: ‘Te truth, says James, is what is “expedient” in almost any fashion; and expedient in the long run and on the whole of course; for what meets expediently all the experiences in sight won’t necessarily meet all further experiences equally satisfactorily’ (1983: 75; James, 1907: 222). But Durkheim’s interpretation of what the pragmatists have to say here simply cannot be correct. Tis is because, as we have seen, the pragmatists—if they have a common view on this question in the frst place—do not believe in any such things as ‘truth’ at all. In trying

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to defend a concept of truth James is in fact the exception to this rule and of course it cannot be argued that the truth is expedient without admitting that there is such a thing as the ‘truth’, the very thing that most of the pragmatists, with the exception of James, are arguing against. Rather the pragmatic objection is against what we call the truth and it is this that they say is expedient. We human beings call ‘true’ those things which are very important to us indeed. Tese things which are in fact the very foundations of the society in which we live. Tese are those ideas—the concepts of religion or of the natural sciences for example—which we frmly believe in and hence, at which point, ‘belief’ and ‘truth’ become one and the same thing. But clearly this concept of ‘truth’ has nothing at all to do with the classical rationalist concept of truth that Durkheim is trying to defend. Durkheim was therefore wrong to suggest that the ‘pragmatists’ are advocating an expedient concept of truth—they were not: not even James I think—rather they are merely pointing out that this is how the concept of truth functions in society. As Durkheim himself says on this point in an earlier lecture—and in a passage that we can now see is strikingly reminiscent of Nietzsche’s concept of perspectivism—‘In contrast to rationalism pragmatism sees clearly that error does not lie on one side and truth on the other, but that in reality truth and error are mixed’ (1983: 68). Tere is then a very good summary by Durkheim in this chapter of what he once again takes to be the ‘essence’ of the pragmatist view on truth. Tis is as follows: (1) that truth cannot be immutable because reality itself is not immutable; hence truth changes in time; (2) that truth cannot be one because oneness would be incompatible with the diversity of minds [and] hence truth changes in space (1983: 69; emphasis added). Pragmatism, as Durkheim says himself, ‘has always had an intense feeling for the diversity of minds and the variability of thought in time’ (1983: 24; emphasis added). Pragmatism alleges that reality has changed, but Durkheim argues that this does not mean that what was formerly true is now no longer true (1983: 69). It just means that what was true has changed. (For example, once upon a time there was no life on this planet, but now there is, and indeed the planet itself did not exist at all, and now it does exist, but this does not mean that the former claim is false just that it is no longer true/no longer the case). And Durkheim argues that ‘If, as pragmatism maintains, there is no true idea but that [which is] constructed, there can be no given or established idea of truth that can [ever] be validated (1983: 72). In trying to defend the rationalist concept of truth Durkheim argues that, ‘we must look at truths which are not recognised as such [errors/ falsity] and examine why this is the case’ (1983: 83). What is it about these

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things which are so clearly and obviously false that makes them stand out as such? A representation is considered to be a true one, Durkheim argues, when it is thought to express reality (1983: 84). Truth imposes itself on men (sic) with an obligatory character. Tis is a collective representation (1983: 84 and 102). Even when we have worked out [our] personal beliefs we need to communicate [these] in order to be certain that we are not mistaken. How is it that several diferent minds can know the same world [the same truth] at once? However, if one admits that representation is a collective achievement it recovers a unity which pragmatism [with its individualistic rather than collectivist perspective] denies to it (1983: 85). Te experience of failure, disappointment and sufering tell us that our actions correspond to an inadequate representation [of reality] (1983: 86). Truth is therefore said by Durkheim to be similar to moral rules in this respect in having an impersonal and necessitating character (1983: 87). Te rationalists were accused by the pragmatists of seeing truth as … something given, achieved, [and] created simply to be contemplated (1983: 97). But while it is true that when we imagine truth as something ready-made we are obliged to see it as a transcendence (1983: 97), this does not, in Durkheim’s view, mean that there is no such thing as ‘truth’ [and hence no absolute truth]. Tere is then fnally one absolute characteristic of truth on which Durkheim insists … [and] that is its obligatory nature. We have seen that pragmatism—that logical utilitarianism as Durkheim calls this—cannot ofer an adequate explanation of the authority of truth, but this authority is easy to conceive once one sees its social aspect (1983: 98). Hence, there is a relative quality to truth which one is compelled to recognise historically (1983: 101) and which the pragmatists have highlighted. [Truth] is something which imposes itself on us; and that something is an authority; the authority that comes from collective feelings. ‘Truth’ then for Durkheim is what the collectivity says it is (1983: 101) and, if this is the case, the pragmatists’ view that the concept of truth is whatever is ‘expedient’ is not that far from what we can now see are Durkheim’s own highly relativistic views on this question.22 Finally, when Durkheim is not discussing pragmatism in terms of the concept of truth, he conceives of it as a form of action theory. For the pragmatists he says ‘Knowledge is conceived primarily as an instrument of action. Tis is precisely the thesis of pragmatism’ (1983: 44). Tis perspective on pragmatism will help us to understand other aspects of [the] pragmatist doctrine. In that doctrine, the sole function of ideas is to guide our action (1983: 45; emphasis added). Te origin of this process of knowledge [the pragmatic view] is the idea of something to be done, and the fnal

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stage of this process is not the contemplation of the object which has been fnally encountered (as is the case with rationalism) [but rather whether anything useful has been achieved]. Verifcation consists of discovering whether the action will be successful, whether it will produce the expected efects’. (1983: 48). But what Durkheim is actually describing here is Dewey’s views on this question and this only further serves to indicate the extent to which Dewey and James (and for that matter Peirce and Schiller) simply cannot be subsumed under the same general heading. According to Durkheim, ‘Dewey parts company with James on the issue of satisfaction: the moment of satisfaction to himself’ (1983 48). Te initial idea may be false and yet satisfaction [a certain ‘ft’ been action and outcome] may still be obtained (1983: 49). Durkheim gives a rather poor example here of an unwell man who is persuaded—by a placebo treatment perhaps—to become better. Durkheim calls this recovery ‘false’, but obviously this is not really so, since the person does recover afer all. A much better example might be that of a religious charlatan. Te charlatan benefts from the money that the congregation gives to him—he is therefore successful—but everyone else is poorer to this extent. If the truth is to be useful it is impossible not to take the principle of satisfaction into account, Durkheim says (1983: 50). Te true idea, says James, is one that ‘helps us to deal’ with things (1983: 50). We need to be in agreement with things (1983: 51). We fnd consistency satisfactory since this somehow ‘makes sense’ to us (1983: 51). ‘What verifes ideas is the ‘acts which they cause us to engage in’ (1983: 79). But, Durkheim comments, ‘examples of such [practical] applications are infrequent in the accounts which pragmatist give of their thought’ (1983 60) and this shows that pragmatism is a largely abstract/theoretical school of thought with very little practical application. Conclusion In this chapter I have argued that pragmatism—or more accurately the pragmatism of C. S. Peirce, if not that of James or Dewey or Schiller—is very closely related to the perspectivism of Nietzsche—a close ‘cousin’ as I have described this—and might even have infuenced Mannheim’s thinking on this subject, but I think it is important to note that pragmatism and perspectivism do not overlap with each other at any point and hence pragmatism cannot be said to be the same thing as perspectivism or even to be a modifed version of this. Perspectivism shares with pragmatism a dislike of the concept of absolute truth but does not go as far as pragmatism in

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claiming that all truth must therefore be relative. Perspectivism does not claim that one argument or viewpoint is as good as any other, but rather insists that all viewpoints are equally worthy of consideration even though they might not all be as extensive or as comprehensive as one another. It is in this crucial respect therefore that perspectivism may be said to be an advance over the problems that have undermined the philosophy of pragmatism. With the sole exception only of those perspectives which are vexatious, perspectivism insists that all views are equally worthwhile, but it is simply that some have a more limited object of enquiry than others while some are talking about something else altogether. Providing only we say clearly what our actual object of enquiry is —providing only that we know what this is ourselves—objective explanations are possible in this strictly limited sense in the social sciences. As Peirce says on this all important point: But no doubt what it means is that the objectivity of truth really consists in the fact that, in the end, every sincere inquirer will be led to embrace it—and if he be not sincere, the irresistible efect of inquiry in the light of experience will be to make him so. Tis doctrine appears to me, afer one subtraction, to be a corollary of pragmatism … I call my form of it ‘conditional idealism.’ Tat is to say, I hold that truth’s independence of individual opinions is due (in so far as there is any ‘truth’) to its being the predestined result to which sufcient inquiry would ultimately lead. I only object that, as Mr Schiller himself seems sometimes to say, there is not the smallest scintilla of logical justifcation for any assertion that a given sort of result will, as a matter of fact, either always or never come to pass and consequently that we cannot know that there is any truth concerning any given question; and this, I believe, agrees with the opinion of M. Henri Poincaré, except that he seems to insist upon the non-existence of any absolute truth for all questions, which is simply to fall into the very same error on the opposite side (Peirce 1955: 288; emphasis in original).

Notes 1. Peirce himself appears to have claimed priority for this idea. In an essay written in 1906 and rather despairingly called ‘Pragmatism in Retrospect: a Last Formulation’ (Peirce, 1955: 269–289). ‘As late as 1893’ [Peirce says; and hence before James popularised the term in 1898] ‘when I might have procured the insertion of the word in the Century Dictionary, it did not seem that its vogue was sufcient to warrant that step’ (1955: 271) and he even implies, just before this reference, that he might have used this term as early as his 1878 Popular Science essays, had he cared to do so except, as he says ‘In those medieval (sic) times, I dared not in type use an

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English word unrelated to the perceived meaning’ (Peirce is presumably referring here to word ‘pragmatic’, which of course has a much earlier currency). 2. Russell (1978) gives the example of London and Edinburgh. Edinburgh is ‘north of’ London, but ‘Tere is no place or time where we can fnd the relation ‘north of’. It does not exist in Edinburgh any more than in London for it relates to the two [equally] and is [therefore] ‘neutral’ between them (1978: 56). 3. I am of course thinking of the 1969 Joni Mitchell song ‘Woodstock’ here which includes the lines ‘we are star-dust, we are golden, we are billion year old carbon, and we’ve got to get back to the garden’. 4. I am very grateful to Professor Trevor Hussey, formerly of Buckinghamshire New University, for explaining this very difcult—not to say entirely obscure—concept to me. However, I wish it to be known that I do not absolve Trevor, in the usual way among academics, from all responsibility for my interpretation of James’ views on this question, but, on the contrary, I hold Trevor entirely responsible for what I have to say here. 5. Tat pragmatism took an explicitly religious turn in the writing of William James is not in dispute, see for example his book Te Varieties of Religious Experience. In his lectures on Pragmatism and Sociology Durkheim says that James distinguishes fve kinds of such experience—the reality of the unseen, optimism, religious pessimism, spiritualism, and conversion— on all of which Durkheim comments that “Tis choice seems to me to be quite arbitrary” (1983: 60–61). Te only theoretical justifcation of religious belief in James’s book, Durkheim says, is to be found in the fnal chapters... He sees the basis of the religious life in the idea that there is something greater than ourselves (1983: 63). According to James, ‘We must therefore admit that there is something apart from the material world and even apart from consciousness as it [the material world?] appears to us’ and this something else may as well presumably be called God as much as anything else. 6. In an essay entitled ‘What Pragmatism Is’ published in a journal called the Monist, Peirce says that he prefers to use the term ‘pragmaticism’ because as he rather bitterly says ‘this is ugly enough to be safe from kidnappers’ which strongly implies that he—even if no one else did— thought that his earlier use of the term pragmatism had been purloined by others, i.e., James (Peirce, Collected Works; volume 5: 414; cited in Durkheim, 1983: 6 and 115). 7. On this point about a vexatious argument it is worth noting the following comment from Joseph Schumpeter. ‘Evidence for … a proposition’ he says ‘may be so overwhelming that we may refuse the challenge as vexatious. But since there is no logically binding rule for deciding what is and is not vexatious, we must on principle be always prepared to meet the challenge: we have no logical right to reply that the challenged proposition is ‘obvious’; and we are committing a defnite error, if we call it ‘evident’’ (Schumpeter, 1994: 1003; emphasis in original). It is in order to try to establish just such a logical cut-of point that I am considering what the pragmatists have to say here. 8. One is irresistibly reminded here of the novel Flatland, a Romance of Many Dimension by Edwin A. Abbott, published in 1884, which describes a one-dimensional world called by Abbott ‘Lineland’, a two-dimensional world called ‘Flatland’, and a three-dimensional world called ‘Spaceland’. Abbott also has a no-dimensional world called ‘Pointland’. 9. Red is apparently the one colour that something which appears to be red is not. Tis is because objects absorb most of the colours in the spectrum of light except for the one colour which they appear to be which is refracted. In this sense then an object is every colour other than the one which it appears to be. 10. Gallie (1952: 104–105) says that Peirce’s theory of knowledge appears to want to have things both ways. Perceptual judgment are to count as hypotheses … [while] at the same time they are to count as absolute frst premises’. But Gallie asks ‘is there any reason why he should not have them so? Peirce would maintain [that ] just because his three categories are universal, every snippet of the ‘objective history of the universe’ must exemplify each of them, must be, from

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one point of view, of a one-term or monadic character, but from other points of view of a dyadic [two-term] or triadic [three-term] character (Gallie, 1952: 184–185). And Gallie continues: It might well be that if we were to analyse closely all our uses of words and phrases and sentences which appear to stand for facts of [a] two- term relational character, we would be led to the conclusion that in the great majority of such uses we are not [in fact] referring in any way to two-term facts at all … Two individual objects can resemble one another in certain respects only; so that what will count as resemblance for one purpose, or when judged by one standard, will not count as resemblance for all purposes. Hence, in strictness, statements of the form ‘A resembles B’ require to be expanded into statements of the form ‘A resembles B when regarded or interpreted in a certain way, or by certain interpretant, C.’ Here, then, we have one example of apparently simple two-term relational facts which turn out to involve essentially three-term relations of signhood. And quite possibly a somewhat similar result would be obtained from the analysis of all apparently two-term relations save those of reaction and resistance between pairs of actual existents (1952: 192–193). 11. Although the term ‘quanta’ or ‘quantum’ were in widespread use in physics, and more generally elsewhere during the 19th century, it was not until afer 1900 at the earliest that Max Planck and others began to speak of ‘quantum mechanics’ in opposition to the ideas of Newtonian mechanics. 12. Tere is a very interesting reference in Ernest Nagel’s book Te Structure of Science (1979: 312) in which Nagel argues that Charles Sanders Peirce was an early pioneer, and perhaps even a precursor, of quantum mechanics. Tis is what Nagel has to say on the subject: Te conception that all the laws of physics represent merely average or statistical regularities was vigorously championed by Charles Peirce, long before the advent of quantum mechanics. Te work of Boltzmann on the statistical interpretation of the second law of thermodynamics certainly appeared to confrm his thesis. Peirce’s idea was revived in independent form by the Viennese physicist Exner, who in turn stimulated Schrödinger to develop it in the light of more recent physical discoveries. But in any event, the view that all physical laws are basically statistical and [hence] acausal has been af rmed by Eddington, among others, as a direct consequence of modern quantum theory. “Tere is no strict causal behaviour anywhere”, he declared. “it is impossible to trap modern physics into predicting anything with perfect determinism because it deals with probabilities from the outset.” (Nagel, 1979: 312; emphasis added). 13. Gallie does not say, and I cannot fnd out otherwise, if either Peirce or Saussure had ever heard of each other. Tere is no reference of any kind to Saussure in the collected works of Peirce, but we do know from Durkheim’s book on Pragmatism and Sociology that some of Peirce’s essays on Pragmatism—but not on semiotics—had been translated into French and published in the early part of the 20th century. Saussure’s best known work, his course on linguistics, was not translated into English and published in America until 1916, by which time both Peirce and Saussure had both recently died. Henri Bergson is a possible common link to both writers (in Peirce’s case via William James who acknowledges Bergson as a major infuence) but it seems most likely that both writers—working in a common intellectual milieu—came up with these same ideas independently of one another, perhaps afer reading the philosopher John Locke, whom Peirce acknowledges as an infuence. 14. In this context think of the Channel Four advert in which Homer Simpson has climbed up a tree to get a pack of four cans of Duf beer that somehow have become suspended on an electricity power cable. Every time Homer stretches out from the tree to reach the beer cans

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he gets a severe electric shock. Does this stop Homer doing this? No it does not. Clearly then Homer is not an intelligent being, (something that we really knew all along) since he is incapable of learning by experience. 15. Te infuence on Durkheim’s sociology of Peirce’s views on pragmatism are unclear. Peirce’s 1877 and 1878 essays in the journal Popular Science Monthly were reproduced in what Peirce himself refers to as a French ‘redaction’ in the Revue Philosophique (Vol. VI, 1878, p. 553 and Vol. VII, 1879, p. 39) and his work seems to have been well known in France afer this time. We know that Durkheim was familiar with the Revue Philosophique because he wrote a letter to the editor of the journal to complain about a too psychological interpretation that had been given to his concept of social facts by Gabriel Tarde (Durkheim, 1982: 253–254). Tere is then an essay by Peirce entitled ‘Te Scientifc Attitude and Fallibilism’, which was written sometime between 1896 and 1897, which reminds one very strongly of Durkheim’s lectures on the subject of Moral Education (Durkheim 2002: 99–100; Smith, 2014: 214–217) however I have not yet been able to establish if the essay was translated into French or indeed whether Durkheim might have read this in English. Either way the similarity is striking. In this essay, Peirce speaks of there being ‘three classes of men’ (sic). Te frst consists of those for whom the chief thing in life is the qualities of feelings. Tese men create art. Te second consists in the practical men who carry out the business of the world and of whom Peirce says only power is of any interest. While ‘the third class consists of those for whom nothing seems great but reason’. Commenting on this third ‘group’ Peirce says ‘If they do not give themselves over completely to their passion to learn, it is because they exercise self-control’ (1955: 42). Now all of this is highly reminiscent of a passage in Durkheim’s lectures on Moral Education frst delivered in the year 1903 and then repeated in 1905, where these same sentiments are repeated almost exactly word for word. (Durkheim, 2002: 99–100). Te infuence of Peirce on Durkheim’s sociology here seems undoubted, although it worthwhile to note here that Durkheim, in his usual way, makes no reference to Peirce in his lectures on Moral Education (Smith 2014) and may even possibly have been unaware of this infuence himself. At other times however the infuence seems to be the other way round. Tus, writing in the late 1890s in an essay entitled ‘Te Principles of Phenomenology’, Peirce has the following to say on the subject of ‘facts’ which is remarkably similar to Durkheim’s views on this question in his second book, Te  Rules of Sociological Method, frst published in 1895. Facts also concern subjects which are material substances. We do not see them as we see qualities, that is, they are not in the very potentiality and essence of sense. But we feel facts resist our will’. Tat is why facts are proverbially called brutal (Peirce, 1955: 77; emphasis added). Did Peirce read Durkheim’s Rules? It seems unlikely that we will ever be able to answer this question defnitively. All we can say with any certainty is that Durkheim’s writings were well known in America at the beginning of the 20th century and were widely reviewed in the American Journal of Sociology of which Durkheim was listed as an advising editor as early as its second issue in September 1895, and continued to be so listed until the outbreak of World War One (Tiryakian, 1966: 336). 16. Durkheim’s main concern with pragmatism—his only interest in this school of thought I think—had to do with what he saw as the irrationalism of the philosopher Henri Bergson (1983: 27; 32). Indeed I do not think it would be too much of an exaggeration to suggest that where Durkheim criticises ‘James’ he really means Bergson (see for example 1983: 27, 28, 32, 33, 47 and the whole of lecture 20: 93–95). Why not then just give a series of lectures criticising Bergson? Focusing on James’s idealism allowed Durkheim to defend the concept of rationalism much better than a similar focus on Bergson’s writings, or still less on the writing of the much more materialist and much less idealist C. S. Peirce, would have done. 17. In fact, as Durkheim says himself, ‘Peirce did not repudiate rationalism. For him, if action has any value, it is as a way of advancing reason’ (1983: 6). And this is of course the main reason

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why Durkheim excludes Peirce from his critique of the pragmatists. ‘Tere are thus’, Durkheim says at the beginning of his second lecture on pragmatism, ‘three chief protagonists of pragmatism: Dewey, Schiller and James’ (1983: 9). 18. See for example on this point Durkheim’s discussion of the concept of ‘socialism’ (Smith 2014: 174–180). 19. ‘In Te Meaning of Truth James declares that he shares Peirce’s ideas. Schiller recognizes James as his master. Dewey, although he expresses some reservations, difers from James mainly on particular points’ (1983: 10). ‘Increasingly our difculty will be the lack of agreement about the theses of pragmatism. Each writer presents the doctrine in his own way. Just as was the case with the negative aspects, no complete overall treatment is available’ (1883: 36). Nevertheless, Durkheim says, ‘Despite several divergencies, there is … a general line of thought which is followed by all those who share these view. Te fact that no co-ordination has been achieved can only make the work all the more interesting’ (1983: 36; emphasis added). ‘What I am chiefy trying to do’ Durkheim says in the introduction to his third lecture on the subject of pragmatism ‘is to identify the general tendency that is common to its [pragmatisms] various representatives, and to discover what has led them to this way of thinking’ (1983: 15). 20. Rather than present pragmatism is this way it would obviously have been much better from a perspectivist point of view if Durkheim had simply put all four of the main philosophers of pragmatism—Peirce, James, Dewey, and Schiller—on four diferent sides of the same three-dimensional object and then, for good measure, thrown in a couple of other pragmatist philosophers too—let us say Bergson and Henri Poincare for example—so that instead of the badly one-sided essentialism of Durkheim’s argument we might have been treated to a genuinely three-dimensional account of this school of thought. 21. A fnal example of this kind of thing might be mentioned here. In his ff h lecture Durkheim’s criticises the pragmatists critique of what they call the ‘copy theory of truth’, concepts which they say are a mere copy of reality and which, as such, they argue are useless from a theoretical point of view (1983: 28 and 32). Truth, Durkheim argues, presupposes judgements and judgements presuppose concepts. Concepts are cut out from the stream of our experiences. Conceptual thought lives by distinction, while the world is continuous and vague and confused. Tis antithesis explains the great prestige that has always been given to concepts. Conceptual thought longs for fxity and hence for precision and clarity; it is very aloof to all that is feeting. ‘Te ruling tradition in philosophy has always been the platonic and aristotelian belief that fxity is nobler and more worthy than change’. (1983: 31). Te laws of non-contradiction do not apply to reality, Durkheim says, only to the concepts we make up about this; only these need to be consistent (1983: 32). But no sooner has he said this than he then goes on to say that, as a matter of fact, ‘Actually none of the pragmatists really think that conceptual thought is useless even though it is not a copy of reality’ (1983: 32). But then, if this is the case, why criticise them for doing what they do not in fact do and for saying what they do not in fact say? ‘For the pragmatists, a concept is certainly the idea of reality, of something which really exists, and James frequently insists on this point’ (1983: 47). But then, if this is the case, why accuse him of saying one thing when he is clearly saying something else? 22. In a way that is highly reminiscent of Max Weber, Durkheim argues that the concept of truth only really applies to concepts as such—abstractions from reality—and hence that it is only in the world of concepts as such that there is [complete] certainty. Tere is certainty when we are sure that concepts apply to reality (1983: 100). Concepts are abstract and cold and do not in themselves have the qualities necessary to motivate action (1983: 100). Tere are two kinds of concepts to which certainty can be attached. Tese are (1)  concepts which express given achieved states and (2) those which express states [yet] to be achieved (1983: 100). But for there to be real certainty we must make a judgement, name our impressions [and] subsume them in

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a concept (1983: 102). Teoretical certainty [is] only another form of practical certainty. In this [respect] we remain frmly Kantian (1983: 104). When the Socratics discovered that there were fxed representations they were full of wonder; and Plato felt impelled to hypostatize, almost to make divine, these fxed thoughts (1983: 104). Everything collective tends to become fxed [over time?], and to eliminate the changing and the contingent.

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Part Two Application of the Concept of Perspectivism to a Number of Different Concepts in the Social Sciences

Te sociological view of classes acceding to power undergoes transformation along particular lines. Tese sociological theories, like our contemporary everyday conception of the world, embody the conficting “possible points of view” which are nothing but the gradual transformation of earlier utopias.1 What is peculiar to this situation is that in this competitive struggle for the correct social perspective all these conficting approaches and points of view do not by any means “discredit” themselves; i.e., do not show themselves to be futile or incorrect. Rather it is shown with increasing clarity that it is possible to think productively from any point of view, although the degree of fruitfulness obtained varies from position to position. Each of these points of view reveals the interrelationships in the total complex of events from a different angle, and thus the suspicion grows that the historical process is something more inclusive than all the existing individual standpoints, and that our basis of thought, in its present state of atomization does not achieve a comprehensive view of events. Te mass of facts and points of view is far greater than can be accommodated by the present state of our theoretical apparatus and systematizing capacity. (Mannheim, 1976: 226; emphasis added).

Preface to Part Two

T

here are any number of issues which we might have chosen to illustrate the perspectivist method, not the least of which is the debate over the nature of social class, as the above quotation from Karl Mannheim’s essay on the subject of ‘Te Utopian Mentality’—chapter IV of his book Ideology and Utopia—makes clear. However since I have already published a number of essays on the subject of social class (Smith, 2002a; 2007; 2009; 2012) it will perhaps be as well to take this opportunity to illustrate the perspectivist method in terms of a number of other concepts in the social sciences to which this philosophy, as outlined in Part One of this book, might equally well be applied. Te four concepts I have therefore chosen to look at in detail in Part  Two of this book are the social scientifc concepts of (1) Power, (2) Equality, (3) Crime and (4) Sex and Gender. Tese concepts have been chosen not only because they are all fundamental concepts in the social sciences but also because there have been long running debates in the social sciences about the ‘true’ or ‘correct’ nature of these concepts and the proper use of these terms, as W.B. Gallie would say, or their standard general form as I would rather describe this. All four concepts also seem to me to lend themselves particularly well to the idea that what we need here in order to resolve these long standing disputes is some kind of multi-dimensional approach to this problem and, as we shall see, two of the major participants DOI: ./-

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in these debates—Steven Lukes in the case of ‘power’ and John Hagan in the case of ‘crime’—have actually gone so far as to suggest a multi-dimensional approach to these questions themselves, while Peter Saunders in the case of ‘equality’ does much the same thing, but without ever quite saying so explicitly. Only the concept of ‘sex and gender’ then (and by extension, as we will see, the concept of homosexuality and heterosexuality too) have not yet been considered from this point of view. In what follows I will argue that Lukes, Saunders and Hagan’s attempts to develop a genuinely three/four-dimensional perspectivist concept of power, equality and crime are for various diferent reasons unsuccessful, but that by criticising each attempt in turn we can see how this might easily be done, and then, once we have done this, we will try to apply the lessons learned in the case of the concepts of sex and gender to the, as I will argue, highly problematic concepts of homosexuality and heterosexuality too.

1. For Mannheim even conservatism—once ‘radical’ in its own way—is a transformation from an earlier conservative utopia (1976: 212].

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Chapter Five Power as a Mutually Contested Concept

F

irst published in 1974, Steven Lukes’s short book Power: A Radical View, is still probably the best known example today of an attempt to apply W. B. Gallie’s ideas on essentially contested concepts to a concept in the social sciences. More recently (2005) Lukes has updated his argument slightly but without changing this in any essentials. Lukes explicitly refers to Gallie at two points in his earlier book (1983: 9 and 26) and even went so far as to claim that his own concept of power provides us with a ‘third dimensional’ concept by contrast to two other concepts which he criticises in this book and which he characterises as the one and two-dimensional views. At frst sight then Lukes’s argument looks highly promising from our present point of view, that is to say, treating sociological phenomena as three (or more) dimensional objects which can therefore be viewed from a number of diferent ‘sides’ or perspectives and where, once this is done, we are able to see that it is the ‘objective’ form of these highly complex sociological phenomena that accounts for disagreement over their (a) ‘true’ nature or meaning and/or (b) the proper use of the concepts or terms in question. However the major problem with Lukes’s argument from a perspectivist point of view is that, despite all the references he makes to the diferent ‘dimensions’ of power, he does not in fact present us with a three/four-dimensional concept of power at all, but rather presents us with what he quite explicitly claims is his own third dimensional view of this DOI: ./-

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concept—another ‘side’ of the concept as it were rather than a genuinely three-dimensional view of the concept itself—in opposition to the two other major concepts of power which he criticises, the pluralist view of Robert Dahl and the critical reaction to this by Peter Bachrach and Morton Baratz. As Lukes says on this point: I shall try to show why this view is superior to alternative views. I shall further defend its evaluative and contested character as no defect and I shall argue that it is … empirically useful in that hypotheses can be framed in terms of it that are in principle verifable (despite currently canvassed arguments to the contrary). And I shall even give examples of such hypotheses—some of which I shall go so far as to claim to be true (Lukes, 1983: 9; emphasis added).

So far then from developing a mutually contested concept of power (Smith 2002a), Lukes in fact makes a virtue of the essential contestedness of his own relentlessly one-sided view of this concept and even seems to glory in its value-laden character. Te intuition to develop a genuinely threedimensional concept of power is there it seems, but he fails to deliver on this early promise. Staying within the bounds of relativism, Lukes misses the opportunity presented to him by Bachrach and Baratz’s critique of Dahl’s concept to develop the idea of the two ‘faces’ of power into a genuinely three/ four-dimensional concept. However, even though Lukes does not take this opportunity for himself, we may do so for him. Let us therefore look at Lukes’s third dimensional concept of power in more detail beginning with his critique of what he calls the one and two-dimensional views of power of Dahl and Bachrach and Baratz. I. The One and Two-Dimensional Views of Power Lukes outlines his own ‘third-dimensional’ view of power in the frst three chapters (Ch.2–4) of his book, Power: a Radical View. (a) The ‘one dimensional’ view of power. Te one dimensional view of power, as Lukes calls this, is more commonly known as the pluralist thesis. Tis is the view advocated in particular by Robert Dahl, Nelson Polsby, Raymond Wolfnger and others, in opposition to the elite theories of Gaetano Mosca, Vilfredo Pareto, Roberto Michels and C. Wright-Mills. Te pluralists argue that there is more than one locus (and hence a ‘plurality’) to the concept of power. Undoubtedly

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the best known of these pluralist views is Dahl’s famous study of decisionmaking Who Governs? Democracy and Power in an American City in the city of New Haven USA, the location of Yale University where Dahl also taught (Dahl, 1961). Dahl’s famous defnition of power in Who Governs? is as follows: A has power over B to the extent that he (sic) can get B to do something that B would not otherwise do (Lukes, 1983: 11–12)

Te main criticism of this defnition, and of the pluralist argument more generally, is that it is only concerned with power that is direct, which here means actually observable, and only with confict; what does not therefore involve observable confict does not concern the pluralists and is by defnition not an aspect of power as far as they were concerned. Te main problem with this very one-sided view of power is of course that it does not consider as an example of power those cases where someone might initiate a policy but no confict arises. Tese events do occur, the pluralists think, but are not examples of power where power is defned as an aspect of a decision making process. Where there is no decision making process then this is not an example of power. At frst sight the pluralist argument seems absurd; everyone knows that ‘power’ is frequently at its most extreme when no opposition to it arises. However, this is not to argue that the pluralist view is incorrect. It might well be the case that Dahl’s concept of power does apply fairly well to the decision making process in an American city—Dahl’s object of study afer all—and that, in this context, the exercise of power which does not result in observable confict would be better called something else altogether (authority or infuence perhaps) where power itself—defned as actually observable confict—is understood to be something diferent from this. Tis is undoubtedly the pluralist view of the matter since no one can reasonably suppose that the pluralists were unaware of power relations which take place outside the decision making process. Rather, it is just that this is not what they are interested in studying or what they are trying to defne. Lukes then concludes his discussion of the pluralist argument as follows: Te one dimensional view of power involves a focus on behaviour in the making of decisions on issues over which there is an observable confict of

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(subjective) interests...expressed as a policy preferences revealed by political participation (Lukes, 1983: 15).

And although Lukes does not explain what he means by the qualifcation ‘subjective interests’ here, I understand him to mean power that takes place at an interpersonal level. (b) The ‘two-dimensional’ view of power. Te main critics of the pluralist concept of power were Peter Bachrach and Morton Baratz frst in two journal articles (‘Te Two Faces of Power’; American Political Science Review, 56, 1962: 947–52; and ‘Decision and Non-Decisions, an Analytical Framework’, APSR, 57, 1963: 641–52) and then eventually in a book published in 1970, Power and Poverty. Teory and Practice. Bachrach and Baratz begin by agreeing with the pluralist view that while power in overt political settings is of course refected in concrete decision making processes, they also argue that in addition to this: [P]ower is also exercised when A devotes his (sic) energies to creating or reinforcing social and political values and institutional practice that limit the scope of the political process to public consideration of only those issues that are comparatively innocuous to A (Bachrach and Baratz, 1970: 7)

An example of this type of power would be: To the extent that A succeeds in doing this, B is prevented, for all practical purposes, for bringing to the fore any issues that might in their resolution be seriously detrimental to A’s set of preferences (1970: 7)

Bachrach and Baratz then argue that power has ‘two faces’ (1962: 947), one that is visible and which is studied by the pluralists, and the other which, while still observable, is nevertheless much more difcult to detect and is ignored by the pluralists. Te main point being made here is that powerful people may well create or reinforce barriers to the public airing of policy matters which they do not want to discuss (for example in the case of ‘decision making’ about the future of the monarchy in the UK or for example of the continuation of Northern Ireland as a part of the so called United Kingdom). As Steven Lukes says on this point, ‘some decisions are organised into politics and

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some are organised out’ (Lukes, 1983: 16). We might well call this type of power—the type of power some people just seem to have without apparently needing to do anything to maintain this—‘dominance’ (Weber 1978). Lukes then points out that Bachrach and Baratz’s typology of power embraces several diferent things including: coercion, infuence, force, manipulation and authority (Lukes, 1983: 17; 2005: 21–22). Coercion occurs where compliance is secured by some kind of threat. Infuence occurs when A causes B to change his (sic) course of action without resort to threats. Force occurs when someone is stripped of the choice between compliance and non-compliance. Manipulation (which is more controversial) is said to occur in the absence on the complier’s part of recognition of the demands being placed upon him (sic), while authority—which Bachrach and Baratz’s argue is also an aspect of power—occurs when B complies because he accepts that a command given by A is reasonable in terms of his (the complier’s) own values or has been legitimately arrived at through a reasonable decision making process; in other words when B agrees with what is being done. Now this point—that such coercive or other than obvious types of power do in fact exist, or that things like this might well be considered to be aspects of power by most reasonable people—this argument is so obvious that one wonders how anyone could go on disputing the matter, but in fact, like any genuinely essentially contested concept, this did not stop the debate. For example, Dahl et al. simply would not accept that authority is an aspect of ‘power’ at all. When a person complies because they agree with the decision made this cannot be considered as an example of power, they argued, since this would mean that the powerful person too was also subject to such power since they too comply with this decision being made. Te  pluralists appeared to think that this was a devastating argument against their critics, but as a matter of fact, where ‘power’ is defned broadly as any constraint on one’s freedom to do something, it is perfectly possible to argue without contradiction that powerful people too are equally constrained in the decisions they make as well as the values they hold. One respect in which Bachrach and Baratz are still like Dahl et al., is that they share the pluralists commitment to observable confict; if something is not observable and does not involve confict then, for Bachrach and Baratz, it simply is not an aspect of power. As they say on this point (Lukes, 1983: 19), if there is no confict, overt or covert, the assumption must be that there is consensus on the prevailing issue and power has not been exercised. Tis is a good point I think since if ‘there appears to be universal

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acquiescence in the status quo’ then it must be impossible ‘to determine empirically whether the consensus is genuine or instead has been enforced through non-decision making.’ Such an objection can only be overcome by positing ‘real interests’ to people which they are said to be unaware themselves and, in these cases, it is difcult to see how such an argument— however attractive this might seem to be at frst sight—can be supported. If someone is said to be unaware of their own interests how are we to establish that something is in fact in their interest or even what an ‘interest’ is? Lukes then sums up the ‘two-dimensional’ view as follows: [T]he two-dimensional view of power involves a qualifed critique of the behavioural focus of the frst view (I say qualifed because it still assumes that nondecision-making is a form of decision making) and it allows for consideration of the ways in which decisions are prevented from being taken on potential issues over which there is an observable confict of (subjective) interests, seen as embodied in express policy preferences and sub-political grievances (Lukes 1983: 20; 2005: 24–25).

Nothing would then have been easier for Lukes to conclude that while Dahl and his colleagues have presented one side of the concept of power— the decision making process as I think we might call this—Bachrach and Baratz have then rounded out the behaviourist argument. Tere are indeed other hidden dimensions to power—things like brute force and coercion—and Dahl et al. are therefore wrong to neglect these. What is more, Bachrach and Baratz even go so far as to suggest that the concept of power has diferent ‘faces’ some of which are more apparent than others, and this suggestion is of course highly suggestive of a genuinely threedimensional concept of power in which observable decision making is seen as one side of this concept (and an important one at that) while force, manipulation, coercion, authority and infuence are then represented as the other fve sides of the same three-dimensional object (see Fig. 5.1 below). Astonishingly however, despite all the good work that Bachrach and Baratz have done before him, and despite the fact that he actually uses the term ‘dimension’ himself, Lukes does not do this. So committed is he to his own view that the concept of power is irredeemably evaluative and hence essentially contested—by which he means that there can never be any agreement on the proper use of this term—he abandons all the good work that has been done for him by Bachrach and Baratz and tries instead to establish his own ‘third dimensional’ concept of power in opposition to their view.

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Decision making Manipulation

C

cio oer

n

y

rit

o th

Au Influence

Force

Figure 5.1: The six sides or faces of power II. Steven Lukes’s Concept of Power and Matthew Crenson’s Study of Air Pollution (c). The ‘three-dimensional’ view of power. Te so-called ‘three-dimensional’ view of power, which I will argue is not a genuinely three-dimensional concept of power at all but simply a third side of this highly complex concept, is Lukes’s own ‘radical’ defnition of power. Whereas the pluralist presented us with an entirely one-sided view of power, focusing on observable decision making in confict situations, while Bachrach and Baratz, without really disagreeing with the pluralists, emphasises the second ‘face’ of power: observable non-decision making in situations of at least potential confict, Lukes’s own view, as he says himself, involves a radical departure from both the frst and second dimensions of this concept. Lukes’s concept emphasises the hidden, or as he describes this himself, the latent ‘real interests’ of subjects of which they may well be unaware themselves. According to Lukes, ‘it is highly unsatisfactory to suppose that power is only exercised in situations of … confict’ (1983: 23; 2005: 27). [I]s it not the supreme and most insidious exercise of power to prevent people...from having grievances by shaping their perceptions, cognitions and preferences in such a way that they accept their role in the existing order of things, either because they can see no alternative to it, or because they see it

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as natural and unchangeable, or because they value it as divinely ordained and benefcial? To assume that the absence of grievance equals genuine consensus is simply to rule out the possibility of false or manipulated consensus by defnitional fat (Lukes 1983: 24; 2005: 28).

At frst sight this is a highly persuasive argument. It may well be, as Lukes says, ‘the most insidious form of power’ to shape people’s minds such that they do not even begin to articulate grievances. But the problem for any such concept of power, as Lukes is only too well aware, is how are we to demonstrate that this is the case and, in particular, how are we to distinguish a situation in which people have a grievance which they are unable to articulate (so-called ‘false’ or manipulated consciousness) from (b) a situation in which in fact they do not have a grievance at all but are quite happy to go along with the prevailing order of things (in other words a genuine consensus)? Since it is highly likely that in any empirical enquiry both these very diferent situations would appear to be exactly the same, how can Lukes defend the perspective he is presenting here? He summarises his ‘three-dimensional’ view of power as follows: Te three-dimensional view of power involves a thoroughgoing critique of the behavioural focus of the frst two views as too individualistic and allows for consideration of the many ways in which potential issues are kept out of politics, whether through the operation of social forces and institutional practices or through individuals’ decisions. Tis moreover can occur in the absence of actual observable confict, which may have been successfully averted—though there remains here an implicit reference to potential confict. Tis potential, however, may never in fact be actualised. What one may have here is a latent confict, which consists in a contradiction between the interests of those exercising power and the real interests of those they exclude. Tese latter may not express or even be conscious of their interests, but, as I shall argue, the identifcation of those interests ultimately always rests on empirically supportable and refutable hypotheses (1983: 24–25; 2005: 28–29; emphasis in original).

As the above reference makes clear, the key to the success of Lukes’s own concept of power is to establish empirically that there are such things as latent or hidden real interests which consist in a contradiction between the interests of those exercising power and the ‘real’ interests of those that the powerful exclude. But, as Nelson Polsby says, how can one study, let alone explain, what does not happen? Lukes claims to be able to do this by

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introducing what he called a ‘counterfactual condition’ to the concept of power, to the efect that if A had not done something (or failed to do something) B would have otherwise acted (or failed to act) diferently (Lukes, 1983: 41; 2005: 44). To support this argument Lukes then gives a detailed account of a 1971 study of air pollution carried out by Matthew Crenson in two neighbouring steel producing towns in Indiana, USA (Te Un-politics of Air Pollution: a Study of Non-Decisionmaking in the Cities) which Lukes says provides us with empirical evidence of just such a counterfactual condition at work. However, I will argue that Lukes attempt to demonstrate this counterfactual argument is in fact unsuccessful. (d) Matthew Crenson and the ‘Unpolitics’ of Air Pollution. One of the steel towns studied by Crenson, East Chicago, Indiana, took action to clean up its air as early as 1949, while the other, Gary, Indiana, did nothing very much about air pollution until 1962; indeed, as Lukes explains, the issue of clean air simply did not arise in Gary (Lukes, 1983: 42; 2005: 45). Lukes claims that Crenson shows convincingly that U.S. Steel efectively prevented the issue of air pollution even being raised in Gary through what he described as its ‘power reputation’ with the town (1983: 43). Moreover, Lukes claims that U.S. Steel ‘did all this without acting or entering into the political arena’ (1983: 43; emphasis added). Te problem here is of course to show how such lack of action—the absence of any overt action by U.S. Steel—is to count as empirical evidence of the exercise of power in this case? Te success of Lukes’s argument depends on two things. He must not only show that being polluted was not in the ‘real’ interests of the people of Gary Indiana but also that U.S. Steel, the company concerned, had a continuing interest in polluting Gary Indiana from 1949 until 1962. In fact however he does not do either of these things. Like Crenson he devotes quite a lot of time to trying to prove that not being polluted is in the real interests of the people of Gary—in the real interests of everyone in fact—but he cannot overcome the objection to this argument that it might well have been the case that the people of Gary preferred to be polluted but still to be employed as steel workers rather than not polluted but unemployed (the fate of so many former steel towns in the U.S. today). While, other things being equal, the people of Gary would undoubtedly have preferred not to be polluted if they could still be employed, it may well have been in their interest not to protest too much about pollution if this had led to the closure of the steel mill responsible for much of the employment in what Lukes himself characterises as a company town. According to Lukes himself, US Steel

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built Gary—built the town—and was responsible for much of its prosperity (Lukes, 1983: 42). Lukes then comments on this point: Crenson’s analysis is impressive because it fulfls the double requirement mentioned above: there is good reason to expect that, other things being equal, people would rather not be poisoned (assuming, in particular, that pollution control does not necessarily mean unemployment)—even where they may not even articulate this preference; and hard evidence is given of the ways in which institutions, specifcally U.S. Steel, largely through inaction, prevented the citizens’ interest in not being poisoned from being acted on...Tus both the relevant counterfactual and the identifcation of a power mechanism are justifed (Lukes, 1983: 45)

But the assumption here that ‘other things are equal’ is just the one that cannot be made in this case. Other things are not equal here—U.S. Steel own Gary—and protesting about air pollution might well have led to the closure of an inefcient steel mill. What is more, if the people of Gary Indiana were ‘really’ so bothered about the problem of air pollution why didn’t they simply move to the neighbouring steel town of East Chicago which had already cleaned up its act since 1949? Lukes might argue that they were simply unaware—unconscious even—of their ‘real’ interest in the matter. But in this case the real power issue would not be the actions or inaction of U.S. Steel but the public ignorance of the long term efects of pollution on the environment, a situation which was common in the U.S. before the 1960’s and which presumably also afected the managers of U.S. Steel and their families living in the town at that time? In which case Lukes would have to argue not only the people of Gary, Indiana, but also the managers of U.S. Steel living in the town, would be subject to the dominant power regime. Far worse however, from Lukes’s point of view, is his complete failure to show that it was in fact in the interest of U.S. Steel to continue to pollute Gary Indiana until 1962. Te directors of the company might have thought that this was so, and it is easy to suppose that the short term profts of the plant in Gary might have been increased by failing to control pollution in the town. But what of the long term interests of the company? Might these not have been better served by cleaning up their act much sooner than they did (especially when one considers the number of high profle legal actions taken against companies like U.S. Steel on just this sort of issue since the 1960s) and might not U.S. Steel—now (in the 21st century)

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needing the protection of the U.S. Government against cheaper and much more efcient foreign competition—have been much better of if they had modernised their steel production in the U.S. in the early 1950’s, or perhaps even moved this abroad, rather than continuing with a discredited and outdated policy until 1962? Even if the directors of U.S. Steel thought it was in their best interest to continue polluting Gary until the 1960s this does not mean that it was so, and if it is possible to argue that the people of Gary were falsely conscious of their own real interests, then it must also be possible to argue that the directors of U.S. Steel too were ‘falsely conscious’ of their own best interests. Furthermore, Lukes and Crenson present no actual evidence anyway to show that the directors of U.S. Steel did think that polluting Gary was in their best interests; rather this is just assumed. Lukes then provides us with the following defnition of his allegedly ‘third dimensional’ point of view. Power he says occurs in the following case: A exercises power over B when A afects B in a manner contrary to B’s interests (Lukes, 1983: 34)

But, as I have argued, this is precisely what Lukes does not show is the case in Gary Indiana. He does not show that it was in the best (or ‘real’) interests of the people of Gary to have clean air if this meant they would be unemployed, and consequently he cannot demonstrate that U.S. Steel did exercise power to bring about an outcome which was contrary to the interest of the people of Gary. Further Lukes argues that a latent confict consists in a contradiction between the interests of those exercising power and the real interests of those they exclude from the decision making process (1983: 25), but in fact this is just what he is unable to prove is the case here since it may well have been in the best interests of U.S. Steel itself to clean up its act in Gary much sooner than it did. However, just because the Lukes/Crenson attempt to demonstrate the existence of latent power in the context of air pollution is unsuccessful in this case does not mean to say that any such attempt to establish latent power in terms of other issues apart from air pollution must also be unsuccessful. It might just be possible to argue that the real interests of a sector of the population can unequivocally be established in terms of the issue of poverty in the USA today, no one having an interest in being poor, as it were, whereas some people might as we have seen have an interest in being polluted. But even in this case it is not at all clear that the poor in

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America are unaware of their own interest any more than the polluted or Gary Indiana were unaware of their own best interest. A very good illustration of poverty in the US in the 21st century was provided by the Observer Newspaper in 2002 about the town of New Haven, the home of Yale University and oddly enough the location of Robert Dahl’s 1961 study of decision making in an American city. According to journalist Ed Vulliamy: Te number of Americans living below the ofcial poverty line of $18,104 a year for a family of four has shot up to 33 million—from 11.3 to 11.7% per cent. Tat’s the frst increase since 1992. While President Bush’s windfall tax breaks to the super-rich breezed through Congress (with Democratic help), the proposed rise in the minimum wage is frozen. Te proportion of children without health cover has increased from 63.8 per cent to 67.1 per cent (Vulliamy, 2002: 22)

New Haven, Vulliamy says, is the USA’s fourth poorest city ‘where the ghetto laps at the walls of a university worth $11 billion (£7bn) in tax exempt endowment’ (Vulliamy, 2002: 22). Yet New Haven is in America’s richest state, Connecticut, which has proportionally more millionaires than any other state in the country. A community pressure group in New Haven asked the university to donate a single day’s interest on its investment endowments—the sum of $5.2 million—to the city’s public schools (a clear example of political participation in Dahl’s decision making terms), but received no response from the university. ‘Yet Connecticut’s Aids prevention budget has just been cut by 30 per cent—due, says America’s richest state, to the economic downturn (Vulliamy, 2002: 22). Here then, I suggest, is a clear cut ‘counterfactual’ case of Lukes’s one-sided view of power where people would protest against being poor if only they were not powerless to do so. No one can argue that the poor of New Haven—not even if they happened to work for Yale University or other enterprises in the town that rely on the university—have a continuing interest in remaining poor in order to keep Yale University from closing down or moving somewhere else instead. Unlike a steel mill, there is no chance that Yale University will move to another town or move abroad, while it is possible to argue that the rich of New Haven and the super-rich of Connecticut do have a continuing interest in keeping the poor poor so that they will continue to work for low wages. What is more there is clear evidence of decision making in this case since representatives of the poor of New Haven have asked Yale University for help but have been ignored

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while, at the same time, the government of the State of Connecticut has cut programmes that might well have beneftted the poor. Tere is then a clear confict of interest in this case between the powerful in New Haven Connecticut and those who are relatively powerless to do anything about this but even here there is no evidence that the poor of New Haven are unconscious of their own best interest in this case and every reason to believe that they are only too well aware of this. III. A Genuinely Three-Dimensional View of Power (Weber, Gramsci, and Foucault) In this section, in order to round out Lukes’s remarkably one-sided defnition of power, I propose to look very briefy at the writings of Max Weber, Antonio Gramsci and Michel Foucault on the subject of power. It might seem unfair to criticise Lukes for failing to incorporate into his own account of power (frst published in 1974 and therefore presumably written even earlier than this), scholarship on the subject of power which has been published since the early 1970s. In fact, however, this moratorium on criticism probably only applies to Michel Foucault whose major writings—with the exception of the History of Sexuality—had already been published in English by 1974, but which were perhaps not as well-known at that time as they have become since. As far as Antonio Gramsci and Max Weber are concerned however, Lukes mentions both of these in passing in the frst edition of his book but does not give either as much attention as they deserve. In what follows therefore we will look very briefy at all three of these authors in order to see how Lukes might have presented a genuinely three-dimension view of power. (a) Weber Much of the debate on the nature of power in the social sciences is a debate with Max Weber [1864–1920]. Lukes mentions Weber in his original essay (Lukes, 1983: 10), but has surprisingly little to say about him other than the fact that he seems to regard him as a baleful infuence on the pluralists and the precursor of their views. None of Weber’s works are listed in the bibliography at the end of Lukes’s 1974 essay although there is now a discussion of Weber in the third essay (entitled ‘Tree-dimensional Power’) of the 2005 book. It is not possible to do justice to Weber’s writings on power here as these are far too extensive and would require a separate essay by themselves.

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In some respects all of Weber’s sociological writings might well be said to be concerned with the subject of power. However, what I think we can say here is that Weber’s major discussion of this question in Economy and Society (Ch. 9, section three onwards, Ch.10 and Ch.11) takes place at three distinct levels which I think we might well call—although Weber himself does not do this—the macro-sociological level (the great powers, states and nations), the meso-sociological level (class status and party; the distribution of power within a community), and the micro-sociological or interpersonal level (bureaucracy, domination, authority, legitimacy, tradition). Weber’s discussion of power at the macro-sociological level is concerned with what he calls power relations between ‘political communities’. He uses this term rather than the more modern ‘nation state’ because he wishes to be able to discuss power in medieval city states as well as well power exercised by nation-states and the power of international (supranational) communities. His conceptual minimum—below which something may no longer be called a ‘political community’—is the ‘forcible maintenance of orderly dominion over a territory’ (1978: 901) and he argues that the use of violence in these cases is normal. All political structures of this kind, Weber thinks, use force (1978: 910). Tis is therefore true by defnition in Weber’s concept of political communities since, if they do not use force, they are not in his view political communities. Weber’s discussion of power at what I call the meso-sociological level—that is to say, somewhat in between the very large (supranational) and very small (interpersonal) scale—is basically concerned with the exercise of power within what he calls communities, by which he seems to mean any group of associated people, but which I think we might more usually call power within particular territories or nation-states. At the meso-sociological level Weber identifes what he calls three main ‘orders’ (1978: 927); the social order, the economic order and the legal order, and he then goes on to describes as the ‘status order’ the way in which social honour is distributed within the community between typical groups participating in the distribution of power. Te economic order defnes the way in which economic goods and services are distributed and used while the status order is strongly infuenced by the economic order and in turn reacts upon it. Weber believed that power is not only or even usually motivated economically, but that very frequently the striving for power is also conditioned by the social honour this entails. Te social order and status order are related to the legal order in a similar way. Power may be guaranteed by the legal order, but normally it is not their

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primary sources. Law can however infuences the distribution of power in communities (1978: 926). social order

economic order

status order

legal order Figure 5.2: The various diferent ‘orders’ of power It is under this heading that Weber then presents his famous discussion of class, status and power (1978: 926–939) which also includes one of his two major discussions of the concept of ethnicity. It would have been convenient if we could have said at his point that the micro-sociological level of power in Weber’s writing is concerned solely with interpersonal power relations between individual people or, at least, with power relations within families, and it is true that this is mostly what Weber is concerned with here—see for example his extensive discussion of patriarchy as a case in point here (1978: 1006–10)—but unfortunately this is not all that Weber discusses under this heading. In fact the concept of micro-sociological power overlaps quite badly with the concept of meso-sociological power (for example in relation to Weber’s discussion of bureaucracy) and might even be thought to undermine the basis on which any such hard and fast distinction between the diferent ‘levels’ of Weber’s sociology can be made. Weber is in fact concerned with all three levels of power at all times, and this is therefore both the main strength and the major weaknesses of his concept of power. Still, even if we only maintain the heading of micro sociological power for purely analytical reasons—something which Weber himself would surely have approved of—we can say that Weber is mainly concerned with the question of ‘domination’ here which he claims constitutes a special case of power (1978: 941). For Weber domination is one of the most important elements of social action; in most of the varieties of social action domination plays a considerable part even where this is not obviously the case.

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Domination occurs mostly at the interpersonal level but this is not always the case because Weber gives as an example of domination the use of an ofcial language in schools. In fact Weber goes on to claim that domination has played the decisive role in the economically most important social structures of the past (e.g. the Manor) and the present (for example large scale capitalist enterprise) and he therefore defnes dominance as follows: domination will thus mean the situation in which the manifest will (command) of the ruler or rulers is meant to infuence the conduct of one or more others (the ruled) and actually does infuence it in such a way that their conduct to a socially relevant degree [?] occurs as if the ruled had made the content of the command the maxim of their conduct for its own sake. Looked upon from the other end [i.e., from the point of view of the ruler?] this conduct will be called obedience. (Weber, 1978: 946)

Here patriarchal authority (which for Weber includes the domination of men over women—as in its modern interpretation—but also that of older men over both younger men and all women) would be very much an example of domination for Weber and perhaps even the exemplary case. As Weber says, the ‘ultimate grounds for the validity of domination’ (1978: 953) is legitimate authority. Without legitimacy domination would not be domination but quite simply naked power. As is well known, Weber thought that legitimacy could be achieved in three general ways; rationally (by reasoned argument), traditionally (by customary practice) and charismatically (by the personal authority of a ruler over the ruled) (1978: 954–956). Under the heading of micro-power Weber also includes signifcant discussions of the development of bureaucracy (1978: 950–990) and, foreshadowing Foucault (see below), a major discussion of disciplinary power (1978: 1148–1156). Finally, it might not be inappropriate, before we leave the subject of Weber’s views on the concept of power, to give one or two of Weber extant defnitions of this term. In Economy and Society, 1978, Vol. I, Weber’s famously defnes power as follows: A. ‘Power’ (Macht) is the probability that one actor within a social relationship will be in a position to carry out his own will despite resistance, regardless of the basis on which this probability rests (Weber, 1978: 53).

Weber then distinguishes power from domination, as follows:

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B. ‘Domination’ (Herrschaf) is the probability that a command with a given specifc content will be obeyed by a given group of persons.

Weber then defnes ‘Discipline’ as: ‘Discipline’ is the probability that by virtue of habituation a command will receive prompt and automatic obedience in stereotypical forms, on the part of a given group of persons.

And then, almost as though he is making a note to himself not to forget exactly how difcult it is to defne this particular sociological phenomenon, Weber follows up this tri-partite (or, as I think we might now say, this genuinely three-sided defnition of power) with the following comment (1978: 53): 1. Te concept of power is sociologically amorphous. All conceivable qualities of a person and all conceivable combinations of circumstances may put him in a position to impose his will in a given situation. Te sociological concept of domination must hence be more precise and can only mean the probability that a command will be obeyed (emphasis in original).

And Weber says that: 2. Te concept of discipline includes the habituation characteristic of uncritical and unresisting mass obedience (1978: 53).

For Weber then power does not mean A can get B to do what he or she wants, or even (as for Dahl) that A can get B to do something he or she would not otherwise do, but refers only to the probability that A can get B to do something. Tis probability might be very high indeed, indeed almost overwhelming, but Weber seems to hold open the possibility that someone might in fact, in any particular given situation, resist the will of the powerful who might not then always be able to get their own way however powerful generally speaking they are. (b) Gramsci Lukes mentions Gramsci’s Prison Notebooks at one point in his earlier essay on power (Lukes, 1974: 47–48) and then again returns to a discussion of this in the conclusion to his 2005 revised essay on this subject. Lukes was clearly

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infuenced in his own thinking about the ‘real interests’ of U.S. Steel workers by Gramsci’s writings on the subject of “hegemony”, a term which—at least in translation—had already been used by Max Weber, but which, in the context of Weber’s writing, appears to have something more to do with the subject of ‘despotism’ (Weber, 1978: 945), Central to any understanding of Gramsci’s views on the concept of power is that he developed his views on this question while he was himself a prisoner and therefore relatively powerless. A leader of the Communist Party in Italy in the 1920s, Gramsci [1891–1937] was arrested and imprisoned by the fascist government of Benito Mussolini in 1926 and was not released until 1935 shortly before his death in 1937. Tis fact is not merely of biographical interest to us because Gramsci’s writings on the subject of power are highly infuenced by the failure of the Italian people to liberate him from his incarceration. Why, Gramsci wondered, did the Italian people support fascism and go along with the teachings of the Catholic Church, and why couldn’t they see that he personally, as a leader of the Communist Party in Italy, and the Communist Party more generally, knew what is best for them or what, in other words, was in their ‘real interest’? Te answer was quite clear Gramsci thought. Tere must be something more to the question of power in society than mere economic interest or the coercive force of the State and this something—a hidden force of some kind—is what made it so very difcult, if not impossible, for the Communist Party to achieve a successful revolution in Italy. Tis hidden ‘something’ is what Gramsci called “hegemony”. What then is ‘hegemony? Gramsci makes a useful distinction between two major levels: at one of which direct domination occurs while the other is indirect. [One] can be called ‘civil society’, that is the ensemble of organisms (sic) commonly called ‘private’, and that of ‘political society’ or ‘the State’. Tese two levels correspond on the one hand to the function of ‘hegemony’ which the dominant group exercises throughout society and on the other hand to that of ‘direct domination’ or command exercised through the State and ‘juridical’ government (Gramsci, 1971: 12).

‘Hegemony’ then, on this account, is concerned more with the private sphere and the kind of control that is exercised by the dominant group in this area—for example by the family or the Church—rather than direct control—for example over crime or warfare—which the dominant group

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exercises through the State and the judiciary. Gramsci also describes something else which he called ‘social hegemony’ and here he seems to have had in mind: Te ‘spontaneous’ consent given by the great masses of the population to the general direction imposed on social life by the dominant fundamental groups; this consent is ‘historically’ caused by the prestige (and consequently confdence) which the dominant group enjoys because of its position and function in the world of production (1971: 12; emphasis added)

Te reference to prestige here is of course highly reminiscent of Weber (although we have no way to know whether Gramsci was himself aware of this) and what he says about consent being given historically might easily be included under the heading of what Weber has to say about tradition. Gramsci’s discussion of hegemony in the Prison Notebooks breaks of at this point but is then resumed again (1971: 207/208) where he discusses the concept of civil society. Here Gramsci defnes civil society as the political and cultural hegemony of a social group over the entire society and there then follows a really impressive quotation, the most important in the entire book, which describes what he means by this term. Civil Society, Gramsci says, is a ‘sturdy structure’ which stands revealed behind the state in Western society and he goes on to say that: Te state was only an outer ditch, behind which there stood a powerful system of fortresses and earthworks [defending the dominant interests] (1971: 208)

Te system of fortresses that Gramsci seems to have in mind are frstly the Catholic Church, secondly the family, and thirdly the dead hand of tradition preventing anything but the most gradual change, and it is these three things more than anything else, Gramsci thinks, that constitute hegemony and prevented the Communist Party from making a successful revolution Italy. But this suggestion creates a number of problems for Gramsci. If the ‘power’ of hegemony really was strong enough to prevent a communist revolution, why was the Fascist Party so easily able to come to power in Italy the 1920s and in Germany in the 1930s? Why didn’t the ‘earthworks’ of hegemony, the trenches lying behind the repressive walls of the state, oppose the rise of Fascism just as much as communism if they really were

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such a powerful force? Why in fact, were the Italian establishment and the Catholic church so much in favour of the fascist March on Rome in 1923 and why did the walls of the Italian State crumble quite so easily to this assault? Secondly, is it really in the best interests (the hidden ‘real’ interests) of the people of Italy to support the Communist Party rather than the fascists anyway? Is it really the case that the best interests of the Italian people are being hidden from them by the oppressive ‘private’ forces of Italian society (the family, the church and the state) rather than, as might well have been the case, that it just was not in their interests to support a communist revolution at all? As I say, much of what seems to be motivating Gramsci’s writing here is his own situation. However, the element of personal biography in his writings need not obscure for us the power of what he says. Tere is clearly something to be said for his idea that the overt power of the State is only one aspect of power in society even if Gramsci himself (a) cannot quite explain the exact nature of this other power—a power that, without needing to do anything, simply favours those who support the status quo—and (b) even if this kind of power had already been described by Weber long before Gramsci under the heading of tradition. (c) Foucault Lukes does not mention Foucault in his 1974 discussion of power but, writing thirty years later, he cannot help doing so in his essay entitled ‘Power Freedom and Reason’ (chapter two of his 2005 book) not least because of the striking similarity already extensively commented on by David Garland in the context of criminology and by Bob Carter in the context of ‘race’ between Weber and Foucault’s work on this question (see Garland, 1991: 177–180 and Carter, 2000: 28–36). Much like Gramsci’s writings in the Prison Notebooks, the importance of Foucault’s writings on the subject of power has been grossly overstated in recent scholarship.1 Tis is because much of what he has to say has already been said before him by, for example, Weber on the subject of disciplinary power (Weber, 1978:1148–1156), and also by Nietzsche on the subject of genealogy (Garland, 1991: 136). Much of what Foucault says is both interesting and relevant and he has undoubtedly drawn attention to this perspective, but all this it seems without giving full credit to his predecessor where this is deserved. In the bibliography of Discipline and Punish for example there are no references at all by Foucault to either Weber or Nietzsche although, rather bizarrely, Foucault does cite Karl Marx. As David Garland writing in the early 1990s says on this point:

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Amidst all the clamour and acclaim that currently surrounds Foucault’s work, it is quite possible to overstate its originality and its distinctiveness, and indeed I will argue...that many of Foucault’s main themes are already well developed in the work of Friedrich Nietzsche and Max Weber (1991: 131)

More recently Bob Carter in his book Realism and Racism (2000) makes a very similar point in relation to Foucault’s view on the subject of power and discourse (2000: 28–36). Although written from the perspective of the concept of ‘race’ Carter’s critique provides us with a very good account of Foucault’s views on the subject of power and is therefore worth looking at in some detail here. According to Carter, Foucault’s main interest is in the various ways in which human beings are made into certain types of social actors...consumers, conservatives, parents, heterosexuals’ (Carter, 2000: 28). For Foucault ‘discourse’ (a key term in Foucault lexicon), refers to all the: various modes of seeing, knowing and talking about the world that are made available...by society’ (Carter, 2000: 28).

Diferent discourses come together to form what Foucault calls a ‘regime of truth’; that is they mutually sustain, support and validate a particular way of knowing about the world (2000: 28). In this respect then, Foucault’s idea of a regime of truth is not unlike Gramsci’s idea of hegemony. Crucially, for Foucault, to be able to name something (for example, the concept of homosexuality) is to put it in its place; this then determines what is the proper way of knowing the thing in question. Tis is why Foucault sometimes views power as creative: the power to create something. Tis is also the link between knowledge and power. To know something is to say defnitely (or defnitively as we might well say) what it is. To know something then is also to objectify it (2000: 29). To name something Is then objectification

Is the power to create it Knowledge of this thing

Figure 5.3: Naming as power –173–

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Carter also discusses Foucault’s views on the subject of ‘moral technologies’ (2000: 29) which refers to all the things that shape us, based on social beliefs about what is right and wrong. Carter refers to this ‘unusual coupling of terms’ as covering simultaneously modes of surveillance and the means through which social subjects come to be [both] fabricated and individuated. Tis idea of moral technologies is then closely related to the idea of ‘Governmentality’. Te regulation of the body and the formation of the self go hand in hand for Foucault, and the process of individuation and surveillance within which these take place are designated by Foucault by the neologism ‘governmentality’. And Foucault argues that governmentality and regimes of truth need to be studied ‘geneologically’, or what we might otherwise more usually call ‘historically’, but where the concept of ‘history’ too is understood to refect the internal relations of particular ‘regimes of truth’ existing at any given time. (And see also on this point Nietzsche’s work Te Genealogy of Morals; and Garland’s discussion of this: 1991: 137). Carter criticises Foucault’s views on this question because he argues that any such approach is evaluatively neutral (by which I understand him to mean that we cannot say whether something like racism is right or wrong). Tis is because it abandons any notion of transcendental truth that is good for all places and all times. Rather than beginning from the assumption that racism is pathological or aberrant, ‘genealogy instead examines the ways in which discourse and practices generate an experience of race’ (Carter, 2000:30). And Carter therefore claims that this view results in a ‘persistent relativism’ in Foucault’s work and hence to an idealist separation of knowledge from its object (2000: 33). Carter then goes on to consider Foucault’s views on the subject of ‘power’ more specifcally and he argues that while these are more interesting than his views on the subject of regimes of truth they are equally subject to the same criticism of relativism. Foucault’s main challenge in constructing his concept of power is to develop what he describes as ‘juridical-sovereign’ notions of power or what he elsewhere calls a ‘repressive’ notion of power; that is the idea that one person or persons has power and represses others who do not have power. In doing this he criticises almost everyone else’s idea of what ‘power’ is, and since it is highly unlikely that what everyone else has said on this question before him is simply wrong, this raises the interesting possibility that Foucault, like Lukes, is simply discussing one aspect of power or perhaps some other concept altogether. Against the established view, Foucault urges a model of power that is:

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(a) difusely distributed throughout social relations and (b) which is constitutive of such relations Tis view of power has been called ‘capillary’, from the Latin ‘capilus’ meaning hair or any fne or thin walled structure that forms interconnections between two other structures (Hoy 1986: 134 cited in Carter: 31) and would seem to bear some relation to Gramsci’s idea of earth-works thrown up behind the outer walls of the State. Te major object of Foucault’s view of capillary power would seem to be to criticise Marx and Weber’s views on this subject, which Foucault for some reason refers to as ‘proprietorial’ (Carter 2000: 54). For example, Foucault explicitly rejects Marx’s view that a social world without power—a communist society for example—is possible. A society without power for Foucault is not a society at all and it therefore follows that once we have any kind of society we unavoidably have power relations by defnition. All social interaction involves power relations and power therefore equals ‘social’ relations. Power is also productive of knowledge, and without knowledge there is no power. Clearly then this is a very diferent concept of ‘power’ from that of Marx and Weber and, this being the case, it would seem that there must be a very strong case for calling it by some other name altogether (hegemony perhaps?). Power and the resistance of power have a symbiotic relationship according to Foucault (Carter, 2000: 31). As power operates to overcome resistance, resistance prompts a more intense exercise of power, and one causes the other to get worse. Tis is an attractive idea, but in fact this cannot really be the case since, if this were so, power would increase exponentially as we resisted it. As we have seen, power is not only the exercise of power but it might even be said to be more complete when it is not exercised, while resistance to power does not always strengthen power, but sometimes undermines this. Similarly, if Foucault were right ‘power’ would actually decline as we failed to resist it and clearly this is not the case. It is not ‘power’ then, as such, but rather the exercise of power that would decline, and this is presumably what Foucault meant to say all along. Foucault’s view of power as an activity—as the exercise of power (and see also Weber, 1978: 902 on this point)— is therefore not unlike Dahl’s concept of power. What does not involve activity—i.e., the kind of control and domination traditional practices have over us—is, it seems not ‘power’ at all but something else altogether. According to Carter then (2000: 35), for Foucault the key political struggle of modernity is the struggle against the hegemony of humanist

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discourse and ‘the simultaneous (a) individualisation and (b) totalisation of modern power structures’ that accompanies this. Regimes of truth and their associated ‘moral technologies’ possess the capacity to make individuals subjects. Teir power rests precisely on their ability to determine identities with historically contingent knowledge (for example to identify someone, a. by name, b. by address, c. as a male or female, d. as a doctor or lawyer or parent, etc.). Te more we reveal our identities and tell the ‘truth’ about who we are within such knowledge regimes the deeper our attachment to them becomes (Carter 2000:35). Hence psychology, criminology, and medicine are just such ‘regimes of truth’ (2000: 36) and today of course so too are Facebook and Google etc. Apart from his views on discourse and power, Foucault is probably best known today for what he has to say about so-called ‘disciplinary power’; that is to say, the development in factories, schools, hospitals and mental asylums etc. of a very similar type of discipline employed by the military and in prisons. Foucault’s writings on this subject have already been extensively criticised by Garland (1991: 157–162), Garland’s main criticism being that much of what Foucault saw as a historically modern form of disciplinary power actually predates the modern period (e.g., in monasteries for example). But Garland also points out that much of what Foucault has to say on this question had already been said before—and better too— by Max Weber, and therefore at this point it seems to be appropriate to say a little bit more on the comparison between Weber and Foucault’s views on this subject.2 Weber defnes discipline as ‘the consistently rationalized, methodologically prepared and exact execution of the received order, in which all personal criticism is unconditionally suspended and the actor is unswervingly and exclusively set for carrying out the command’ (Weber, 1978: 1149). He also argues that ‘discipline in general, like its most rational ofspring bureaucracy, is impersonal.… Discipline puts the drill for the sake of habitual routinized skill in place of heroic ecstasy’ (1978: 1149). Weber also discusses discipline in war, the example of the well trained company of soldiers (1978: 1150–1151) which goes back to at least the Roman Empire and the Spartans of ancient Greece, and mentions the cavalry as an increasingly disciplined force in more recent times (1978: 1152). It was discipline and not gun powder, Weber argues, that initiated the transformation of warfare (1978: 1153) in modern times. Military discipline has increasingly afected the structure of the state, the economy and possibly the family too, but it can also be found hand in hand with all diferent types of economy (1978:

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1155). ‘Military discipline’, Weber argues, also ‘gives birth to all [other] discipline’ (1978: 1155). Mention is also made of the development of so-called ‘universal conscription’ (in fact male only of course) during the 19th century. And Weber also argues (1978: 1152) that discipline gave birth to the Hellenic polis with its gymnasia. Weber then gives the following list of the type of large scale organisation he has in mind: (1) Te Pharaonic workshop, (2) the Carthaginian-Roman plantation, (3) the mines of the late Middle Ages, (4) the slave plantation of colonial economies, and fnally (5) the modern factory of his own time. He also claims (1978: 1156) that the discipline of the manor of the Middle Ages and the modern era was considerably less strict than it is usually thought to have been because it was traditionally stereotyped, and therefore limited power of the landlords and Weber also claims that military discipline is the ideal form for the modern capitalist factory. Finally, the American system of ‘scientifc management’ is mentioned by Weber (1978: 1156) in which he argues that the individual is shorn of his natural rhythm as determined by his organism [his body] in line with the demands of the work procedure [and] he is attuned to a new rhythm. What then is lef of the claim that it is Foucault rather than Weber who frst developed ideas about ‘disciplinary power’? Te answer I think has to be nothing at all. At most all we can say is that Foucault brought such pre-existing ideas to prominence during the late 1960s and early 1970s. Conclusion First published in 1974, Lukes short book Power: A Radical View, was reissued in 2005 in a much expanded version—the original essay plus two others of about the same length—giving Lukes the opportunity to up-date and revise his own views on this question in the light of the numerous criticisms that have been made of this during the thirty years since the book was frst published. Astonishingly though Lukes did not take the opportunity presented to him at this time but rather continued to insist that much of the criticism of his original essay has been overstated or is mistaken. Signifcant attention is now given to Foucault in the second essay of the revised edition entitled ‘Power Freedom and Reason‘ (2005: 60–107 but see especially 88–107), while Weber is mentioned only in passing in the third essay called ‘Tree-Dimensional Power’ (2005: 108–151; but see 111–112 on Weber) and Gramsci—unquestionably a major infuence on Lukes in 1974—is discussed in much the same terms as before (2005: 144–145), but that is all. As Lukes says on this point himself at the beginning of the fnal essay in the 2005 version of his book:

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I will ask whether it is plausible to think that we can arrive at an uncontested way of understanding it [the concept of power] and argue that, because of its links with no less contested notions of freedom, authenticity and real interests, it is not.… I will defend the claim that power has a third dimension—securing the consent to domination of willing subjects—against two kinds of objection: that such consent is non-existent or very rare, and that it cannot be secured. Finally, I will argue that conceiving of power in this way we cannot dispense with a defensible understanding of the notions of ‘real interests’ and ‘false consciousness’ (2005: 108).

Lukes’s conception of power in 2005 is then, we see, remarkably unchanged from what it was in 1974.3 Rather than present us with a genuinely three-dimensional concept of power which incorporates not only Dahl’s and Bachrach and Baratz’s views on this concept as well as his own more ‘radical’ view, plus the views of Weber, Gramsci and Foucault on this subject, what he does instead is present us with his own remarkably one-sided view once again and to continue to insist as he did previously in 1974—wrongly in my view—that the concept of power is both ‘ineradicably evaluative’ and ‘essentially contested’ (2005: 14). But of course this is just what the concept of power is not. Te concept of power like all other concepts is of course highly evaluative— this is in fact unavoidable—but this is not ‘ineradicably’ so. As we have seen in Part One of this book the problem of objectivity in the social sciences can be overcome providing only we make a clear distinction between our initial object of enquiry and our actual object of explanation. But even if we were to accept that the concept of power is ineradicably evaluative, what it most defnitely is not is essentially contested. Te concept of power is of course highly contested—the various diferent defnitions of its ‘true’ nature and form that we have considered here prove this to be the case—but it is nevertheless a concept that would be much better described as a mutually contested concept (Smith 2002a) rather than as an essentially contested one. What this means is that, with some diffcultly, and afer a good deal of arguing about the matter, and much ‘talking past’ and even ‘talking through’ each other, we can eventually situate these different concepts of power and even apparently competing perspectives on this question in relation to one another on diferent sides of the same genuinely three-dimensional model of power which Gallie called its ‘standard general use’ (see Fig. 5.4 below). Lukes considered such a possibility, but rejected this, in his original essay on this subject in 1974 and again in 2005 (2005: 34). Tis is where

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he referred to what he calls a ‘conceptual map of power and its cognates’ (2005: 35) which is shown in the form of a diagram in his essay (2005: 36) and which he claimed broadly follows Bachrach and Baratz’s typology. Tis is what Lukes has to say about this diagram: Needless to say this map is itself essentially contestable—and, in particular, although it is meant to analyse and situate the concept of power which underlies the one-, two- and three-dimensional views of power, I do not claim that it would necessarily be acceptable to all the proponents of those respective views. One reason for that, of course, is that it is developed from the perspective of the three-dimensional view, which incorporates and therefore goes further than the other two (2005: 35; emphasis added).

However a cursory glance at the map in question—which is divided in two halves between those concepts of power which emphasise conficts of interest and those which say that no such conficts exist, and in which the confict side of the diagram is further subdivided between observable and latent conficts of interest with, in addition to all of this, a further subdivision labelled ‘authority’ which spans both the confict side of the diagram and the non-confict side—would show that this actually two-dimensional model might easily be made into a genuinely three-dimensional/six-sided object which might then leave room for both Weber and Foucault’s views on this question. It is also not necessary, as Lukes apparently still believes it is (2005: 36), to get the agreement of all the proponents of the various diferent views of power, or of any other concept for that matter. Where these over-lap, as Lukes admits his own concept does with those of Dahl and Bachrach and Baratz, then this is all well and good. But where these views do not overlap this might well be theoretically even more interesting as exposing gaps in the standard general form of the concept in question and hence other possibly fruitful areas of enquiry. In short, Lukes’s concept of power which he says is ‘developed from the perspective of the three-dimensional view’ is not a three-dimensional concept of power at all. It is simply Lukes’s own one-dimensional view of power—a particular type or kind of power—masquerading as a genuinely three-dimensional concept and, as such, would be much better termed a third dimension or side of power afer Dahl’s frst dimensional view and Bachrach and Baratz’s second dimensional views. What then can we say in concluding our discussion of Lukes’s concept of power? In the introduction to his original book on power, Lukes talks

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of sketching three ‘conceptual maps’ of power (1974: 10). I have argued that this would have been a very interesting idea indeed, and a highly productive proposal, if only Lukes himself had taken the notion of ‘dimensions’ literally and viewed each of the three ‘dimensions’ of power as just that, the frst, second and third dimensions of a genuinely three/four-dimensional sociological phenomenon. However, as we have seen, instead of doing this Lukes simply falls back upon the conventional position of treating each of the three diferent perspectives on the concept of power as competing views of the same one (or possibly two) dimensional object, thereby throwing away any advantage his original insight on this question might have given him. My own view on this question, as I think must be quite clear by now, is that power is indeed a three-dimensional phenomenon (in fact even a four-dimensional concept where time and therefore the historical past and potential future developments are taken into account) and that the apparently ‘competing’ views of this highly complex concept are simply diferent sides of the standard general form of this concept. In my view it is simply unnecessary and ofen not even possible—all defnitions being equally evaluative—to choose between apparently competing defnitions of this term but, as with most other concepts in the social sciences, what we need to do instead is to try to accommodate within the idea of the standard general form of the concept of power all six (and perhaps more) of the diferent perspectives we have been considering here: from the pluralist focus on decision making in overt political settings (the pluralists clearly are correct to say that this is one aspect of the concept of power, even though they are incorrect to say that this is all that there is to this concept), to the critics of pluralism who insist that we must also consider non-decision making in confict settings (issues where there is clearly confict but no decision making process takes place); to people like Lukes, Gramsci and Foucault who insist that real power (as they always call this) is not concerned with decision making at all, whether in confict or non-confict situations, but with the entire failure of certain questions even to arise in the consciousness of the public (albeit somehow not in the consciousness of these intellectuals); to Weber’s view that this hidden aspect of power might be better discussed under the heading of authority, domination, or just quite simply tradition: the dead hand of the past, the weight of all previous generation and the limitations that this imposes on people’s willingness to try or even to consider newer and possibly better ways of doing things. Taking all six of these perspectives together, and situating them in relation to one another in their standard general form, it is easy to see how we might well come

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up with a suitably complex concept of power and one that is worthy of the importance of this concept to the social sciences, as follows:

5. Foucault 3. Lukes

hl a D 1. 4. Gramsci

h rac h ac tz .2 B ara &B

6. Weber Figure 5.4: Power as a mutually contested concept 1. Dahl: decision making in formal political settings. 2. Bachrach and Baratz: non-decision making in conflict situations (preventing decisions being made). 3. Lukes: the power to prevent grievance from arising by shaping people’s perceptions of a situation. 4. Gramsci: hegemony (earth works thrown up behind the walls of the state; second line of defence); the church. 5. Foucault: power as ‘capillary’ (minute threads linking two other structures: e.g., surveillance and individuation) e.g., the family. 6. Weber: between political communities (international), within political communities (class, status and party) and interpersonal (e.g., patriarchy).

Contrary to what Lukes says then, power is quite clearly not an essentially contested concept, but is rather a mutually contested one. Lukes is wrong to champion the argument that just because all defnitions of power are equally evaluative it would never be possible to resolve disputes over the proper use or meaning of this term. Tere is clearly a third alternative to the extreme relativism of his argument. Just because all concepts in the social sciences are unavoidably evaluative this does not mean that we have to choose between them. On the contrary, it means that we must accept all of them as part of the standard general form of the concept in question and then adopt that defnition which is best suited to our own particular

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enquiry. In the context of power this means Dahl in the case of local government decision making, Bachrach and Baratz in the case of pollution, Lukes, Gramsci and Foucault in those cases where the question of decision making never even arises, and Weber in the case of patriarchy or the behaviour of nation states. All such defnitions are equally valuable but it is just that some are more extensive than others and, as such, are better suited to diferent objects of enquiry, all of which however have an equal claim to be considered as diferent aspects or parts of the same general social scientifc concept of power. Notes 1. For example Mark Haugaard (2012) has argued Foucault’s views on this question constitute a ‘fourth dimension of power’. But, as I will argue here, this claim badly overstates the originality of Foucault’s views, especially on the issue of disciplinary power. 2. For more detail on this point see Weber’s extensive discussion of ‘discipline and charisma’ in Economy and Society, 1978, Ch. XIV, pp. 1148–1156, in which Weber describes the type of disciplinary regime routinely found in large scale economic organisations. 3. At one point (2005: 159; fn. 34) Lukes does say that he had considered changing the title of his 2005 book and calling this Power: A Not So Radical View, but this is not because he considers his own concept of power to be any less radical than he did in 1974—his views on this question are in fact unchanged—but solely because he does not like the fact that Foucault’s concept of power is commonly described as ultra-radical these days and Lukes it seems does not want his own concept of power to be damaged by association.

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Chapter Six The Concept of Equality Reconsidered

La majestueuse égalité des lois, qui interdit au riche comme au pauvre de coucher sous les ponts, de mendier dans les rues, et de voler du pain.1 (Anatole France, Le Lys Rouge, 1894: Ch. 7).

T

he proper use of the term ‘equality’, and exactly what this concept means, is probably one of the best examples in the social sciences of what W. B. Gallie in 1956 called ‘an essentially contested concept’ (Gallie 1956a). More recently, Peter Saunders has gone a long way towards sorting out the complexities of this concept in an essay frst published in the Social Studies Review in November 1989, and later in a revised version of this essay published as a chapter in his book Social Class and Stratifcation (1992: 43–53). However, this continuous process of re-evaluation has led Saunders in his 1996 book Unequal but Fair? to argue that even gross inequality can sometimes be justifed. In this chapter I will reconsider Saunders’ views on this question, now over thirty years afer his frst intervention in this debate, and I will argue that while his discussion of this question has made a signifcant contribution to this debate, he has only taken us so far in sorting out the complexity of this concept. Specifcally, where he identifes only three (or possibly four) concepts of equality—the concepts of formal and/or legal equality,

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equality of opportunities, and equality of outcome—I will argue that his own discussion of the concepts of formal and legal equality would be much better understood as two separate things and that, where this is the case, this then gives us the intuition that it might also be possible to distinguish two further variants—positive discrimination and equality of income— from Saunders’ two other concepts of equality, making six concepts in total. Where Saunders then argues that his three/four concepts of equality are incompatible with one another—and hence that equality is in efect an essentially contested concept—I will argue that distinguishing six diferent types of equality allows us to see that this is not the case and hence to argue that the concept of equality would be much better described as a mutually contested concept (Gallie, 1956a; Smith 2002a), the diferent meanings and the proper use of which can be resolved, once we situate all six of these concepts in relation to one another in the form of their ‘standard general use’ or form (Gallie, 1956a). Finally, where Saunders argues that ‘certain forms of inequality can be justifed’ (1989: 78), I will argue that inequality under the law or inequality of opportunity can never be justifed except by those already in positions of power and privilege who wish to prevent competition for scarce resources from others less fortunate than themselves, while inequality of income can only be justifed where no other incentive (for example reducing hours of work or increasing the prestige of a particular occupation) would bring about the same result. Formal equality and positive discrimination, I will argue, are undesirable where they discriminate against the already disadvantaged, but not otherwise, while equality of outcome I will argue is always undesirable. I. Saunders’ View of Equality According to Saunders ‘the concept of equality entails at least three different meanings’, and he argues that ‘each of these meanings is to a large extent incompatible with the others’ (1989: 78, and see also 1992: 43). Te frst meaning of equality that Saunders discusses is what he calls formal or legal equality and these two things are treated by him (at least in his initial discussion of this topic in 1989) as being more or less the same thing. Tus he says ‘Formal equality means simply that all full members of a given society are treated as equals in the eyes of the law’ (1989: 78). In other words, this concept entails the idea that the law is blind, and pays no attention to the background or identity of those who are subject to it. Whereas, in a feudal society, diferent social strata were treated diferently

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by the law—with some laws passed which applied only to commoners but not to the nobility—it is one of the major principles of modern society—the American Constitution and the French Revolution being the best examples of this—that everyone is equal under the law. No law should be passed, we think, which does not apply equally to everyone. Whether people are actually treated equally in law—whether an articulate middle class person gets treated the same way in court as a less articulate working or underclass person—is doubtful, but this is not the issue in question here. Te issue is one of principle: the principle being that we should all be treated the same under the law, whether in fact we are or are not. Te second meaning of equality identifed by Saunders is equality of opportunity. As Saunders says, ‘[t]his means that all individuals have an equal chance to achieve whatever it is in them to achieve by developing their particular talents and by applying their eforts’ (1989: 78–79). A society organised on the principle of equality of opportunity would be a genuine meritocracy, since those with most talent and/or who worked hardest would get to the top irrespective of any disadvantage in their background or birth. Such a meritocracy can be compared to a race track at an athletics event where everyone starts the race at the same time, on a level playing feld, and in exactly the same conditions. If someone does not have any running shoes, or their shoes are not quite as good as someone else’s, then they are given new shoes of equal quality to everyone else. Te race begins and everyone is allowed to run at their own pace and according to their own ability, but unless something very extraordinary happens, some people will fnish the race ahead of the others and some well behind. Tis is because some people are better at running than others, but this is okay because equal opportunities accepts that people have diferent abilities to each other and that this must lead to diferent outcomes for those concerned. Crucially, as Saunders points out, ‘Seen in this way, equality [of opportunity] entails the right to end up unequal’ (1989: 79; emphasis added). Te third meaning of equality discussed by Saunders is what he calls equality of outcome, which is sometimes also called absolute equality (Phillips 2004). Equality of outcome is very diferent indeed, and is perhaps even the direct opposite of, equality of opportunity. While equality of opportunity entails that we will all end up diferently according to our diferent talents and abilities, equality of outcome entails that we must all end up exactly the same. In a race organised on the principle of equality of opportunity we all line up at the start of the race together. In a race organised on the principle of equality of outcome, by contrast, we all

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fnish the race together (or as nearly as possible as this can be achieved by manipulating the outcome). Such an event, as Saunders says, can be compared to a handicapped horse race in which people employed by the race track put heavy weights in the saddles of the best horses to try to ensure, as far as this is possible, that every horse, irrespective of their difering abilities, has an equal chance of winning the race. Te ideal of the perfect handicapped race is one in which, as nearly as possible, all the horses in the race cross the winning line at exactly the same time. Tis is because there would be no point in betting on a race in which Red Rum in his heyday was running since Red Rum would always win. But if Red Rum was carrying sixty pounds more weight than the next horse, the other horses might still have a chance to win, and then in these circumstances it might still be worth betting on a horse that otherwise might have been expected to lose. Without this system, betting on horse races—once the ability of the various horses and jockeys is known—would be largely pointless, since everyone, including the bookmakers, would always back the winner. Tis ideal of absolute equality has been tried in practice by several governments throughout the world—most notoriously in China during the period from 1966 to 1976 known as the ‘Cultural Revolution’ and in Cambodia by the Khmer Rouge between 1975 and 1979—but this has always been found to be highly undesirable in practice. Te idea that everyone should dress the same and live in the same houses or work to produce the food that we all need to live seems a good one in principle until you realise that a world class violinist can’t play his or her instrument to the best of their abilities for the blisters on their hands or because they do not have enough time to practice their instrument. Tis extreme ideal of equality is so undesirable that it has been satirised by a number of writers, most notably Kurt Vonnegut in his short story ‘Harrison Bergeron’ (1998: 7–14). In Vonnegut’s story people of exactly average intelligence or ability are lef alone but people of above average intelligence or ability are handicapped by the ofce of what Vonnegut calls the United States Handicapper General’s Department to hold them back to the average level. World class ballet dancers are burdened with sash weights and bags of bird shot tied to their legs to stop them jumping higher than dancers of average ability and they have to wear masks on their faces in case anyone seeing a pretty face would feel inferior to them. George Bergeron (the eponymous Harrison’s father) has to wear a radio controlled mental handicapper device in his ear. Every twenty seconds or so a government transmitter sends out a sharp noise to stop George taking unfair advantage of his more than average intelligence. George is just toying with the idea that maybe ballet dancers would –186–

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do better and be more enjoyable to watch if they were not handicapped by sandbags when, zzzhuh!!!, the twenty second alarm goes of in his head and he forgets what it was he was thinking (Vonnegut: 8). Te attempt has sometimes been made to defend this deeply undesirable idea of absolute equality (Phillips, 2004) or equality of outcome as we will call it, but these have proved to be largely unsuccessful. Strict equality of outcome, where this idea is rigidly enforced, must always be undesirable I think, and where this idea is not strictly enforced then it is probably not genuine equality of outcome anyway. II. The Alleged Incompatibility of each of these three types of equality Once we accept that there is more than one meaning of equality, Saunders says, we immediately have to confront the problem that any one of his three diferent meanings undermines the other two. ‘Tis is because’, Saunders argues, ‘each criterion of equality is incompatible with the others’ (1989: 79). Equality of opportunity and equality of outcome are clearly incompatible, Saunders says, since ‘[o]bviously we cannot ensure that everyone has the opportunity to rise as far as they are able while simultaneously making certain that everyone ends up the same’ (1989: 79). Similarly, he argues, equality of outcome is incompatible with the principle of formal or legal equality. ‘Tis is because for everybody to end up equal it is necessary to apply diferent principles to the way that they are treated’ (1989: 79). While formal equality and equality of opportunity are also incompatible, Saunders argues, because the ‘commitment to equal treatment for all can make it difcult to ensure that everybody enjoys the same opportunities’ (1989:79). As a matter of fact, however, when we come to investigate this matter a little more closely, it turns out that Saunders’ position on the alleged incompatibility of all three (or more) of these diferent types of equality are not quite as clear as he seems to think they are. Tis is because, when considering the third of these apparent contradictions— that between formal/legal equality and equality of opportunity—he says himself that there is only ‘a tension between formal equality and equality of opportunity’ (1989: 79; emphasis added), and he goes on to admit that ‘these two principles may not be totally irreconcilable’ (1989: 79; emphasis added). Clearly then the ‘difculty’ of equal treatment in this case is not quite the same thing as this being impossible and if there is no contradiction between these two types of equality then perhaps there is no contradiction between the other two pairs either. –187–

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Te frst incompatibility that Saunders considers is that between equality of outcomes and equal opportunities. Rather surprisingly the main illustration that Saunders gives of what he means by equality of outcome is not the obvious example of the Cultural Revolution in China but rather the case where everyone receives the same income. Since equality of outcomes requires us all to end up the same, while equality of opportunity allows us to be diferent, equality of outcome would require us all to be paid the same irrespective of the work we did, while equal opportunities would permit us to achieve whatever we can—including diferent levels of income—according to our diferent abilities. However, the idea that we should all be able to develop our talents and abilities to the full—in other words the central principle of equal opportunities—is only contradicted by the idea that we should all receive the same income where it was argued that diferent incomes were somehow required in order to allow us to develop our different abilities to the full. Where everyone could achieve their full abilities without diferences in income—for example in a socialist society—no such contradiction would arise, while it is well known that unequal incomes harms the chances of people with low incomes of developing their talents and abilities to the full. Where then it is argued that it is only relatively high incomes that permit people to develop their talents and abilities to the full there would be no contradiction between equality of opportunity and equal incomes if everyone was given the same high income. It seems then that it is only where there is equality of very low incomes—where we were all given the same very low pay—that there is any incompatibility with equality of opportunity. If then the idea of absolute equality of outcomes does contradict the idea of equality of opportunity—and I accept that it does where people who have diferent abilities were all forced to be the same—equality of income is not a very good illustration of this undoubted contradiction. While, if equality of income is possible without absolute equality of outcome—if we all receive the same very high wages while we do not also have to live in identical houses, wear the same clothes, or drive the same cars etc.—then it seems that equality of income must be a distinct type of equality to equality of outcome but not quite the same thing as this and that in any case it is only equally low incomes that would present any problems for equality of opportunity. Similarly, when we come to consider Saunders’ objections to the alleged incompatibility of equality of outcomes and formal or legal equality this too is not as strong as it might at frst appear and, on examination, begins to look suspiciously like another example of his objections to the

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alleged incompatibility of equality of outcome and equality of opportunities. Tis is because, once again, Saunders choses a most unusual example to illustrate his argument which one would have thought was much better suited to the case of equality of opportunity rather than formal or legal equality or equality of outcome; namely what is known as ‘afrmative action’ in the United States or what is called ‘positive discrimination’ in Britain. ‘For example, a company promotes a woman executive to a senior position ahead of a man with better qualifcations just because it has fewer female than male senior executives’ (1989: 79). Tis, Saunders tells us, is an example of applying diferent principles to the way people are treated in order to ensure that everybody ends up equal or the same (1989: 79). But what it is not—as Saunders claims it is—is an example of an alleged contradiction between equal treatment in the eyes of the law—Saunders’ previous defnition of formal or legal equality—and equality of outcomes. It seems here that formal equality has acquired a broader meaning for Saunders than his previous defnition of this term. Te scope of formal or legal equality now extends outsides the courts and encompasses equal treatment in all spheres of life rather than just in court. But where this is the case then the concept of formal equality—that we must all be treated ‘the same’ in all situations and not just by the law or in court—starts to look suspiciously like the concept of equality of outcome. In fact there would seem to be no contradiction at all between this extended idea of formal equality, where everyone is treated ‘the same’ in all social circumstances and not merely ‘in the eyes of the law’ as Saunders argued previously. Conversely there seems little or no contradiction between the idea of legal equality—where the law applies equally to everyone—and equality of outcome—where all are compelled to be exactly the same—providing only the law supports the idea of equal outcomes. Once again then Saunders choice of a most unusual example—in this case afrmative action/positive discrimination—to support the point he is trying to make has the unintended consequence of highlighting the alleged contradiction between positive discrimination/ afrmative action and equal opportunities. Positive discrimination might well be incompatible to equal opportunities—I think it almost certainly is in those cases where resources and rewards are in short supply—but what it is not is an example of the alleged contradiction between equality of outcome and formal or legal equality. Te third case Saunders considers is that of the alleged incompatibility between formal equality and equality of opportunity, the pair which even he admits might not be totally irreconcilable (and hence are not

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contradictory) and here it is noteworthy that when he is discussing this point Saunders drops all reference to legal equality (1989: 79) and only discusses the possible contraction between equality of opportunity and formal equality without mentioning legal equality at all. In his initial defnition of ‘formal or legal equality’ in the Social Studies Review in 1989 these two concepts are quite clearly treated as one and the same thing and they clearly refer to equality in the eyes of the law; that no law should be framed that applied to one sector of the population which does not apply equally to all others. However, three years later, by the time of his book on Social Class and Stratifcation (and as we have already seen, in his discussion of formal equality and equality of outcome in the Social Studies Review article) it seems that this is no longer the case. Rather, formal equality now entails the idea of ‘equal treatment according to common rules’ (1992: 44) irrespective of whether the rules in question are legal ones and whether this formal treatment takes place inside or outside a courtroom. But, where this is the case, two problems arise. First formal equality and legal equality no longer seem to be quite the same things—so that Saunders now seems to have four concepts of equality rather than his original three and, where this was the case, it would seem better to clearly distinguish these two diferent types of equality from one another—while, secondly, once again, Saunders concept of formal equality devoid of any reference to legal equality begins to look suspiciously like the concept of equality of outcome again where everyone is treated exactly the same and irrespective of where this equal treatment takes place. Once again then, rather than give the above example of a courtroom to illustrate his argument that formal or legal equality and equality of opportunity are incompatible—that formally equal treatment in court somehow has disadvantaging efect for equality of opportunity or that equal opportunities in court somehow undermined formal or legal equality—Saunders instead illustrates his argument that there is only a ‘tension’ between formal equality and equality of opportunity by giving us the example of a school teacher trying to ‘fatten out’ (1989: 79) the diferent reading ability of children entering a primary school by devoting more time, efort and resources to the least advantaged children in order to promote equal opportunities in the classroom but thereby failing to treat the same those children who came to the school already able to read. But how, we might ask, is this an example of the alleged incompatibility (or even a ‘tension’) between these two concepts of equality? As we have seen the idea of a teacher ‘fattening out’ diferences, rather than (as I, and I think most people, would prefer

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to say) raising the less able students up to the standard of the more able, seems to owe more to the idea of equality of outcomes—holding back the more able pupils in order to ensure the same outcomes—than it does to the idea of formal equality but it is not clear that there is any contradiction here between doing this—treating everyone the same—and equality of opportunities unless, as Saunders implies, the intention of equal treatment in the classroom is to ensure equal outcomes, which in this case presumably means that all children in the classroom should end up with exactly the same reading ability. But so long as the teacher does not do this—as long as s/he treats everyone ‘the same’ at the start of the school year (i.e., gives them all an equal opportunity to learn to read) then there will be no contradiction here between equal opportunities and formal [or legal] equality just so long as some children who for whatever reason are better at reading than others are allowed to proceed at their own pace while other less able children are helped and encouraged by the teacher to do as well as they can. As we have seen and, as Saunders says himself, properly understood, the idea of equality of opportunity entails the right to end up unequal. Finally, even if there is a ‘tension’ here between equality of opportunity and formal equality (meaning strictly equal treatment according to common rules in the classroom etc.) there is clearly no incompatibility between these two things and the idea of equality of opportunity and legal equality in the court room.2 We can clearly be in favour of the highly desirable idea of equality in law—that no law should apply to one group or person which does not apply to everyone else—without there being any necessity for us to be in favour of the highly undesirable idea of formal equality where this is understood to mean that we must treat everyone exactly the same despite their very diferent circumstances and abilities. Contrary to what Saunders says, therefore, it seems that there is only a contradiction here between formal equality and equality of opportunity where formal equality is understood to be much the same thing as equality of outcome but there is in fact no incompatibility between legal equality—which Saunders does not in fact discuss—and equality of opportunity and little or no contradiction between formal equality and equality of opportunity unless formal equality is understood to be much the same thing as equality of outcome. III. Six concepts of equality Contrary to what Saunders suggests then, we can now see that what we have here is at least six diferent types of equality—equality of outcome,

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opportunities and legal and formal equality—and at least two more types as well: equality of income and positive discrimination/afrmative action where this last idea is clearly distinguished from the concept of equality of opportunity. It then takes only a moment’s refection to see how each of these very diferent defnitions of the concepts of equality might easily be placed on six diferent ‘sides’ of the same standard general concept of equality with no ‘incompatibility’ between them. All then are equally important parts or aspects—the kinds of things that people might well discuss when they are talking about this issue—of the standard general concept of equality. Ten, adopting Saunders’ highly productive idea of diferentiating carefully between as many diferent types/meanings/usages of the concept of equality as possible, but taking this idea a stage further, I suggest that while there may well be some incompatibility between the frst three types of equality in Fig. 6.1 below—formal equality, positive discrimination and equality of outcome—there is no incompatibility at all between the other three types of equality: legal equality, equality of opportunity, and equality of income. Furthermore, I wish to suggest that while the frst three types of equality are largely undesirable, most people would be in favour of the second three (Fig. 6.1).

Formal Equality

Positive Discrimination

Equality of Outcome

Legal Equality

Equality of Opportunity

Equality of Income

Undesirable

Desirable

Figure 6.1: Six Diferent Concepts of Equality Most of us I think would probably support a measure of unequal treatment in practice in the courts or in the classroom—common rules or

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not—where this promoted equality of opportunity and did not confict with the principle of legal equality. No one I think is in favour of formal equality in the classroom where this entails a rigid equality of treatment and hence begins to look too much like the wholly undesirable idea of equality of outcome. On the other hand however, everyone I think would want a teacher to devote more time to those students who need their help more than those who do not (or less so anyway); no one wants a teacher to treat everyone exactly the same all the time precisely because this begins to look suspiciously like the wholly undesirable idea of equality of outcome. Equally, I think many people would support the idea of diferential treatment according to diferent circumstances and backgrounds conditions within a court of law, as well as outside a court: an ideal that as we have seen is entailed in the notion of mitigating circumstances. Similarly, I suggest, most people are probably against the idea of positive discrimination or afrmative action where this entails discriminating in favour of particular interest groups as a whole—women, ethnic minorities, the disable etc.—where such favourable treatment also had the consequence of disfavouring other individuals or groups (men, ethnic majorities and the able bodied etc.). Where resources and rewards are in short supply it obviously cannot be right to give something—places in higher education or access to scarce public housing—to one person or group where this denies someone else an equal opportunity to the same thing. However, where resources and rewards are plentiful—for example spiked running shoes or free school meals—then there can be no objection to giving these things to one person or group so long as others already have access to the same thing. It is also necessary I think to enquire into the particular circumstances of the individual person in question who comes from a disadvantaged group before they are allowed to beneft from such behaviour. It is one thing I think to discriminate in favour of a person who happens to be black but also comes from a disadvantaged background, and another thing altogether to discriminate in favour of a person who is black but comes from a relatively privileged background. No one wants the son or daughter of a well of, middle-class Afro-American family—the child of a Hollywood flm star perhaps—to go to college with lower grades than a more able white student just because they are black, but everyone I suggest is in favour of students from disadvantaged backgrounds receiving such help as they need in order to bring them up

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to college entry level irrespective of their ethnic minority status. Te frst is an example of afrmative action/positive discrimination which favours people whether they are disadvantaged or not, and is in fact racist, while the second an example of equality of opportunity which favours only the disadvantaged irrespective of race. Finally, I suggest, that while no one is in favour of a strict equality of outcome—breaking the fngers of world class pianists just because someone else cannot play the piano as well as them no matter how much help or training we give them—everyone these days (even the most diehard of conservatives surely?) is in favour of a measure of equality of opportunities and many people might well be in favour of a much greater equality of income—the same hourly rate of pay for everyone irrespective of what type of work they do—where this was understood as raising everyone up to the same high standard of living that enabled them to fulfl their true potential rather than equality downward to a lower level for all as this idea is more usually expressed. Clearly, however, this idea of equal incomes for diferent levels of talent and ability is a controversial one and needs to be discussed further (see section IV below).3 As we can now see, it is perfectly possible to be in favour of legal equality, equality of opportunity and equality of income—and these three are not incompatible with one another —without there being any need to be in favour of the largely undesirable formal equality, positive discrimination or equality of outcome. Far from showing us that each of his three/ four concepts of equality are incompatible one with the other, Saunders in fact only demonstrates that equality opportunities is incompatible with equality of outcome (and with formal equality where this is treated as being identical with equality of outcome) but he does not show that there is any contradiction at all between equality of opportunity and legal equality or between equality of opportunity and equality of income. As we have seen, much of Saunders argument depends on an unwarranted confusion between the deeply undesirable concept of equality of outcome and the concept of formal equality—these are the same thing for Saunders I think—and, to a lesser extent, a similar confusion between equality of opportunity—giving everyone an equal chance to do the best they can—and positive discrimination/afrmative action where this entails treating some people unfairly in order to bring other people up to the level of the more advantaged. However, as soon as we abandon the idea of equality of outcome/formal equality and favour the idea of equality of opportunity over the idea of afrmative action then most of the problems that that Saunders describes simply disappear. All of Saunders incompatibilities are in fact between the concept of equality

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of outcome and his other two main types of equality, but there is no incompatibility between equality of opportunity and legal equality, and Saunders does not demonstrate that there is. Finally then this brings us back to Saunders third argument, that ‘certain forms of inequality can be justifed’ (1989: 78) and hence to a consideration of the functionalist theory of stratifcation on which his argument is based. IV. Can inequality ever be justified? Can inequality ever be justifed? Clearly, since the idea of equality of opportunities necessarily entails the idea of unequal outcomes, inequality can be justifed if we support the idea of equal opportunities. Although where we did have anything like genuine equality of opportunity—a true meritocracy as Saunders describes this (1989: 79)—we have no very good reason to suppose that unequal outcomes would be anything like as great as they are at present, in practice it seems certain that some inequality of outcome would remain and might even—in the form of diversity—be desirable. Some people can play a musical instrument while others cannot no matter how much training they are given. Some people are good at mathematics while others are not, and in fact people who are musical are also usually good at mathematics. Tis seems to be a matter of individual talent and ability rather than background, upbringing or training, and this is probably a good thing too socially since it permits diferent individuals to excel at different things. We have also seen that a degree of inequality—what we might perhaps better call ‘discretion’—is desirable in interpreting what Saunders calls ‘common rules’ (rules that do indeed apply to everyone equally but which should not always be formally or rigidly enforced), and that such discretion, where it takes account of background conditions or mitigating circumstances, might even be said to be a good thing in that most formal of all settings, a court of law. But what of inequality of income, a principle so dear to post industrialised societies that it is usually thought to be the very bedrock of entrepreneurial capitalism? Is this really necessary for the normal functioning of all societies, as some people have maintained? Do some people really have to be paid more in order to get then to do highly prestigious jobs like becoming the President of the United States or would they do this job anyway just for prestige? And is it really the case that poor people have to be paid badly in order to get them to do particularly undesirable or unpleasant jobs?

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Saunders discusses this question on the last page of his Social Studies Review essay, where he gives two reasons for supporting the idea of unequal incomes. Inequalities may be ‘positively functional’ for a society, not only because they provide a means for attracting people to fll important positions and discharge their duties adequately (the point emphasised by the functionalist theory of stratifcation), but also because inequalities are to some extent the price we pay for dynamic economic growth and innovation (the point emphasised by writers like Hayek) (1989: 81).

Let us consider the second of these points frst. Is it really the case that innovation, as opposed to investment, would not take place as Hayek and Saunders insist without inequality of material rewards as an inducement to risk taking by entrepreneurs? One can easily see how such inequality is required for investment in new products and ideas, but it is much less easy to see how such inequality is required for innovation to occur. I do not need to know that I will become much better of than I am now or that someone else is worse of than I am for me to dream up an idea for a better toothbrush or vacuum cleaner. Te people who invented the Internet for example did not do this for proft or personal gain, but rather for the purpose of military-defence.4 But I do need a material incentive to encourage me to invest my own private wealth, or perhaps even someone else’s money, in order to develop an idea commercially. Under the present economic system therefore—what we still call ‘capitalism’—Hayek is probably correct to say that material rewards and inducements play a crucial role in encouraging individuals to take risks (Saunders, 1989: 80), but he is not right to say that innovation itself—innovation as such—requires such risk taking. Innovation might well take place anyway, just because someone had a good idea (the invention of the wheel for example) while investment might well be provided in some other non-capitalist way—for example by State intervention in the economy as in China today. And in fact, in such a case, there seems to be no very good reason why both innovation and development should not increase once risk taking has been removed from the equation. Te development of new ideas might not be quite so dynamic under such a non-capitalist system, but then it is not clear why dynamic economic growth (as opposed to growth which is more stable) is desirable in every case. In short, it is necessity surely, and not inequality, that is the ‘mother’ of invention.

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What then of the functionalist theory of stratifcation which claims that inequality is a universal necessity? Tis is a really old debate now (Kingsley Davis and Wilber E. Moore published their frst paper on this subject over 60 years ago) but it is one that has not lost its sting. Te most striking thing about Davis and Moore’s argument—apart from their much criticised failure to defne exactly what they meant by ‘functionalism’ or a ‘functional necessity’—is the emphasis they place, repeated by Saunders, on the flling of important positions in society to the neglect of considering how less important positions are flled, and their failure to distinguish between discharging the duties of these important positions really well, or merely discharging these duties adequately. Reading Davis and Moore’s argument today there is a very real sense that so long as the job gets done somehow then it does not matter very much from the functionalist point of view if it is done well, whereas, for their critics—most notably Melvin Tumin—ofen all that really seems to matter is that the job in question—President of the United States for example—is not being done as well as it might otherwise have been had some other better qualifed but less privileged person flled the post.5 Tis debate therefore resolved itself into three important questions: (1) whether any job is actually functionally ‘more important’ than any other in a modern complex society. (It is possible to argue that all jobs being functional requirements for the smooth working of the society in question are, in this sense, equally important). (2) how we get most people to fll the jobs that they do—especially the least desirable jobs in society—and not just the most important jobs. and (3) whether it is important to place the best people in each and every position in order to ensure the best possible working of society (in which case equal opportunities are essential), or whether any reasonable competent person will do so long as the job gets done even if not as well as it might otherwise have been done by a more competent person (in which case equal opportunities do not matter so long as the pool of advantaged people is big enough to fll all the functional important posts without needing to recruit from those who are less advantaged). Let us consider each of these points in turn.

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V. The functionalists view reconsidered Davis and Moore (Coser and Rosenberg, 1957: 408) begin with the assumption that stratifcation, and therefore, inequality (which they equate with each other; 1957: 410), are ‘universal necessities’ of all societies. In fact, this is not the case. Anthropological studies of many pre-industrial societies (see for example, Gilmore, 1990) show that a rude equality in social arrangements is quite common, the crucial factor being the relative material plenty of a society. If everyone has access to everything they (a) need and (b) want, then a rude equality is possible and competition is usually frowned upon. However, when things are in short supply and competition is therefore required in order to decide who gets access to the necessities of life (or sometimes even those things that people desire but which are not strictly speaking necessary), then inequality and stratifcation prevail. Davis and Moore then go on to assert that their discussion of the necessity of stratifcation/inequality ‘relates to the system of positions, not to the individuals occupying those positions’ (Coser and Rosenberg, 1957: 408). Tis is an important point and one which is frequently overlooked by their critics, not least perhaps because Davis and Moore themselves sometimes seem to deviate from this position (see, for example, Coser and Rosenberg: 410, where they argue that ‘the most important positions are conscientiously flled by the most qualifed persons’). Finally they argue that: If the duties associated with the various positions were all equally pleasant to the human organism, all equally important to societal survival, and all equally in need of the same ability and talent, it would make no diference who got into which positions, and the problem of social placement would be greatly reduced. But actually it does make a great deal of diference who gets into which positions, not only because some positions are inherently more agreeable than others, but also because some require special talents or training and some are functionally more important than others (Coser and Rosenberg: 409).

Everyone will agree, I think, that not all occupations are equally pleasant to do, and that some occupations require more talent and training than others do, but it is Davis and Moore’s last claim—that certain positions are ‘functionally more important than others’—that has caused so much controversy. Te key term here, as Melvin Tumin pointed out, is ‘functionally important’ (Coser and Rosenberg: 421); but what exactly does this term

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mean? Tumin argues that ‘[t]he functionalist theory of social organisation is by no means clear and explicit about this term’ (421). If ‘functional importance’ simply means ‘survival value’, as Tumin suggests, then it is difcult to see how any one occupation or ‘position’ in society is functionally more important than any other. All positions must contribute equally to the survival of society as it exists at any one time, at least in the sense that if any occupation or position were to disappear the society in question would be changed to this extent. Defned in this way, the position of President of the United States or monarch of the UK is no more functionally important than that of a road-sweeper or someone who works in a sewer. If, on the other hand, ‘functional importance’ refers to some limited set of occupations which all societies must have in order to survive, then it is difcult to see how those positions which have the highest status in society and which Davis and Moore seem to have in mind when they talk of functional importance—the ofce of the President of the United States for example—is in fact functionally more important than many other occupations vital for the continuation of society which presently have a much lower social status: for example that of a farmer or a mother. British society would undoubtedly survive without the monarchy—Britain would become a republic but something recognisable as ‘Britain’ would still exist—but it would not survive for very long if no one was willing to give birth to children or grow food. American society would survive without the ofce of President—it could for example be run as a military dictatorship—but it would not survive for very long without food, electricity, clothing, water or shelter, etc. What Davis and Moore seem to have in mind then when they talk of functional importance (and one cannot put it any stronger than this since they are so vague about this term themselves) is the survival of American society as it existed at the time they were writing, in other words, America of the 1940s and 1950s. However, since this society already no longer exists, Davis and Moore would seem to have lost this argument. If ‘functional importance’ means anything at all then it can only mean those occupations which are common to all societies at all points in time and then, where this was the case, it is hard to see what these occupations might be. As Melvin Tumin says on this point, ‘to judge that the engineers in a factory are functionally more important than the unskilled workmen involves a notion of regarding the dispensability of the unskilled workmen, or their replaceability, relative to that of the engineers’ (Coser and Rosenberg: 422). Where the unskilled worker and the engineer are viewed as individuals, it is easy to see how the hard to replace engineer may be said

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to be in some way ‘more important’ to the functioning of the factory than unskilled worker. But as soon as the workers viewed as a whole withdraw their labour, this seems much less clear. One unskilled worker, or even several, can easily be replaced if the supply of unemployed labourers is plentiful, whereas a particularly skilled engineer may be hard to fnd. But a whole factory of labourers cannot be so easily replaced and even with automation the most highly skilled engineer would fnd it difcult to run a factory by him or herself without the help of some other less skilled labourers. As  Tumin says, this raises the point that ‘[somewhere] along the line one must face the problem of adequate motivation for all the workers at all level of skill in the factory’ (Tumin: 422), and we might well add, in society as a whole. Davis and Moore seem obsessed with the problem of explaining how to fll only what they regard as the ‘most important’ positions in society, and how to motivate the holders of these positions to do their jobs conscientiously. But, in doing this, they entirely neglect the much more important question of how society motivates a much larger number of people to do those jobs that are much less ‘functionally important’ in Davis and Moore’s terms; in other words, those jobs of low social status. ‘If a position is easily flled, it need not be heavily rewarded, even though important’, Davis and Moore argue (411). On the other hand, they say, ‘if it is important, but hard to fll, the reward must be high enough to get it flled anyway’ (411). But if this were the case—if this really was how society flled functionally important positions—farmers and mothers would be very highly paid, and Presidents would work for free. Instead we see that people who work in sewers, or clean public toilets, or take away our garbage and clean the street are ofen very poorly paid indeed, not because these positions are easily flled, but because they are compelled by material circumstances to take the only work that they can get once all the more desirable jobs and/ or their entitlement to state benefts have run out. Davis and Moore argue that ‘those positions convey the best reward, and hence have the highest rank, which (a) have the greatest importance for the society and (b) require the greatest training or talent’ (410). Putting to one side the question of functional importance which we have already considered, Melvin Tumin has convincingly demolished the argument that there needs to be any necessary correlation between material reward or prestige, and the training required to fll a particular position. On the contrary, those occupations which require the greatest training are always likely to have the highest prestige in society, and the resulting diferences in status would always amount to a form of stratifcation of course, but

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there does not seem to be any very good reason why these prestigious positions should also receive the highest pay for what they do. Rather such positions—notwithstanding the long periods of training involved—are likely to be the easiest to fll due to their high status and hence might well command less pay, the prestige of the occupation being its own reward. Besides, there is such a thing as ‘the joy of work’ and/or social duty which might motivate some people to take on functionally important but difcult occupations which are less well paid, rather than a less important but also more rewarding occupation. People would, and do, pay to become the President of the United States, and yet this position also carries a handsome salary for life. As for the sacrifce involved in long periods of training, for example, to become a doctor, Tumin shows that much of the loss of earnings while training is made up within the frst ten years of employment (an argument that might seem to justify some diferences in pay at least for this relatively short period?) except that most of the sacrifce is made by the trainees’ parents, in the United States, or by the State, in Britain, so that to pay people more for this ‘loss’ of earnings while training would be to compensate the wrong person. Besides all of this, the present system of reward may well attract the wrong sort of people to a particular profession—we all have experiences of poor and uncaring doctors—while a lower level of pay might have attracted only those people who really are motivated to do a difcult or dangerous job (just as for example the highly prestigious Royal College of Music does not have any problem attracting students even though most of its graduates will struggle to make a living playing music once they graduate). Tis point about the greater material reward for doing functionally more important work brings us fnally to the last of the three points I mentioned at the beginning of this section: the question of whether a particular job has to be done well or merely done at all as far as the normal ‘functioning’ of society is concerned. Much of Davis and Moore’s argument seems to depend on a claim that it is only ‘functionally necessary’ to get a particular position flled somehow—any old how—and that it does not much very matter who flls this position as long as the job gets done at all or at least reasonably well. Melvin Tumin, on the other hand, spends much of his time criticising Davis and Moore for failing to consider how well a job gets done. Tumin is therefore mostly concerned with the issue of equal opportunities, while Davis and Moore hardly seem to care about this at all. So long as there is a sufcient pool of already advantaged people ready and willing to fll the top (i.e., ‘functionally most important’) jobs in

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American society, and these people are sufciently motivated by high pay, prestige and/or leisure time, to do these jobs, then everything will be all right: American society of the 1950s will survive. Tumin, on the other hand is much more concerned with the question, not only of getting the job done, or even of getting it done well, but of getting it done as well as possible: the best possible of all arrangements in the best possible of all worlds/societies. Reading the debate again afer all these years it is clear that Davis and Tumin (Moore dropped out of the argument at a relatively early stage) are ofen simply ‘talking through each other’, as Tomas Kuhn described this type of debate, and seem puzzled by each other’s inability to understand what the other has to say. Tumin rages that ‘It is only when there is a genuinely equal access to recruitment and training for all potentially talented persons that diferential rewards can conceivably be justifed as functional’ (424) and he argues that stratifcation systems are inherently antagonistic to the development of such equal opportunities. Davis seems to understand this well enough but can’t see that it matters all that much just so long as anyone—not necessarily the best possible person potentially available—but someone (a) makes themselves available and (b) does the job in question reasonably conscientiously. What seems to puzzle Davis more is why any reasonably well of person flls any position at all: why don’t the advantaged, Davis seems to say, just stay at home and let the disadvantaged do all the work for them? Tis is a very interesting sociological question, but it is one that is not answered by either Davis, Moore or Tumin. Conclusion What then does all of this leave of Peter Saunders support for the functionalist claim that unequal incomes are ‘fair’ where they are required to get people to fll functionally important posts? Well, not much actually. It would seem to be quite possible to pay people the same wages or nothing at all and yet get people to fll the most prestigious positions in society. While, by contrast, in the present system, it is those people who work purely for material reward rather than prestige who should be paid more in order to get them to fll these functionally important positions. However, as Edward Bellamy suggested some time ago in his novel Looking Backward From the Year 2000 ([1888] 1964: 77), where prestige was not enough to get difcult and/or possibly even dangerous jobs flled, we might try reducing the hours of work of the most arduous jobs thereby increasing the leisure time of those flling these occupations. And, if this did not work, we might

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simply pay people more for working longer hours, while everyone received the same hourly rate irrespective of the quality, the skill or the training involved in the work they did. Afer all, why should we pay people more who are already lucky enough to be talented and to have the abilities that are required to fll desirable occupations? Why isn’t their talent—or as we might equally say in a better organised society, their virtue—its own reward? If everyone received the same income, or at least the same hourly rate of pay, this would not mean that we all had to dress the same, or live in the same houses, or drive the same cars, etc. Equality of outcome mandates equality of income—and equality of income is, as we have seen, a subset of equality of outcome—but equality of income does not mandate equality of outcome. Except where incomes are at a very low level we can all do what we like with our equally high incomes once we get this. Functionally important positions (like cleaning sewers) might be harder to fll than they used to be when people were compelled to take dirty and unrewarding jobs due to material necessity or economic compulsion alone, but society could overcome this problem by reducing the normal hours of work in these arduous and unpleasant occupations until the supply of labourers willing to do these relatively unskilled jobs exactly equalled the demand for this kind of labour (Bellamy 1964). More highly skilled jobs would be flled in the way they always were, either because they were always more enjoyable or rewarding to do, or because of the greater prestige they conferred. Diferences in prestige might well lead to a system of social stratifcation but where all occupations were understood to be of equal importance functionally such diferences might be minimised. Innovation would continue apace since this is motivated by necessity rather than material reward and since the inevitable risks involved in developing new ideas would be met by the community rather than by individual entrepreneurs. Te pace of development and innovation might well slow down from the ‘dynamic’ rate of development characterised by speculative capitalist enterprises, but this might be a good thing where it provided some stability to an economic system that is otherwise prone to periodic crises, and where there is anyway no very good reason to think that growth is always or necessarily a good thing. By representing diferent aspects of the concept of equality as being fundamentally incompatible with one another Saunders fails to bring out the truly three-dimensional nature of this concept (and four where we consider time). His attempt to identify three, or perhaps four, diferent concepts of equality was a major step forward in resolving much of the complexity

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of this debate, but by stopping short at the idea that each of these diferent aspects of equality are somehow incompatible with the others he failed to develop a genuinely three-dimensional view of this concept. However, as soon as we situate each of these diferent ideas of equality on diferent ‘sides’ of the same three/four-dimensional model of equality (and it does not matter very much to the argument I am presenting here whether we regard these diferent ‘sides’ as actual or merely as hypothetical) we can see that although the concept of equality of opportunity—which permits people to end up unequal—is clearly opposed to the concept of equality of outcome (which requires everyone to be the same) and its near neighbour the concept of formal equality (which requires everyone to be treated the same) there is no such opposition between the concepts of equal opportunity, equality in law and equality of income, while positive discrimination/ afrmative action might be allowed in some very rare cases—for example to address historical disadvantage—but not where this beneftted the already advantaged. Equality of opportunity which allows diferent outcomes is clearly the opposite of equality of outcome where this means that we are all required to be exactly the same, and equality of opportunity is also ‘opposed’ to the concept of positive discrimination/afrmative action with which it is ofen

2. Formal Equality y alite u q 5. EIncom of

4. Positive Discrimination

ty ali me u Eq o 6. Outc of

3. Equality of Opportunity

1. Legal Equality Desirable

Undesirable

1. Legal Equality 3. Equality of Opportunity 5. Equality of Income

2. Formal Equality 4. Positive Discrimination 6. Equality of Outcome

Figure 6.2: A three-dimensional concept of equality –204–

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confused. Formal equality however is not the same thing as legal equality, not even in the court room (and certainly not in the school room)— Saunders gets this point badly wrong I think—but formal equality is closely related to its near neighbour the wholly undesirable concept of equality of outcome, while equality of income, though an important aspect of the concept of equality of outcome, is obviously not the same thing as this. Taking all these points together then it is possible to situate all of these six diferent types of equality on diferent sides of the same standard general concept of equality as in Fig. 6.2. Notes 1. Te majestic equality of the law, which forbids the rich and the poor alike to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread. (Anatole France [Jacques-Anatole Tibault], 1844–1924; Te Red Lily, 1894; awarded Nobel Prize for Literature 1921). 2. In a letter to this author [personal correspondence] Saunders says that formal equality and legal equality are indeed the same thing in his view since, as Hayek has argued, formal equality entails the idea of the ‘Rule of Law’ while legal equality merely entails the idea of legislation, which is something else altogether. Whereas legislation can fout the Rule of Law (Nazi laws against the Jews for example) the Rule of Law in all spheres—the idea that we should all be treated equally in all spheres of life—is the only safeguard of Liberty as Hayek has argued (Hayek, 1960). All of this is true enough I think and I therefore agree with Saunders and Hayek here. Laws can be passed which fout the principle of the Rule of Law. But this does not alter the fact that Saunders’ view of formal or legal equality is rather more complex and subtle than he frst defned it in his article in the Social Studies Review, or that in principle we can distinguish between more than one concept of equality here: frst the idea of equal treatment in a court of law—the idea that justice should be blind—irrespective of the mitigating circumstances in which people fnd themselves when they commit a crime, and second the idea that no law should be passed which treats one group of people in a diferent way to the rest of society. If Saunders is right to argue that our understanding of the concept of equality is improved by distinguishing between diferent concepts of equality, as I think he is, then surely it would be better to distinguish these two very diferent ideas of legal equality clearly, even if they may both be included under a general heading of the ‘Rule of Law’? 3. Adam Swif has usefully commented on this point as follows: ‘Many philosophers reject the idea that those who are born naturally talented deserve to earn more than those who are not. If David Beckham is lucky enough to have his footballing ability, and others are unlucky enough to command only the minimum wage, they should be no better or worse of than one another. Some inequality may be justifed on incentive grounds … but that is not a matter of people deserving diferently. Tis so-called “luck egalitarianism” [however] is far removed from public opinion, which holds that people do deserve to be rewarded in ways which refect their contribution to social welfare (Swif, Prospect Magazine, August/September 2001: 43). 4. In fact the internet seems to have been invented for military purposes, as a way of allowing computers to talk in the event of a nuclear attack, and only later handed over to non-proft making academics (Smith, 2001: 13). 5. As clear a case as we could wish for of Mannheim’s and Kuhn’s point about people ‘talking past’ and ‘talking through’ each other.

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Chapter Seven A Three/Four-Dimensional Concept of Crime

C

ompared to many other social sciences the discipline of criminology has been relatively untroubled by the relativist scourge of post-modernity.1 Te reasons for this are not entirely clear, but this probably has something to do with the nature of the concept of crime itself. Ever since the birth of criminology in the late 19th century (Garofalo 1885), criminologists have been aware of the problematic nature of the central concept of this discipline and hence have perhaps been more willing to admit its perspectival nature. For example, all criminologists without exception (see for example Muncie and McLaughlin, 2002: 25; Stephen Jones, 2009: 40; and Colin Webster, 2007: 56) accept that there is a diference between what they call ‘reported and recorded’ crime (the minority of the usually more serious crimes which are actually reported to the police and then, because the police do not record all of the crimes that are reported to them, those which they actually record) and the actual level of crime in society which is inevitably much greater than the recorded crime fgures. Nevertheless, despite this clear understanding of the strictly limited, if not to say wholly one-sided, nature of the data which is available for study, criminologists continue to struggle with the diference between their actual object of explanation—those things about which we might expect them to have something to say—and the actual level of crime in DOI: ./-

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society which, because so much of this goes unreported, is usually completely unknowable. As John Muncie and Eugene McLaughlin say on this all important point: [Crime] statistics cannot be dismissed as simply meaningless: they provide valuable insights into police and court defnitions of crime and the operation of social, legal and organisations constraints and priorities. Tey cannot, however, be expected to aid our understanding of the ‘independent entity of crime’ for, as Lea and Young acknowledge, by its [very] nature no such fact exists’ (2002: 35; emphasis added).

But what Muncie and McLaughlin say here (and for that matter what Lea and Young say too it seems) is not quite right. If by a ‘fact’ here Muncie and McLaughlin mean data on the real or true level of crime in society then of course we don’t have this and no such thing exists. But if however the fact in question is what Muncie and McLaughlin here call the ‘independent entity of crime’ then this fact does indeed exist, and is a very real thing indeed as anyone who has ever been a victim of crime will confrm. Rather it is just that we usually do not know what this ‘true’ fgure is precisely because so much of this type of crime goes unreported. Both of these things then are ‘real’ but in fact, unless we are ourselves the victim of crime, we can usually only ‘know’ one of them. However the fact that we cannot know the ‘true’ level of crime—or as we might well call this the ‘absolute’ level of crime—in society does not mean that criminologists cannot say something about those things on which we do have some information—our actual object of explanation as it were—as opposed to something we can never hope to explain—the absolute level of crime in society. In what follows then we will look at the concept of crime in some detail to see how a perspectivist view on this question might help us to distinguish between the actual subject matter of criminology and its purported one. We will begin by looking at a particularly poor defnition of crime given by one of contemporary criminology’s most distinguished exponents, Mike Maguire. II. The Abstract Formal Definition of Crime According to Mike Maguire, in the second edition of Te Oxford Handbook of Criminology:

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[C]rime’...is, ultimately, a social construct. Looked at as an abstract formal category, it consists of a diverse set of behaviours which have in common (perhaps only) the fact that they are proscribed by the criminal law (Maguire, 1997: 141; emphasis in original).

But, in fact, what Maguire says here is incorrect. Maguire is of course right to say that crime is a social construct, this goes without saying I think. Tere is nothing ‘natural’ about what is and is not called a crime: no list of things, or even any one thing—not even murder it seems2—that is always and everywhere universally regarded as a crime by all societies. Rather it is what he then goes on to say about crime as an ‘abstract formal category’ that is mistaken. Contrary to what Maguire says here, viewed as ‘an abstract formal category’, crime is in fact relatively easy to defne (see below) and it is only when we try to say what all of those things that are commonly called ‘crimes’ in the ‘real world’ as it were—in particular societies at any one time or in the same society at diferent times: an extremely diverse set of things which, as Maguire says, may well have nothing more in common with each other beyond the fact that they happen to be against the criminal law—that we run into the kind of problems Maguire appears to have in mind here. In short, Maguire badly confuses a purely philosophical defnition of crime—an abstract formal category of what should and should not be called a ‘crime’ according to a set of criteria established by criminologists—with a purely empirical matter of what does and does not happen to be against the criminal law at any given time. One is purely a matter of moral philosophy, while the other is simply a matter of fact. However if we separate these two very diferent concepts of crime from one another, as I will attempt to do here, then all of the apparent difculties of establishing an abstract-formal concept of crime disappear. On the face of it the defnition of crime is a very straight-forward matter indeed. Crimes are those things that are ‘against the law’ and nothing further needs to be said about this matter. However, as Stephen Jones has pointed out, such a defnition is unsatisfactory since, although it does not mean to do this, ‘it suggests that without the criminal law there would be no crime’. As Michael and Adler (1933) put it: If crime is merely an instance of conduct which is proscribed by the criminal code, it follows that the criminal law is the formal cause of crime’ (Jones, 2001: 30).

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In other words, get rid of the criminal law and you would get rid of crime. Now, even if we did not know intuitively that there is something wrong with this argument, I have already pointed out that this is not in fact the case. Tis is because the law and crime are not the same things. If we were to get rid of the law, crime would still exist, but we would simply have no legal way to defend ourselves against the behaviour of criminals. Further, as Jones goes on to say, such a defnition of crime as law, ‘tells us nothing about why certain forms of behaviour are criminalised’ (copyright thef for example) and, more importantly perhaps, why others equally as bad or worse (pollution perhaps) are not (Jones, 2001: 31). Furthermore it also ‘fails to explain why the content of the criminal law can vary over a period of time’ (2001: 31), and it also ‘fails to explain why, even at a given point of time, key diferences can be observed within the same country, be they between diferent states in a federation such as the USA, or between the three diferent legal systems that comprise the UK’ (2001: 33). Is it possible then, as Jones suggests, to devise a more useful defnition of ‘crime’ for purely analytical purposes—an abstract formal defnition of crime as Maguire calls this—rather than one that is based on the actual law of any given society? It is. Our defnition of crime is abstract where we abstract from the totality of all the crime that is committed in a particular society (about which we usually know nothing at all) to look only at that crime—our actual object of explanation—which is reported to the police but not always recorded by them, and then such a defnition of crime may be said to be formal where we were able to specify a determinate set of conditions of all those things which we might reasonably call crime and which I suggest would have to look something very much like the following ten point concept. First, it is imperative to observe that most of those things which we commonly call crimes are harmful to others. If something does not harm someone else in some way, then, rationally speaking, it is hard to see how we could call such a thing a ‘crime’ at all. Whether something is harmful or not would therefore seem to be the frst, and is in fact probably the most fundamental, condition of any abstract-formal defnition of crime. If some action harms someone else—or perhaps we should say is even likely to harm someone else—then society is quite likely to make rules to prevent this type of behaviour and, in exceptionally severe cases, these rules will take the form of the criminal law. However, no sooner have we made this claim, than it seems necessary to qualify it somewhat (although I will argue that all of these subsequent qualifcations are already implied in this claim itself). First, not all actions that are harmful should be criminalised, but

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only those behaviours which are harmful to others. For example, suicide ceased to be a criminal ofence in Britain in 1960 (Jones: 33), and, these days, one may harm oneself—even to the extent of killing oneself—with complete immunity from the criminal law. It is difcult to see how we could return to a state where suicidal behaviour, so long as this does not harm anyone else, would ever be criminalised again.3 We also need to take into account the threat to harm someone else. Not only actual bodily harm or loss of property etc., but also the threat to harm someone else, even where no such actual bodily harm or damage to property occurs, can and should be treated as a crime where the fear of harm exists. Treatening to harm someone else would then appear to be an important qualifcation to the principle that harm must actually occur before a crime, rationally speaking, can be said to have occurred, while harm itself—even when this actually occurs—should not be criminalised where this only harms oneself but not others. Apparent exceptions to the rule that one cannot commit a crime by harming oneself—for example, the harm people do to themselves through drug abuse and/or the criminalisation of this behaviour—are nothing of the sort, I would argue. Rather, what we have to explain in these cases is why this type of self-harm is against the law while other more serious kinds of self-harm—for example suicide—are not against the law. Tis might be said to be because of the harm drug addicts sometimes do to others in trying to feed their addiction, for example, in stealing property to pay for high price drugs. But, if this is the case, then it is the act of stealing that should be criminalised (because it is harmful to someone else’s interests) rather than drug taking itself (where this only harms the user). Where however drug taking does harm someone other than the user—for example, where alcoholics physically abuse members of their family or drink-drivers kill people on the roads—then once again I would argue it is these actions alone that should be criminalised (on the principle of the harm being done to others) and not the drug taking itself. It is only where drug taking itself harmed others (for example, by a woman taking drugs while pregnant or by someone smoking a cigarette in a public place) that this action might be criminalised, but I do not myself think this principle should be extended to any and all harm sufered by others (for example the pain and anguish sufered by the family of a suicide) since any such extension of this principle could also be applied to the pain and anguish sufered by the families of anyone who harms themselves in any way and then, where this was the case, we would have to criminalise all forms of self-harm.

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Clearly therefore it is also necessary to say exactly what we mean by the term ‘harm’ since this term is of course by no means unproblematic. And here it is useful to introduce a distinction made by Roland Jaggard, one of the principal defendants in the famous sado-masochistic ‘Spanner’ case of the early 1990’s, between hurting someone and harming them. According to Jaggard, ‘hurt’ refers to the degree of pain sufered by someone, while ‘harm’ refers to the duration of an injury (Gerrard, 1996: 6). Since the experience of pain for sexual pleasure is precisely what a sado-masochist wants to achieve, Jaggard argues that sado-masochistic behaviour should not be criminalised however much pain this causes to the masochist so long as such behaviour only hurts someone but does not actually cause them any lasting injury or ‘harm’. Tus, the pain experienced by a masochist might be greater than the pain experienced by the unwilling victim of a serious assault, but the frst is acceptable so long as consent is given and no lasting harm is done, while the second is unacceptable and should be criminalised even when no lasting harm is done because consent was not given (and see below for more on the principle of consent). It is not then the degree of pain as such but the duration of any injury that might result from this, particularly where such injury is permanent, that determines the criminality of the action concerned. And, of course, it goes without saying that such long-term injury might also be mental (for example in the case of a child abuse or rape victim) as well as physical. So far all of the above are only qualifcations to the frst condition of an abstract formal defnition of crime: that harm must be done to someone other than oneself for a ‘crime’ to occur. However, mention of the Spanner case brings us conveniently to what may be said to be the second major condition of any abstract-formal defnition of crime; namely whether consent is given to the behaviour in question. Te Spanner defendants argued that what they did—for example hammering nails through each other’s scrotums, or sandpapering someone else’s testicles—only afected themselves, and that since they were all adults and all consented to what they were doing, their behaviour, though morally reprehensible to many people, had nothing to do with anyone else. A sadist might infict extreme pain on a masochist, but if this behaviour is consented to, then such behaviour should not be criminalised however distasteful it might seem to be to other people so long as no long term harm is caused. On the other hand, where the same or even a lesser degree of pain was inficted on another person without their consent—for example where people are tortured against their will, or when force is used in sexual relationships without consent being

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given—then such behaviour is rightly considered to be criminal.4 Once again, however, it is necessary to qualify this second major condition of an abstract formal defnition of crime, and, once again, the basis of this qualifcation has already been introduced in the above discussion. It is common in law to distinguish between people who are held to be legally able to give consent for their actions—so-called ‘responsible’ persons—and those people who are held to be incapable of giving such consent. Although the age of criminal responsibility varies dramatically from one country and legal jurisdiction to another—the average age in Europe is 13 years, 9 months (Te Howard League for Penal Reform, 2008) but the age range is from 8 (in Scotland) to 18 (in Luxembourg), so that much of the idea of a ‘responsible person’ seems to be purely a legal fction—the two major categories of what I think we may nevertheless call ‘irresponsible persons’ are children and the mentally ill. Children under a wide variety of ages are held to be unable to give consent to have sexual intercourse, or smoke tobacco, or drink alcohol, or vote etc., even when they appear to know their own minds and to give their consent, and this concept is most forcefully expressed in the idea of statutory rape. Similarly, children and the mentally ill are not usually held to be criminally responsible for their actions, even when a crime would otherwise be judged to have occurred, if they are thought to be unable to understand the seriousness of what they have done by reason of age or insanity, even though children are sometimes prosecuted (as in the infamous Bulger case in the UK) and even though some states in the world—Montana, Idaho and Utah in the United States for example—have abolished the defence of insanity altogether (Jones, 1997: 216). Te idea of a group of people who are not criminally responsible for their behaviour is in fact remarkably recent. As David Garland has pointed out, [i]t was quite common in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries for young persons aged 12 to 14 to be whipped, imprisoned, transported and even executed. Indeed it was only from the mid-nineteenth onwards that our modern conceptions of youth and childhood began to restructure the laws and practices of punishment in the ways that we now take for granted (Garland, 1991: 201).

More recently still, the corporal punishment of children at school or parents smacking children in public—which used to be viewed as perfectly normal and perhaps even benefcial for the child concerned5—have become

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increasingly stigmatised and even criminalised, either because the child is judged not to be able to give consent to his or her punishment, or because he or she would be unlikely or unwilling to give such consent if they could. As Mary Kenny says, there is now also ‘a substantial and infuential body of opinion working to have any kind of smacking of children outlawed, even in the home, and this is already the case in Sweden’ (Kenny, 1995: 25). Nevertheless, it seems reasonable to say that what we might generally call responsibility for one’s actions must now be added to our list as the third major condition of an abstract formal defnition of crime otherwise it will be hard to argue that people like the sado-masochists above, or suicides, or people wishing to commit euthanasia etc., can responsibly consent to harm or even hurt themselves. But if sane adults can be held legally responsible for their actions it is important not to go too far in defending this principle. In particular, making the claim that sane adults may be held legally responsible for what they do should not entail any claim that such people should always be held solely responsible for their actions. In other words, it is important to make a distinction here between collective responsibility and individual responsibility. We are all more or less responsible for our actions every day, but we are not usually, I suggest, solely responsible for everything we do. As David Garland has said on this very important point, the bedrock of what, for want of a better term, I think we will have to call the ‘bourgeois’ legal system—and a scandal in our own day at least as great as the scandal which exempted the aristocracy from the common law in feudal society—is the legal fction which views defendants as ‘isolated, egoistic subjects’, ‘the bearers of autonomous private interests’, and ‘ideal property owners’, ‘who relate to one another—and to the world—through the forms of contract, ownership, and exchange’ (Garland, 1991:112). As the Russian jurist E. B. Pashukanis expressed this point: Once they enter the drama of criminal court proceedings, real concrete persons and their disputes are transposed into ‘a peculiar juridical reality, parallel with the real world’ (Pashukanis, 1978: 188). Within this strange world of the court-room, individuals come to be seen as legal subjects, bearing all the attributes of free will, responsibility and hedonistic psychology which the standard bourgeois individual is deemed to possess, no matter how far the actualities of the case depart from this ‘ideal’. Te defendant’s personality and actions are viewed through the prism of this ideological form which is at once mythical and socially efective, so that even the most

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destitute and desperate victims of market society are deemed to be free and equal and in control of their own destinies once they appear in a court of law (Garland, 1991: 112).

In viewing the defendant and the commission of a crime in this way—as the act of an isolated individual subject—‘bourgeois’ law denies any wider social or collective responsibility for the commission of crime. Te fact that the law forbids the thef of property equally to both the rich and the poor alike even though the rich are much less likely to steal than the poor,6 the fact that some individuals, through no fault of their own, have parents who actively encourage them to steal, or who sexually abuse them; the fact that some drugs are illegal while other much more harmful drugs are not, and that it is the society into which the individual is born that decides that this should be the case, all of this is set to one side by a legal system which holds defendants individually and solely responsible for their own behaviour. If then responsibility for one’s actions is the third major condition of an abstract formal defnition of crime (and it certainly seems to be an inseparable part of our second condition: the ability to consent), then this condition needs to be qualifed by the awareness that the responsible person is not necessarily or perhaps even usually solely responsible for what they do. Just as it seems reasonable to hold all sane adults individually responsible for their actions (especially for the right to consent to hurt and perhaps even to harm themselves), so too it seems unreasonable to hold almost anyone individually and solely responsible for all the things that they do. Surely then, to the extent that we live in a society which not only accepts injustice and inequality but actively promotes this, we are all collectively responsible for the occurrence of crime in society? Before we leave this discussion of the abstract formal defnition of the concept of crime we need to say something about a fourth possible condition of such a defnition: the importance of action or inactivity. In the above discussion I have talked about people taking responsibility for their actions, but this raises the question whether one can only commit a crime as a result of the actions one takes or whether inactivity too should be criminalised. If  there is something to be said for the general idea of criminal responsibility this fourth possible condition of an abstract-formal concept of crime turns out to be even more problematic and less easy to defend rationally than the idea of individual responsibility or the ability of adults to consent. Tis is because people generally seem to be more willing to hold people criminally responsible—and therefore to penalise certain

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Perspectivism

types of behaviour more severely than other similar or even identical types of behaviour—where one acts in the matter in question rather than merely fails to act. But how rational is this distinction really? Te law calls the failure to act ‘negligence’ where action might have been expected in the normal course of one’s ‘duty’, as it were, and being judged to be negligent in one’s duty may lead to a criminal prosecution (as happened in the case of a train driver judged to be negligent in passing a red light in an accident which led to the death of a passenger). However, negligent behaviour, though prosecutable, still seems to attract a less severe penalty in law than direct action which results in a similar level of harm, mainly, it seems, because there is judged to be a diferent level of intentionality involved in cases of action versus inaction. For example, manslaughter—defned as the unintended taking of human life —is much less severely punished than homicide, defned as the intention to take human life, even though the distinction between intended and unintended acts is ofen very difcult to justify in these cases. But why should an action resulting in a death be more severely punished than the failure to act resulting in a death? Surely it is the consequence of the action or inaction in question that should decide the matter—that a death has occurred in either case—and not the ofen spurious claims that one death was more intentional than another, and hence was more serious, because this somehow involved ‘action’ rather than inaction. Both action and inaction may be equally unintentional then and it is difcult to see what the diference is between these two things since ‘inactivity’ is of course a form of action as well, and this brings us to a ffh possible condition of an abstract-formal defnition of crime, namely intentionality versus the lack of any such intention (or what Michael Levi calls ‘accidentality’). As Levi has pointed out, ‘[I]n so far as they ever make a connection between [diferent] forms of injury at all, lawyers and police ofcers ofen attempt to distinguish between ‘violent crime’, on the one hand and [deaths resulting from] ‘bad driving’ and health and safety at work, on the other, on the grounds of intentional diference’ (Levi, 1994: 296). However, as Levi has argued: this distinction assumes a level of unintentionality (or what I might term ‘accidentality’) that is inappropriate, especially in many health and safety cases. Moreover, one might further argue, it assumes a level of ‘intentionality’ in ‘ordinary’ violent crimes that may not be there: for example, some quarrels escalate into fghts in a way that was not planned by any of the parties (1994: 296).

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Te intentionality of an act seems easier to establish than the lack of intention or the failure to act, but in truth both are equally difcult to decide. Where someone did intend to commit a crime, this is almost always a more serious ofence than where someone did not intend any such thing, even when the outcome is the same in each case, but establishing intentionality in these cases ofen seems all but impossible. However, this is much more of a problem for the law than it is for criminology. As far as the abstract formal defnition of crime is concerned, I think we can say that a crime is in principle more serious when intentional (whether or not we can actually prove any such intention) and is less serious where intention is absent. And we may also say that in certain circumstances a crime may be said to have occurred where intentionality is present (for example if I deliberately hit you in the face) than when no such crime would be said to have occurred even in the same circumstances where intentionality is absent (for example, where I accidentally hit you in the face but did not mean to do so). Whether we can prove intentionality therefore is not a problem for the abstract formal defnition of crime, but is solely a problem for the criminal law (a completely separate matter), and whether an action is more serious than the failure to act seems to depend entirely on whether one or the other was intentional. Te failure to act, where this is intended, is more criminal I suggest than any action taken where this was unintended. Finally, a sixth possible condition of any abstract formal defnition of crime must include some reference to a public/private distinction in the criminal law. For example, one can commit all sorts of acts in the privacy of one’s own home—many of these of a sexual nature—which would be deemed a crime in public. A comparison between boxing and sado-masochism is instructive here. Two men can beat each other to a pulp, and sometimes even kill one another accidentally, in a boxing ring despite the fact that this behaviour takes place in a public place (and in fact would not happen at all unless there was an audience) presumably because both parties consent to be beaten and/or because this is not done for sexual pleasure (at least not of the boxers?), but this same activity exactly would be deemed illegal in a private space, as in the Spanner case, even though the police could not fnd anyone among the Spanner group who did not consent to their treatment (Gerrard, 1996: 6). Here we might also say something about so-called ‘public order ofences’. One can do certain things in the privacy of one’s own home—for example become drunk and incapable, if not exactly drunk and disorderly—and not be committing any crime, when exactly

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Perspectivism

the same behaviour would be a criminal ofence if committed in a public place. However, this distinction between public/private ofences seems to be becoming less signifcant, at least in relation to sexual ofences. Tings that once used to be legal in private which would not have been legal in public—for example so-called ‘domestic’ violence—are becoming increasingly criminalised, while things that used to be thought criminal in public—nudity for example—are less likely to be criminalised so long as they are not judged to be harmful to others. Looked at in this way I think we have said enough to show that, contrary to what Mike Maguire says, it is a relatively easy matter to establish an abstract-formal concept of crime. Formally speaking an abstract defnition of crime may be said to be anything which: (a) harms (b) someone else (someone other than oneself), (c) without their consent (where ‘harm’ is defned as long term or permanent injury). Tese three conditions might then be said to be the principal conditions of a three-dimensional concept of crime. However, as we have seen, to these conditions must then be added the following secondary characteristics/ qualifcations: that something is also a crime: (d) which hurts someone else (where hurt is defned as short term pain or sufering, but which does not lead to long term or permanent injury, i.e., harm), (e) unless they give their consent to be hurt and where (f) consent can only be given by a ‘responsible person’ (meaning someone who is by defnition able to consent, usually an adult, but also excluding adults who are judged to be mentally unwell).7 To all of this we might then add the following tertiary conditions which may be said to make a crime more or less serious but do not necessarily afect the criminal status of the thing in question: (g) did someone intend to do what they did; and if they did does this/ should this make what they do more ‘criminal’? And (h) crimes are usually judged to be more serious which involve action of some kind, but this is not always the case since the failure to act or ‘negligence’— itself a form of action of course—might also be judged to be criminal; that (i) something might be said to be more serious when this occurs

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in a public rather than a private place, however the distinction between these two things—doubtful at the best of times as far as the concept of crime is concerned—seems to be becoming less important. And fnally (j) where there is a threat to harm someone else whether or not what is threatened is actually carried out. An abstract formal defnition of crime might then be given as follows: (1) the intention by a person who can be (2) held responsible for their own actions to (3) harm someone (4) other than themselves, (5) without that other person’s consent, (6) usually by way of an action, but sometimes (7) by the failure to act, especially when this action is (8) direct and particularly (9) where this takes place in a public place. To this one might also add that (10) the threat to harm someone else, even where no such harm actually occurs, might also be said to constitute a ‘crime’. Taken together we can then see that these ten points might easily be situated on diferent sides or faces of a three-dimensional concept of crime, either in the form of a decahedron (with conditions (a) – (j) making up the ten diferent sides of the concept, or perhaps in the form of a three-sided pyramid with the three sides of this concept of crime being made up of the above three principle determinants of a crime (a – c) and then the other seven condition (d – j) indicating the degree of seriousness of each crime and our attitude towards this. Tis latter possibility is so interesting that we will now look at this idea in more detail. III. A Genuinely Three-dimensional Model of Crime: Hagan (1984) An inspirational attempt to develop just such a three-dimensional concept of crime as that described above—and this in the form of a pyramid too which attempted to indicate the degrees of seriousness of a crime according to how high up the pyramid the crime occurs—has already been made by a Canadian criminologist John Hagan in his 1984 book Modern Criminology: Crime, Criminal Behaviour and Its Control (Hagan, 1985: 48–61). However, although unquestionably a great improvement on a more conventional concept of crime which denies that an abstract formal defnition of this concept is possible, I will argue that Hagan’s attempt to develop this concept is ultimately unsuccessful. Like Lukes and Saunders before him, although Hagan had the intuition that what is required is a three-dimensional concept of crime (and four where we include time), on examination his model turns out to be two-dimensional at best.

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Perspectivism

Hagan begins with the attempt to develop a defnition of crime ‘that takes into account not only what is formally considered criminal by the law, but also a range of behaviors that for all practical purposes are treated as crimes … as well as those behaviours that across time and place vary in their location in and outside the boundaries of criminal law’ (1985: 48–49). However he goes much further than we have done so far to defne crime ‘as a kind deviance’ and he then defnes deviance in turn as ‘variation from a social norm that is proscribed by criminal law’. ‘Deviance’ is of course a highly problematic concept to defne in its own right without bringing the defnition of this concept into the discussion of the concept of crime and this is presumably the reason why Hagan added the second part of his defnition—‘proscribed by criminal law’—in order to overcome the all too obvious objection that ‘variation from social norms’ must logically include all sorts of minority activities like bird watching or fy fshing which we would not normally wish to call ‘deviant’ (even though they undoubtedly are) and which we usually would not want to call criminal. Leaving this problem aside however, Hagan argues that while ‘there is an obvious difference in our society between multiple murder and adolescent marijuana use … most deviant acts can be located empirically on a continuum of seriousness between these two extremes’ (1985: 49; emphasis added) with, in addition to this, a very large intermediate group of behaviours. Tis then produces the following three-fold measure of seriousness: (1) Te degree of agreement about the ‘wrongfulness’ of an act; (2) Te severity of the social response elicited by the act; and (3) Te social evaluation of the harm cause by the act (1985: 49). Hagan then argues that, ‘in most modern societies, including our own, the[se] three measures of seriousness are closely associated’ (1985: 50). It then follows that ‘the more serious acts of deviance, which are most likely to be called “criminal” are [those which] are most likely to involve (1) broad agreement about the wrongfulness of such acts, (2) a severe social response, and (3) an evaluation of the act as being harmful’ (1985: 50), while less serious types of deviance will receive a much more ambivalent response and may not even be regarded as crimes at all. Hagan’s emphasis here on attitudes towards crime—which he seems to regard as being at least as important as the harm caused by such acts or the severity of the social response to this—then produces the following counter intuitive argument in which he describes the most serious ofences as what he calls ‘consensus

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crimes’—because there is a broad general agreement on the fact that these are indeed the most serious crimes—while he calls ‘confict crimes’—which we might otherwise have thought were the most serious—those about which there is considerable disagreement in society as to whether they should be considered as crimes at all and hence which are the least serious. For Hagan then ‘consensus crimes’ are the ones which most people are agreed upon are very serious indeed while ‘confict crimes’, so-called, are those on which there is considerable disagreement, with some people evaluating illicit drug taking for example as very serious indeed (perhaps because this is afer all against the law?) while other people—presumably those who take such drugs—seem to think that this is little more serious than smoking cigarettes or drinking alcohol. In between these two extremes there are then two further categories which range from what Hagan calls ‘social deviation’ (non-criminal but still ‘deviant’ behaviour) to ‘social diversions’ (behaviour which is neither criminal nor deviant). Leaving to one side Hagan’s remarkably counter-intuitive terminology, this three-fold typology then produces what Hagan describes as a ‘pyramid’ of diferent kinds of crime and deviance (1985: 50 Fig. 2.2, reproduced here as Fig. 7.1) organised hierarchically according to their degree of seriousness, with the most serious crimes at the top of the pyramid to the least social diversions at the bottom.

Figure 7.1: Types of Crime and Deviance (Hagan 1985: 50) –221–

Perspectivism

Hagan’s pyramid of the seriousness of crime is based on an attitude survey conducted by Rossi, Waite, Bose and Berk in 1974 of 200 adults in Baltimore, Maryland (Hagan 1985: 53–57; Rossi  et  al. 1974: 224–237) who were asked to rate 140 ofences on a scale from 1 to 9 according to their perceived degree of seriousness, where 9 was most serious and 1 least serious. Te resulting data was then ranked by Rossi et al. according to the mean score of the 200 or so respondents rather than the degree of variance between the respondents to each question, to produce a table of 140 ofences [see Table 7.1 below] with the ofence with the highest mean score (planned killing of a police ofcer) ranked number one and the ofence with the lowest mean score (being drunk in a public place) ranked number 140. One of the most striking things about the data collected by Rossi et al. on which Hagan relies to establish his argument about the seriousness of diferent ofences is the way in which Rossi’s emphasis—shared by Hagan— on the degree of agreement about the seriousness of a crime has the efect of undermining, or at the very least de-emphasising, the harm done to victims of crimes. Rather bizarrely the public’s attitudes towards crime in Rossi et al.’s survey appears to prioritise the intention to commit a crime (see for example ofences 1–2 and 6–7) over what we might otherwise have thought were more serious crimes where such a crime is actually carried out (for example ofenses 14 and 16). Tus it is the planned killing—apparently whether this takes place or not—of a police ofcer or spouse (ofences number 1 and 6) that is deemed more serious, and hence ranked more highly, than the actual killing of someone as a result of an argument (ofences number 14 and 16). Hence actual harm, in the cases of ofences number 5, 15, 16, 19, 20 and 22 for example, very ofen comes lower down on this attitude scale than those ofences in which no harm might actually occur even where this was intended.8 Another very unusual thing about Rossi  et  al.’s survey of attitudes towards crime is the way in which their ranking of crimes according to the mean or average seriousness of respondents (column one) is so very diferent from what this table would have looked like had these ofences been ranked more conventionally according to the degree of variance in rating each ofence (column two). Here then it is worth asking why Rossi et al. chose to rank their fndings in the form of the arithmetic mean (the sum total of all the scores given to each question divided by the number of people taking part in the survey) rather than in terms of the degree of variation in rating each of the 140 ofences (i.e., the range of diference in the response given by all the respondents to each ofence). Tus, taking

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Table 7.1: Average seriousness ratings given 140 ofences in Baltimore Survey (N is at least 100) Rank Crime 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16. 17. 18. 19. 20. 21. 22. 23. 24. 25. 26. 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32. 33. 34. 35. 36. 37. 38. 39. 40. 41. 42. 43. 44. 45. 46. 47. 48. 49. 50.

Mean

Planned killing of a policeman Planned killing of a person for a fee Selling heroin Forcible rape after breaking into a home Impulsive killing of a policeman Planned killing of a spouse Planned killing of an acquaintance Hijacking an airplane Armed robbery of a bank Selling LSD Assault with a gun on a policeman Kidnapping for ransom Forcible rape of a stranger in a park Killing someone after an argument over a business transaction Assassination of a public official Killing someone during a serious argument Making sexual advances to young children Assault with a gun on a stranger Impulsive killing of a spouse Impulsive killing of a stranger Forcible rape of a neighbour Impulsive killing of an acquaintance Deliberately starting a fire which results in a death Assault with a gun on a stranger Manufacturing and selling drugs known to be harmful to users Knowingly selling contaminated food which results in a death Armed robbery of a company payroll Using heroin Assault with a gun on an acquaintance Armed holdup of a taxi driver Beating up a child Armed robbery of a neighborhood druggist Causing auto accident death while driving when drunk Selling secret documents to a foreign government Armed street holdup stealing $200 cash Killing someone in a bar room free-for-all Deliberately starting a fire in an occupied building Assault with a gun on a spouse Armed robbery of a supermarket Assault with a gun in the course of a riot Armed hijacking of a truck Deserting to the enemy in time of war Armed street holdup stealing $25 in cash Armed robbery of an armoured truck Spying for a foreign government Killing a pedestrian while exceeding the speed limit Seduction of a minor Beating up a policeman Selling marijuana Father–daughter incest

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8.474 8.406 8.293 8.241* 8.214 8.113* 8.093 8.072 8.021 7.949 7.938 7.930 7.909 7.898 7.888 7.867 7.861 7.847* 7.835 7.821* 7.778 7.717 7.707 7.662** 7.653 7.596 7.577 7.520 7.505 7.505 7.490 7.487* 7.455 7.423* 7.414 7.392 7.347 7.323 7.313 7.245 7.198 7.194 7.165 7.163 7.135 7.122 7.021 7.020 6.969* 6.959

Variance 2.002 2.749 2.658 2.266 3.077 3.276 3.273 2.776 8.020 3.048 3.225 3.844 3.737 3.536 5.400 3.663 3.741 2.172 3.952 3.429 3.726 4.205 4.189 2.976* 3.280 5.202 3.080 4.871 3.482 3.336 3.840 3.221 3.904 5.722 3.633 4.637 5.177 4.650 3.911 3.218 3.866 4.673 4.431 5.210 7.024 3.964 5.729 5.734 7.216 7.112

Perspectivism

Rank Crime 51. Causing the death of an employee by neglecting to repair machinery 52. Breaking and entering a bank 53. Mugging and stealing $25 in cash 54. Selling pep pills 55. Cashing stolen payroll checks 56. Mugging and stealing $200 in cash 57. Causing the death of a tenant by neglecting to repair heating plant 58. Killing spouse’s lover after catching them together 59. Blackmail 60. Advocating overthrow of the government 61. Neglecting to care for own children 62. Forcible rape of a former spouse 63. Manufacturing and selling autos known to be dangerously defective 64. Beating up a stranger 65. Using LSD 66. Driving while drunk 67. Practicing medicine without a licence 68. Burglary of a home stealing a colour TV set 69. Knowingly passing counterfeit money 70. Beating up someone in a riot 71. Performing illegal abortions 72. Passing worthless checks for more than $500 73. A public official accepting bribes in return for favours 74. Employee embezzling company funds 75. Knowingly selling stolen stocks and bonds 76. Refusing to obey lawful order of a policeman 77. Burglary of a home stealing a portable transistor radio 78. Theft of a car for the purpose of resale 79. Knowingly selling defective used cars as completely safe 80. Burglary of an appliance store stealing several TV sets 81. Looting goods in a riot 82. Knowingly selling stolen goods 83. Leaving the scene of an accident 84. Printing counterfeit ten dollar bills 85. Shoplifting a diamond ring from a jewelry store 86. Mother–son incest 87. Theft of a car for joy-riding 88. Intimidating a witness in a court case 89. Brother–sister incest 90. Knowingly selling worthless stock as valuable investments 91. Beating up a spouse 92. Selling liquor to minors 93. Burglary of a factory stealing machine tools 94. Using stolen credit cards 95. Using pep pills 96. Joining a riot 97. Lending money at illegal interest rates 98. Knowingly buying stolen goods 99. Refusal to serve when drafted in peace time 100. Resisting arrest 101. Impersonating a policeman 102. Using false identification to obtain goods from a store

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Mean

Variance

6.918 6.908 6.837* 6.867 6.827 6.796 6.704 6.691 6.667 6.663 6.660 6.653

4.556 4.641 5.305 5.683 4.784 5.051 6.314 7.695 5.122 7.715 6.977 6.394

6.604 6.604 6.557 6.545 6.500* 6.440* 6.392 6.368 6.330 6.309 6.240 6.207* 6.138* 6.118* 6.115* 6.093* 6.093 6.062 6.043 6.021 5.949 5.948 5.939 5.907 5.876 5.853 5.825 5.821 5.796 5.789 5.789 5.750 5.656 5.656 5.653 5.596 5.535 5.449 5.449 5.438

5.968 5.379 7.479 6.006 6.908 5.048 5.220 5.788 5.723 5.119 6.467 5.030 4.960 5.806 5.871 5.085 5.023 5.371 5.052 4.463 6.020 6.820 5.466 9.189 6.047 4.850 8.709 5.021 7.051 7.572 5.317 5.832 9.512 6.750 5.775 5.794 8.863 6.271 7.405 6.628

A Three/Four-Dimensional Concept of Crime

Rank Crime

Mean

Variance

103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. 110. 111. 112. 113. 114. 115. 116. 117. 118. 119. 120. 121. 122. 123. 124. 125. 126. 127. 128. 129. 130. 131. 132. 133. 134. 135. 136. 137. 138. 139. 140.

5.394 5.339* 5.323 5.305 5.157* 5.144 5.140 5.135 5.070 5.032 5.031 4.938 4.990 4.970 4.969 4.918 4.868* 4.832 4.786 4.781 4.736 4.729 4.653 4.629 4.619 4.526 4.424* 4.411 4.323 4.083 4.063 3.583* 3.779 3.573 3.571* 3.375 3.105 2.849

6.198 5.921 7.526 6.321 6.470 7.687 9.361 6.455 6.308 5.644 7.988 7.449 6.781 6.213 6.793 5.618 8.930 6.801 5.902 6.678 9.396 9.042 6.697 6.069 6.218 7.826 6.551 9.074 6.486 7.972 6.670 6.475 7.174 7.658 6.342 8.111 7.329 6.021

Bribing a public official to obtain favours Passing worthless checks involving less than $100 Desertion from military service in peace time Under-reporting income on income tax returns Wilfully neglecting to file income tax returns Soliciting for prostitution Proposing homosexual practices to an adult Overcharging on repairs to automobiles Shoplifting a dress from a department store Beating up an acquaintance Driving while licence is suspended Pouring paint over someone’s car Shoplifting a pair of shoes from a shoe store Overcharging for credit in selling goods Shoplifting a carton of cigarettes from a supermarket Smuggling goods to avoid paying import duties Killing a suspected burglar in home False claims of dependents on income tax return Knowingly using inaccurate scales in weighing meat for sale Refusal to make essential repairs to rental property Engaging in male homosexual acts with consenting adults Engaging in female homosexual act with consenting adults Breaking a plate glass window in a shop Fixing prices of a consumer product like gasoline Fixing prices of machines sold to business Selling pornographic magazines Shoplifting a book in a bookstore Repeated refusal to obey parents Joining a prohibited demonstration False advertising of headache remedy Refusal to pay alimony Refusal to pay parking fines Disturbing the peace Repeated truancy Repeated running away from home Loitering in a public place Refusal to answer census taker Being drunk in public places

Note: Scores have a range of 9 (most serious) to 1 (least serious). * Crimes rated by all members (200) of the Baltimore sample. ** This offense was inadvertently repeated twice (see crime rank no.18), indicating that differences in scores of as much as .185 can be obtained through response unreliability.

the frst ten ofences listed, we can see that while ‘the planned killing of a police ofcer is still ranked as the number one ofence both in terms of its mean (average) score and in terms of its variance from the mean for all the respondents (meaning that there was very little disagreement amongst respondents in scoring this ofence highly, either as a 9 or an 8, which then produced a mean of 8.474), assault with a gun on a stranger by contrast, which has a variance of just 2.172 (but was ranked 18 according –225–

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to its mean) would have to be moved up to ofence number two had this table been ranked in order of variance. Similarly mean ofence 4, forcible rape afer breaking into a home, would become variance rank 3; the present mean number 3, selling heroin, would become variance 4; the present mean number two, planned killing of a person for a fee, would become variance number 5; variance number 6 would be the present mean number 8, hijacking an aircraf; variance number 7 would be the present mean number 24, assault with a gun on a stranger (which ofence, interestingly enough, Rossi et al. tell us was inadvertently repeated twice in the survey resulting in the fact that this is the same as variance number two and mean number 18); while mean 10, selling LSD, becomes variance number 8, variance 9 becomes the former mean number 5, the impulsive killing of a police ofcer, and variance number 10, become the former mean number 27, armed robbery of a company payroll. Similarly, if we also look at the bottom ten scores by variance we fnd an even greater diference between their rank order according to their mean and their rank by variance than was the case for the top ten ofences. Tus, the ofence which has the highest variance in its score, ‘using pep pills’, with a variance of 9.512, indicating the most disagreement by respondents to the survey, and which hence would have been ranked as ofence number 140 if this data had been ordered in terms of its variance, is here ranked as ofence number 95 according to its mean of only 5.656, a diference of forty fve places in a table of just 140 ofences.9 Te second highest variance score, 9.396, (rank 139 out of 140) ‘engaging in male homosexual acts with a consenting adult’, is mean rank 123, with a mean of 4.736. Variance number 3 (new rank 138) is mean rank 109; ‘proposing homosexual practices to an adult’. Number 4, with a mean rank of 86, is ‘mother-son incest’. Variance number fve (rank 136) is mean rank 130, ‘repeated refusal to obey a parent’. Six is mean rank 124, ‘engaging in female homosexual acts with a consenting adult’. Seven is mean rank 119, ‘killing a suspected burglar in the home’; eight is mean rank 99, ‘refusing to serve when drafed [into the military] in peace time’; variance nine (new rank 132) is ‘brother-sister incest’, which has a mean rank of 89, while fnally variance number 10 (new rank 131) is mean rank 138, ‘loitering in a public place’. Tose ofences with very high variance scores of 8 or more mean that some respondents must have ranked the same ofence as very serious indeed (with scores of 9 or 8 or 7) while other respondents must have ranked these same ofence as not very serious at all (with scores of 1, 2 or 3), and here it is worth noting that consent appears to be a major factor in the

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wide variation in the public response to those ofences with a high variance score. While some respondents evidently regard homosexual behaviour as morally reprehensible under any circumstances, other respondents clearly do not think this is the case providing only that consent is given by responsible adults in each case. And here Hagan notes that education and youth are closely correlated with sample means, meaning that the more highly educated and younger the respondents were the more likely they were to agree with the average, or mean, rating for the sample as a whole (Hagan, 1985: 53) while the less well educated and older respondents were the more likely they were to disagree. But this still leaves unexplained the truly baffing response to the crime of incest, with father daughter incest ranked 50 according to its mean, but with an astonishingly high variance of 7.112, while, mother-son incest is ranked 86 according to its means score, but is the fourth least serious ofence overall with a score of 9.189 according to its variance. Brother-sister incest is similarly ranked 89 by its mean score but is the ninth least serious ofence overall ranked by its variance score. Te only rational explanation of this truly bizarre outcome is that (a) some respondents to the survey did not know what the term incest means, (b) respondents misunderstood the scoring system—always a problem with Likert scales—and in this case thought that 1 or 2 was the high score, or (c) that there must have been an awful lot of incest in Baltimore in the early 1970s and hence a very high degree of socially accepted tolerance of this behaviour at that time! Similarly, it is impossible to understand other than as some kind of an error in Rossi et al.’s table the astonishingly high variance score of 8.020—the eleventh highest variance score of all and hence the 130th least serious ofence when ranked by variance—for ofence number nine ‘armed robbery of a bank’ with a mean score of 8.021. To achieve a variance of 8.020 at least half the sample would have had to score the ofence of armed bank robbery as the least serious score of 1 on a Likert scale, while the other half of this sample scored this as a 9. But unless respondents misunderstood the question (which seems highly unlikely) this simply must be a typographical error in Rossi et al.’s data and I am myself inclined to think that the actual variance score for this ofence must have been 3.020 and not 8.020. Undoubtedly, the major advantage of Hagan’s pyramid of crime and deviance is that this clearly indicates that the most serious crimes—those at the apex of the ‘pyramid’—are also the least frequent. Tere is in other words a clear hierarchy in Hagan’s schema of crime and deviance between the least serious and most frequent ‘diversions’ at the base of the pyramid

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to the most serious and least frequent ‘consensus’ crimes at the apex, with other less serious social deviations and confict crimes somewhere in the middle. A slight problem for Hagan here is that it is not clear that the most serious crimes in society are in fact always the least frequent. For example, ofence number 15 in Rossi et al.’s table is the ‘assassination of a public ofcial’ and since this ofence presumably includes only successful assassinations, and does not include those that are merely planned, it seems unlikely, even in the United States, that there are more than one or two such successful assassinations of public ofcials per year, while there are perhaps hundreds and thousands, if not millions, of the much more frequent event which is ranked number 3 in Rossi et al.’s table, selling heroin. As he is only too well aware himself, to suit Hagan’s purposes better, Rossi et al.’s table would not only have to take account of the attitude of the people of Baltimore to the seriousness of each ofence, but also Hagan’s two other criteria of a crime, the severity of the social response and the degree of harmfulness of the ofence. By far the worst aspect of Hagan model however is that, despite everything he says to the contrary, what he here describes as a ‘pyramid’ is in fact nothing of the sort. Tis is because the two faces of Hagan’s diagram in Fig. 7.1, although made to look three-dimensional by the addition of a central dividing line—the severity of the social response—which appears to separate the diagram into two distinct sides or faces, in fact does nothing of the sort. A moment’s refection will show, that both ‘faces’ in this diagram—the one on the lef which extends from harm to severity and the one on the right which runs from severity to attitudes—are in fact identical (see Fig. 7.2 below). Tus, in descending order of seriousness from the top to the bottom of the diagram, we fnd ‘consensus crimes’ on both sides of the central severity of response ‘dividing’ line, ‘confict crimes’ on the ‘two’ facing sides of the fgure; social deviations of both faces, and social diversions’ again on each sides of the image. Remove Hagan’s central dividing line then and what at frst sight appears to be two separate faces of a three sided ‘pyramid’ turn out on examination to be one and the same ‘side’ of a two-dimensional polygon. What we have here therefore is in fact simply a two-dimensional triangle which has simply been divided into two halves by drawing a line down the middle of the triangle in order for Hagan to indicate the third dimension of his model, the degree of seriousness of each class of ofences. In fact however everything that takes place in this model exists on the same two-dimensional plane and the hierarchical gradation of crime that Hagan is so interested in developing might just as well have been

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Very Harmful

High Agreement

Severe Consensus Crimes

Somewhat Harmful

Relatively Harmless

Moderate Conflict Crimes Social Deviations Mild

High Disagreement

Confusion or Apathy

Social Diversion Evaluation of Social Harm

Severity of Social Response

Agreement about the norm

Figure 7.2: Hagan’s ‘pyramid’ redrawn as a polygon

represented two-dimensionally in the forms of a triangle with a line down the middle to indicate the seriousness of the ofence as three-dimensionally in the form of a pyramid. And all of this is to say nothing of course about what we might expect to fnd on the other third, or possibly even fourth, sides of a genuine ‘pyramid’—the ‘dark’ or hidden sides of Hagan’s pyramid as it were—which we cannot see at all from the perspective of the drawing that Hagan has provided us with.10 Once again then, as with Saunders and Lukes, and despite all of Hagan’s good intentions to the contrary, the chance to present us with a genuinely three-dimensional model of crime has been missed here and instead we fnd ourselves still operating within the bounds of what is in fact a two-dimensional model of crime. Summing up Hagan’s model then I think we can say the following: while this is a very interesting and indeed an inspiring attempt to represent crime three-dimensionally, ultimately—except perhaps for the way in which the seriousness of crime is represented hierarchically—this model of crime is not successful. Tis is because, like Rossi et al., Hagan focuses far too much on the question of the public’s attitude to crime, and not anything like enough on the question of the harm caused to others by criminal behaviour, while Hagan’s third variable—the severity of the social response to crime—begins to look suspiciously like the degree of agreement about the normality of such behaviour. Rather than putting his three measures –229–

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of the seriousness of crime on one side of his alleged pyramid, it might have been better perhaps if he had put each of these three diferent measures on one plane each of a genuinely three-dimensional pyramid—with those ofences which harm others on one face of his pyramid, attitudes towards crime on another face, and then the severity of the social response to crime on the third—and then put legal and non-deviant behaviour on the base of the pyramid, with the most harmful and most serious crimes still being shown at the apex of the model. Ultimately, however, it is the problem with terminology that gives us the clue to the faw in Hagan’s schema of things: so-called ‘consensus crimes’ and ‘confict crimes’ can only be described as such because agreement on the serious of these events is prioritised in Hagan’s and Rossi et al.’s, scheme of things over the harm that such behaviour causes, and not enough attention is paid at all to the question of whether consent is given by a responsible person for behaviour which would be illegal where consent is not given but which is legal when consent is given, or to the question of whether such behaviour takes place in a private setting where it might well be legal or in a public place where it might not. Similarly, Rossi et al.’s focus on attitudes also has the efect, as we have seen, of unintentionally prioritising the intention to commit a crime—the planned killing of a police ofcer—at the expense of actually killing someone where this might well have been unplanned. Taking all these points together then, a genuinely three-dimensional model of crime of the kind that Hagan hoped to produce might look something very much like the following (see Fig.7.3) with the fve main determinants of a crime placed one on each side of a four sided pyramid with a ffh—perhaps ‘harm to other’ this being the most fundamental condition of all crime—being placed on the base of the pyramid. Without any reference at all to the attitude of the public, those crimes where someone actually did harm someone else and this was intentional might still be placed at the top of the pyramid as in Hagan’s model, indicating the greater seriousness of these ofenses than unintentional crime, with direct action similarly placed as the top of the apex compared to indirect action or the failure to act, while crimes where no consent was given would also obviously be placed at the top of the pyramid compared to crimes where consent was given (which might well be decriminalised altogether), and crimes committed in private (beating a child say) might well come to be regarded as more serious than the same act committed in public (even though today this is not generally thought to be the case), while nothing would be said to be a crime at all, however much one might

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Action

n ntio e t n I

Pub Privatelic or Place

H othaerm to rs

Figure 7.3: A three-dimensional pyramid of crime morally disapproves of this (see below for more on this point), which did not harm someone else. Conclusion. Who Decides what is a ‘Crime’? Finally, this leaves the question of ‘who decides’, as Robert Dahl asked when discussing the concept of power, what is and is not to be called a crime? Conventionally there are said to be at least three ways of answering this question although there are probably many more. One of these ways is what is usually called the normative, or instrumental, defnition of crime. Tis is that something is said to be a crime simply because it is against the law. Some things become somehow—we do not need to know how or why—defned as crimes during the development of society and in the course of history, or perhaps it is the rich and powerful who make these decisions (laws concerning the right of private property for example) but it really does not matter to this defnition how such things came to be—this is irrelevant to a normative defnition of crime—since all that really matters here is that some things are against the law while other things are not. A second, and perhaps the most important of all defnition

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of crime, is in purely moral terms. Something should or should not be against the law, we might say, because it ofends against the moral values of the community. Ofen sanctioned by religion, laws on homosexuality, abortion or adultery would be good examples of this kind of law-making. A third—and I am tempted to say an alternative to the other two views—is what Stephen Jones (2009: 17) called the humanist defnition of crime, and which is sometimes also called the humanitarian view. Tis is the view that something should only be against the law when it harms others and that, so long as it does not do this, then, however morally reprehensible something might seem to be, this behaviour should not be criminalised. Normative

Humanitarian

Moral

Those things which happen Those things which ‘harm’ Those things that some (and to be against the law of a others without their consent perhaps even many) people country at any one time. (especially where the thing think are not ‘right’. in question takes place in public).

Figure 7.4: The Three Major Determinants of ‘Crime’ Most people, if they think about this question at all, defne crime normatively (that is to say, as those things which simply happen to be against the law at any given time). Other people, especially if they are religious, defne crime morally (that is to say in terms of those things which, for whatever reason, they feel are somehow not morally ‘right’). And in between these two poles, a third groups of people defne crime humanistically (as those things which (a) harm others (b) without their consent etc.) and therefore if something does not harm someone else— whatever ‘harm’ might be understood to mean here—then they usually argue that this should not be a crime and hence should not be against the law. Tis argument may be developed further as follows. As we have seen, the major objection to the normative/instrumental defnition of crime is that, as Michael and Adler argued in 1933, ‘if crime is merely an instance of conduct which is proscribed by the criminal code then it follows that the criminal law is the formal cause of crime’ (Jones, 2009: 13). Tis implies that if we were to get rid of the law then we would get rid of crime altogether and clearly this cannot be the case; something more then is required beyond this basic defnition if we are to defne crime adequately. Such a defnition would also struggle to explain why things that were against the law in one society were not against the law in another society or, even more bizarrely, why some things which used to be against the law in one

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country (abortion for example) are no longer so, while other things which used not to be crimes (like fox-hunting for example) now are. Similarly, the objection to a moral defnition of crime is that any one person’s idea of morality is not usually the same as another person’s—the ‘moral majority’ in some societies might well be against drinking alcohol for example while a signifcant minority are not—and in these cases it is hard to see whose opinion should determine what is and is not legal and why the will of the moral majority should prevail in these cases. Tis then leaves us with the third alternative—the middle ground as it were—that if someone’s behaviour does not harm (or perhaps we might even say hurt?) anyone else, then however morally reprehensible what they do is to you, and providing they don’t do this thing in public perhaps, such behaviour should not be criminalised. Having said all of this however—and I think it must be clear by now that I favour the humanitarian view myself—I think that there is something to be said for criminologist Hazel Croall’s view that there is nevertheless somehow (we might not be able to say quite why) an irreducibly moral element—a moral core as I think we might well call this—to all those things that we normally call crimes, even when these do not harm someone else. Tis is the reason why Croall believes that so-called ‘white collar crimes’ do not attract the same kind of criminal penalties—the same severity of response as Hagan would describe this—as other similarly harmful ofences because, somehow or other, although intentional, these ofences lack the all-important element of moral disapproval. As Croall says on this point: In many ofences [of white collar crime] there is an apparent lack of intent, particularly where a difusion of responsibility is involved … [And] this means that the moral element, so important to the defnition of crime, is absent (Croall, 2008: 9)

Finally a useful way of thinking about the question of what should and should not be a called a ‘crime’ is in terms of an interesting thought experiment. Tink of a situation—a flm depicting severe child sex abuse perhaps—but where all the ‘actors’ in the flm are computer generated. Tey all look perfectly real and life-like (indistinguishable in fact from real human beings) so that, as far as you are concerned, you might as well be watching a flm of actual child sex abuse. What now is your reaction to the scenes depicted? Which camp, moral, humanistic, or normative do you fall into? No harm has been caused to anyone during the making of

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this flm (as they say in Hollywood) but if you still object to such a f lm being (a) made and/or (b) viewed by someone else, presumably for reasons of sexual gratifcation, then you are adopting a ‘moral’ perspective on this question. You are in efect saying that you have the ‘right’ to impose your own moral views on this question on other people who do not share your values. Te downside of this moralistic viewpoint however—at least if you are being consistent—is that you must then accept that others have a moral right to impose their moral values on you and that, for example, if a religious fundamentalist said that the consumption of alcohol should be banned throughout society and that you could not drink this even in the privacy of your own home etc., as was in fact the case during the Prohibition period in the United States between the 1920s and 1933, then you would have to go along with this view and accept what they say. If, on the other hand, you say that you would allow such a child exploitation flm to be made and watched even though you personally morally disapprove of such a thing (either the making of such a flm or its being viewed) but where you were confdent that since ‘no one was harmed during the making of this flm’—it is all CGI flm afer all—then you are adopting the humanistic view on this question since the only criteria of ‘criminality’ for you is the harm done to others. A ‘normative’ view of this question might then be said to fall somewhere in between the two extremes of the moralistic and humanistic perspectives with some people who don’t have any very strong views in this matter either way—they are happy to go along with whatever the law or the moral majority says about such things, either for or against—being happy to leave it up to others to decide this matter for them. Notes 1. As Eamonn Carrabine, Paul Iganski, Maggy Lee Ken Plummer and Nigel South have commented on this point, ‘It is perhaps too early to see whether these challenges to criminology are going to become prominent for, in efect, they would lead to the abandonment of criminology as we know it now. Te basic arguments of postmodernism emphasize that the search for the cause of a criminal, the search for general theories of crime, the look for generalities are indeed searches for grand meta-narratives that have indeed had their day. Tere is no one story to be told of crime‘ (Carrabine et al., 2014: 119; emphasis in original). 2. According to Stephen Jones (2001: 31) ‘Rafaele Garofalo [in his book Criminology] tried to ascertain whether there were any crimes ‘which at all times and in all places’ would be considered as ‘punishable acts’. He concluded that their existence could not be proved’. 3. It is perhaps not as well-known as it should be that the ‘crime’ of suicide used to be punished in law. How can one punish someone who has already successfully killed themselves? Te mutilation as ‘punishment’ of the body of suicides, usually by quartering, but sometimes even by hanging the dead body and then displaying this in public, was not uncommon in the

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past. And, of course, there was no question of a suicide being buried in the community cemetery (Garland, 1991: 226). 4. In saying this, I do not mean to suggest that rape is not a violent crime—rape is always by defnition a violent crime—but only that where force is also a part of consensual sexual relations, as in the Spanner case, then it is solely the question of consent and not force that determines whether one act is criminal and another act of a very similar kind is not. 5. I am thinking here of course of the famous saying of biblical origin ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’. 6. And see on this point the reference I have already given at the beginning of chapter six on the subject of equality by the French novelist Anatole France who famously observed: La majestic égalité des lois, qui interdit au riche comme au pauver de coucher sous les ponts, de mendier dans les rues et de voler du pain (1894, Les Lys Rouge, ch.7) ‘Te majestic equality of the law which forbids rich and poor alike to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal bread’. 7. It is worth noting here that although responsibility for one’s actions may exempt someone from criminal lability by virtue of being under the age of criminal responsibility, this may also make people liable to criminal prosecution, by virtue of being under the legal age at which one would otherwise be permitted to do something; e.g., drink, drive, smoke, vote, etc. 8. Of course it is possible that most if not all of the respondents to the survey viewed the ‘planned killing of a police ofcer’ as one that was also carried out, but other respondents might not have done this, which just goes to show how difcult it is to phrase questions unambiguously and hence to get meaningful data from such attitude surveys (and see on this point the similar point about incest in Rossi et al.’s survey). 9. In case the reader is wondering how a Likert scale from 1–9 can produce a variance of more than 9, this has to do with the way that variance is calculated. In order to calculate variance one takes each actual score away from the mean for all scores and then squares the diference. Te statistic variance is then the sum of the squared diference of all the scores divided by N, the number of scores in the distribution, or N–1 in the case of a sample. Since Rossi et al.’s data is a sample they presumably divided by N–1 and this might therefore have produced this slight anomaly. In order to avoid such outcomes it is conventional in statistics, having calculated variance, to un-square this score again (having only squared the diference in the frst place in order to calculate variance). Tis un-squared score is the statistic known as standard deviation which is always the square root of variance. Why Rossi et al., did not take this additional step, but presented their data in the unsquared form of variance instead, is a bit of a mystery to me. 10. Tere is in addition to these three/four sides or ‘faces’ of any such pyramid which is of course its base. Presumably if we were to extend Hagan’s diagram further, from ‘serious’ through ‘moderate’ to ‘mild’ seriousness we would eventually reach the realm of those things which are neither criminal nor deviant in any way—not even in the form of ‘diversion’—but which are in fact just plain legal and/or normal.

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Chapter Eight The Social Construction of Sexual Difference: The Concepts of Sex, Gender, Intersexuality, Bisexuality, Homosexuality and Heterosexuality Reconsidered from a Perspectivist Point of View

T

raditionally the defnition of the concepts of sex, and even the concept of gender, have been remarkably unproblematic in the social sciences. For a long time sex was said to be biologically determined, while gender was said to be socially constructed, and there was thought to be no overlap between these two very diferent things (de Beauvoir, 1949). More recently however, and certainly since the early 1990’s (Devore, 1989; Epstein, 1990; Nanda, 1990; Fausto-Sterling, 1993), studies into so-called ‘intersexuality’ 1—people who are neither male nor female but are somehow said to be ‘in between’ these two states—have caused social scientists (Kessler and McKenna, 1978; Moore 1994; Kessler, 2000) to rethink not only the defnition of sex and gender but also the whole idea of sexual diference on which the traditional distinction between these two concepts was based. Te result of this extensive reconsideration has been that the concept of sex turns out to be socially constructed too: sex too it seems is gendered. Surprisingly however, this re-evaluation of the concepts of sex and gender has not yet been extended to the question of what, for want of a better term, it seems we must still call ‘sexual orientation’ or ‘sexual preference’.2 However, if the concept of sex is gendered, then so too must the whole concept of sexual orientation be gendered, and if it is impossible any longer to make out a case for there being only two sexes (and I will argue DOI: ./-

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that studies of intersexuality have destroyed any such idea) then it must also be impossible to talk about any such thing as an ‘opposite sex’ and perhaps even ‘same sex’ attraction. If sex is a continuum, then we must all belong to the same one single sex (albeit with diferences in degrees only of masculinity and femininity) and where this was the case, the concept of ‘sex’ would in fact become obsolete, while if sex is a spectrum composed of more than two sexes, then it must be impossible to say any more who exactly your ‘opposite’ sex is, the binary concept of ‘opposites’ making sense so long as there are only two of the thing in question.3 Not only the concepts of sex and gender then it seems, but also the entire concept of sexual attraction/ sexual orientation needs to be rethought once again. In what follows then, afer briefy defning sex and gender, I will go on to outline a new concept of sex and gender in the light of current thinking about the question of ‘intersexuality’ and then, based on this, I will try to establish a new concept of sexual orientation/sexual preference to replace the existing theoretically insupportable concept(s) of ‘homosexuality’ and ‘heterosexuality’. If there is only one ‘sex’ then we must all be ‘homosexual’ while if there are more than two sexes, then there cannot any longer be any such thing as ‘heterosexuality’. I. Defining Gender Te defnition of the concept of gender in the social sciences is surprisingly controversial. A typical defnition of gender in sociology is ‘the social aspect of sexual diference’ (Abercrombie and Warde, 1994: 209), while anthropologists (Scupin, 1995: 132, for example) would usually prefer to emphasis the term ‘cultural’ rather than ‘social’ (ofen without explaining what diference there is between the terms ‘culture’ and ‘society’).4 Still others (Giddens, 2000: 91; Kessler and McKenna, 1985: 7) include ‘psychological’ as well as social and cultural factors in their defnition of gender, emphasising the way we think about ourselves as male, female or neutrally sexed, as well as the way society imposes such thinking upon us. However, the one thing that all of these defnitions have in common is that they are all agreed that gender is a social construct. What this means is that there is some sort of selection process taking place from the totality of all possible features in terms of which the concept of gender might have been constructed to include only a very few features in terms of which it is actually defned. Despite the apparent naturalness of the concept of sexual diference then— and what, afer all, most people would say, could be more ‘natural’ than

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one’s sexual identity?—the study of gender insists that this concept is not only highly artifcial, but also literally ‘man-made’. Since there is a process of selection taking place and we do not make this selection for ourselves (i.e., individually decide upon the conditions of our own sexual identity), this means that gender, despite all the appearance of the naturalness of sexual diference, is irredeemably a social construct. In attempting a preliminary defnition of the concept of gender we might therefore say that gender studies is concerned with two main things; frst how diferent societies construct the concept of sexual diference, and then secondly why all societies generally makes quite so much of what are afer all only relatively minor biological diferences between men and women. Tis being the case it seems that a fairly good preliminary defnition of the subject matter of gender studies—if not exactly of the concept of gender itself—would be ‘why society makes quite so much of the alleged sexual diferences between men and women’. However, as we shall see when we come to discuss the question of ‘intersexuality’, it will shortly be necessary to redefne this concept still further. Where it is the case that there are no hard and fast diferences between the so-called ‘sexes’—and I will argue that this is now the case—then the subject matter of gender studies would be much better redefned as ‘the social construction of sexual diference where no such diferences actually exist’ and gender itself might then be redefned as the widespread belief that sexual diferences do in fact exist where in fact they do not. Where there was no such thing as ‘sexual diference’ then there could be no such thing as ‘gender’. Clearly therefore, before we can take this argument any further, we must frst say a little bit more about what we mean by the concepts of ‘sex’ and ‘sexual diference’. II. Defining Sex and Sexual Difference By contrast to the concept of gender, the defnition of the concept of sex is remarkably unproblematic in the social sciences. Traditionally, social scientists have made a very hard and fast distinction indeed between sex and gender. While gender was defned ‘culturally’ as a social construct, sex was widely accepted, even within gender studies, to refer to purely anatomical and biological diferences between men and women. Even in the 21st century one can still fnd defnitions of this type. Tus Anthony Giddens, in the third edition of his textbook Sociology (2000), claims that we can distinguish sex, ‘meaning biological and anatomical diferences between men and women’ from gender, which is said to concern

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‘the  psychological, social and cultural diferences between males and females’ (Giddens, 2000: 91). But since there are many people in the world who may reasonably be said to have both male and female characteristics in the same body (true hermaphrodites) or who are neither male nor female (for example, in the case of people with the condition known medically as dysgenesic male pseudohermaphroditism; see below), then any defnition which restricts the concepts of sex and gender to only males and females would seem to deny such people not only a sexual identity, but also a gender too. And while it might just be possible to argue that some people do indeed have no ‘sexual’ identity—that they are sexually ‘neutral’ as it were—we could not make the same claim about their gender since any such claim— that they do not have a gender—would itself necessarily involve a concept of gender and hence would be a social construct too. For some time now however this categorical distinction between sex and gender has been under attack, at least within gender studies. As long ago as 1978 Suzanne J. Kessler and Wendy McKenna suggested that the distinction between the terms sex and gender was redundant since, as they argued then, not only our understanding of the concept of gender, but also our understanding of sex, is social constructed. As Kessler and McKenna said on this point: We will use gender, rather than sex, even when referring to those aspects of being a woman (girl) or man (boy) that have traditionally been viewed as biological. Tis will serve to emphasis our position that the element of social construction is primary in all aspects of being female or male, particularly when the term we use seems awkward (e.g., gender chromosomes). Te word ‘sex’ will be used only for references to reproductive and love-making activities and, at times, in reference to purely physical characteristics when explicating the position of someone else who uses this word (1978: 7).

According to Kessler and McKenna then there is no part of the defnition of ‘sex’, except where we are talking about having sexual relations with someone, that is not socially constructed, and hence no part of the subject matter of sex which is not better discussed under the heading of gender. Te very idea that there is any such thing as ‘sexual’ diference—for example, the cultural belief that there are only two sexes—Kessler and McKenna argue is itself a social construct social construct and hence gendered. Writing from the perspective of anthropology, Henrietta Moore has presented a very similar argument:

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One difculty which ethnographic data...raises is how to establish, and indeed whether it is possible to establish, the distinction between sex and gender at all. If sexual diference is thought to exist within bodies as well as between them, should we view this as a matter of sex or gender (Moore 1993)? Te question becomes particularly crucial in the light of the previous argument that sex as well as gender must be understood as socially constructed. Te result is that the analytical distinction between sex and gender seems very blurred. At least in the context of cross-cultural analysis, it seems that the attempt to uphold a radical distinction between sex and gender will not necessarily help us to gain an improved theoretical perspective (Moore, 1994: 814–15).

However, before we abandon altogether the attempt to distinguish the concepts of sex and gender, it might help our subsequent discussion of ‘intersexuality’ if we frst of all look at the varieties of ways in which sex might be defned, even if this is only to illustrate just how difcult it is to select one (or even all) of these variables as the ‘primary’ determinant of sexual diference. What is it that determines your ‘sex’ (if we can use this term here)? Tere are any number of possible candidates the most important of which I have arranged as follows in chronological order as they occur throughout the life course (Fig. 8.1). If they think about this question at all, most people would probably say that one’s sex is def ned in terms of the appearance of one’s genitalia: ‘Is it a boy or is it a girl?’, relatives ask, as soon as one is born. But some people—for example those with a condition known as Complete Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome (CAIS)—have female appearing secondary (external) sexual characteristics and male appearing primary (internal) sexual characteristics. People with CAIS look female externally, but are male internally, hormonally and genetically. How then are we to categorise them? Moreover, in assigning sex to someone we meet for the frst time, we do not usually inspect their genitals, so there must be some other more subtle way in which we determine their sexual identity (if we are able to do so at all). Worse still from the point of def ning sex, the terms ‘male’ and ‘female’ are defned by biologists without reference to the appearance of the genitals at all, but rather by the role which the individual takes in the process of procreation. According to biologists, the female is the individual who produced an egg while the male is the individual who produces the sperm that fertilises the egg (Haynes, 1995: 93). Even if one looks like a woman externally then,

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Genetic: Chromosomes (stage: zygotic). It is still quite common for people to say that 46XX is the ‘female’ chromosome complement and 46XY the ‘male’. However, this level of genetic analysis—assigning sexual identity by chromosomes—will undoubtedly shortly be replaced by a much more detailed DNA level and it ignores the fact that some human beings have XYXX or XXXY chromosomes, and many other combinations of these too (Grouchy, 1981: 24). Gonads: (stage: fetal) gonads are the vestigial form of ovaries or testicles which grow from the side of the kidneys during the first six to eight weeks of human development. Chromosomes determine what form the gonads will take—(i) ovaries, (ii) testicles, (ii) ovo-testis (combined testicle/ovary in single gonad), or (ii) dysgenesic (undeveloped), and the differentiated gonads then produce the pre-natal sex hormones which largely determine primary and secondary sexual characteristics Pre-natal Hormones (stage: fetal): Even at the fetal stage (that is before the end of the twelfth week of human development) ovaries or testicles produce the hormones (androgens, estrogens and others) that masculinise or feminise the body internally and externally. There is a window of opportunity of only four weeks or so (week eight to week twelve) for this to happen. If the ovaries or testicles release hormones after this twelve week period, masculinity or femininity may be determined internally, but this will have no effect on the external appearance of the child. Internal (primary sexual) characteristics might well be female but external (secondary) sexual characteristics may be male, or vice versa. [Also, it should be noted that both men and women produce ‘androgens’ and ‘estrogens’ (so that it is incorrect to refer to these as ‘male’ and ‘female’ hormones). Rather it is just that men produce more androgen and women more estrogen. It is a matter of degree rather than kind. However, this suggest that there may be a range of people (from the very masculine who hardly produce any estrogen, or, if they do, do not express this), to the very feminine who either produce very little androgen at all, or, if they do, are incapable of synthesising this]. Internal reproductive organs (stage fetal): does someone have a uterus, fallopian tubes, and vagina, or testicles, vas deferens, penis and penile urethra, or some other combination of these. External Genitalia (stage: birth): “Is it a boy or a girl”. Examination of external genitalia (presence or absence of a penis) to assign sex. Only rarely is a further internal examination undertaken (presence or absence of a vagina) to determine sex in the case of ambiguous genitalia (small penis, undescended testes, large clitoris, a scrotum which appears labia like, no vagina). Pubertal Hormones (stage puberty): development of ‘male’, ‘female’ or ambiguous habitus. Male: wider shoulder, ‘male’ musculature, hair on face. Female: wider hips, fat storage in breasts, buttocks, thighs. Both: pubic hair. Development of interest in having sex with self and others. Social Estimation of Sexual Identity. The sex that people assign one to without benefit of genital examination when they meet you for the first time: those other tertiary characteristics of sex (e.g. a deep voice, Adam’s appal, musculature, facial hair etc.) which society uses to differentiate the sexes. Gender Identity/Gender Role (stage post pubertal). Identity: how you think about yourself sexually (what sex you think you are plus who you are sexually attracted to), and role: how you present yourself to others: identity may be private, role is public. Ability to Reproduce oneself sexually/parent (stage post pubertal/adult): This is not a defining feature of masculinity/femininity in most post-industrial societies, but is a major sexual characteristics in many pre-industrial societies (see for example, Gilbert Herdt’s (1993) discussion of the Sambia where having children confers masculinity or femininity and adulthood and not having children is equated with childhood).

Figure 8.1: The major determinants of ‘sexual diference’ if you are capable of producing viable sperm internally (for example, from an undescended testicle) which could then be used in the process of reproduction, you are a male biologically speaking according to this

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defnition. However, if the biologist is also a geneticist, s/he will be more likely to give weight in assigning sex to your chromosomes—whether you are 46XX, the so-called ‘female’ complement, or 46XY the so-called ‘male’ complement—this despite the fact that all CAIS women have 46XY chromosomes, while there are many cases of 46XX ‘men’ (usually as a result of exposure to androgens in the womb). Finally, if the biologist is an endocrinologist they are more likely to give greater weight to one’s hormonal complement rather than one’s chromosomes.5 In short, sex can be defned in terms of a whole range of largely, but not exclusively, biological conditions, only some of which we have mentioned here so far, and since no single condition seems to have absolute priority over any of the others in determining one’s sex, we seem to be faced with the intractable theoretical problem in defning sex as soon as we investigate this question in any depth. Either we must (a) assign priority to one or more, but not all, of these characteristics as the ‘primary’ determinant(s) of sexual diference—at which point of course we would have to justify this decision (why these features and not others, have been selected)—or we would (b) have to select all of these characteristics as being essential for sexual diferentiation (‘true’ masculinity or ‘true’ femininity), with the result that we would then deny certain individuals have a sexual identity at all who did not have just one or more of these conditions (for example, infertile adults). On the other hand, however, where we are unable to make a distinction between the sexes and to justify this in some way, then the very concept of ‘sex’ itself would seem to be meaningless. Can there still be something called ‘sex’ if there is only one ‘sex’ composed of diferent degrees of masculinity and femininity? Whatever decision we make here, since all of these procedures involve a process of selection, our concept of sex would still be a construct, and where this construction was socially sanctioned, this would still be a social construction of sexual diference and hence ‘gendered’. As soon as we make such a selection—any selection—from the totality of all possible conditions, we leave the realms of biology and enter the realm of social construction. Te concept of sex with which we are now dealing would probably still be based on biological variables—sex, if it means anything at all, would seem to be a fundamentally biological category or it is nothing at all—but the particular construction of sex, the weight we give to one or more biological characteristics over any others and even the decision to prioritise biological factors at all rather than something else, is a purely cultural matter: purely a matter of gender in fact.

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III. Defining Intersexuality If defning sex is hard enough, the problems of defning so-called ‘intersexuality’ are even more difcult. I have already criticised this term (see end note 1) on the grounds that it seems unreasonable to say that so-called ‘intersexual’ people are somehow in between the other two sexes unless we have frst established that there are indeed only two sexes for intersexual people to stand ‘in between’ and then, secondly, where intersexual people stand in relation to these two other sexes. However, since it is precisely the existence of intersexual people—people who cannot meaningfully be said to be either men or women and who may well have characteristics of ‘both’ sexes—that undermines the very idea that there are only two sexes, it seems that the basis on which the term ‘intersexuality’ is established is itself as unsound as the above concept of sexual diference. Te central question for the concept of so-called ‘intersexuality’ then is to decide whether it is possible to distinguish one sex from another and, if it is, how many sexes there might be. In other words, as Anne Fausto-Sterling has suggested (1993: 121), is sex a spectrum which can somehow be meaningfully sub-divided into its constituent parts (and what then is the basis of this division?), or is it a continuum which, by defnition, cannot be so sub-divided? Let us look at the evidence for and against these two competing arguments. Most medical discussions of intersexuality (see for example the collection edited by Josso, 1981) try to divide the various intersexual conditions into more or less male or female categories. Tus one hears talk of ‘male’ pseudo-hermaphroditism, (which Fausto-Sterling calls ‘merms’) ‘female’ pseudo-hermaphrodites (‘ferms’) and true hermaphrodites (‘herms’) who are neither male nor female (Fausto-Sterling, 1993: 21), or of people with the condition called dysgenesic male pseudohermaphroditism (Raifer and Walsh, 1981: 105–110).6 However, this procedure (and especially the terminology used here) simply cannot be meaningful. Afer all, the whole point about intersexuality and intersexual people is that, to a greater or lesser extent, they defy the boundaries of masculinity and femininity. What we have to ask ourselves therefore is why we use the terms ‘male’ and ‘female’ in this context (and still less a ‘pseudo’ male or female classifcation) unless we are trying in some way to force intersexual people back into a male or female category that they do not ft (Foucault 1980) and to re-establish the idea that there are in fact only two sexes. Rather than adopt this conventional procedure then, I think it would be very much better, if we are going to categorise diferent intersexual

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conditions at all—and I think it may still be useful to do this for analytical reasons—to devise a more meaningful ways of distinguishing the diferent intersexual conditions. Rather than divide intersexual conditions into two or more more or less ‘male’ and ‘female’ groups in which, as I say, the rational for any such division is far from clear, what I suggest is that we map the various intersexual conditions on a scale according to the following criteria: (1) whether the intersexual conditions resulted from a problem of timing at the on-set of the usual process of the development of masculinity or femininity, or (2) whether the intersexual condition occurs as a result of a problem of response to the hormones or enzymes which bring about the normal development of maleness or femaleness in non-intersexual people. Tis then produces the taxonomy of intersexuality in Fig. 8.2. (below). Te most interesting question that this taxonomy of intersexuality raises is whether, in addition to a ‘male’ and ‘female’ sex, we can view the ten intersexual conditions as ten discrete ‘sexes’ and, if so, on what basis this sexual distinction can being justifed (why is someone with NAH for example in a diferent ‘sex’ to someone with CAH, or why is someone with AIS in a diferent sex to someone with 3B-HSDD?). If on the other hand we conclude that we are unable to establish any such sexual distinction in the case of intersexual people, we must ask ourselves what the basis is of any sexual categorisation at all, for example that between so-called ‘normal’ males and ‘normal’ females? As we have seen, the answer to this question depends on whether we say that sex is a spectrum or a continuum (Fausto-Sterling, 1993: 21). Are there, as Fausto-Sterling suggested in 1993, ‘many gradations from male to female and, depending on how one calls the shots, one can argue that along that spectrum there are fve sexes—and perhaps even more’. Or is sex an ‘infnitely malleable continuum that defes the constraints of even fve categories’ (Fausto-Sterling, 1993: 21). Contrary to what Fausto-Sterling suggested in 1993 (and she has since modifed her view; Fausto-Sterling,  2000), we cannot have it both ways. Either sex is a spectrum which can be divided into discrete categories—in which case we must justify the basis of the profoundly important distinction we are making here—or it is a continuum which cannot then be sub-divided into discrete parts (8.3) and hence we will have to change our defnition of sex and sexual identity.

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Problems of Response

Problems of Timing

True Hermaphrodite (Stage: Zygotic): Cause unknown, but there is a hypothesis that true hermaphroditism is brought about by the merging of non-identical twins at conception. Symptoms: male and female primary and secondary characteristics both present.

Persistent Mullerian Duct Syndrome (Stage: Fetal) Symptoms: Normal Male secondary sexual characteristics, male external appearance, but with internal female primary sexual characteristics). Cause: Problem of timing/ release of Mullerian hormone/exposure of fetus to testosterone after 8 weeks has no effect on the degeneration of female Mullerian ducts but leads to the otherwise normal development of masculinity in uterus and at puberty. Failure of early development of testis.

Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome (Stage: Fetal) Cause: Inability to synthesis androgens produced by testicles within the body but which remain undescended. Symptoms: Normal male primary sexual characteristics with what is often described as a ‘superfeminine’ external appearance, gender identity and gender role. Exceptional feminine appearance due to complete inability to synthesis androgens produced in the body.

Male Gonadal Dysgenesis (Stage: Fetal; Cause unknown). Symptoms One ‘normal’ testicle plus one dysgenesic (nonfunctional) testicle. More or less normal male development at puberty.

Non-Adrenal Hyperplasia (Stage: Embryonic) Cause: (1) Ovarian Cyst (2) Exogenous Natually occurring or artificially introduced source of androgens. Symptoms: Normal female primary sexual characteristics with male secondary sexual characteristics.

Dysgenesic Male-preudohermaphroditism (Stage Fetal: Cause unknown?) Symptoms: Two Dysgenesic Gonads: vestigial primary sexual characteristics, female appearing secondary characteristics; complete absence of virilization at puberty.

Congenital Adrenal Hyperplasia (Stage: Fetal?) Cause: General term for a range of similar intersex conditions, the most common of which is called 21-Hydroxylase Deficiency (an enzyme deficiency which results in an overproduction of androgens). Symptoms: Genetic female with virilization and male secondary sexual characteristics at birth.

5-alpha Reductase Deficiency Syndrome (Stage: Puberty) Symptoms: Normal female appearance/ambiguous genitalia until puberty when the onset of masculinity occurs. Cause: virilization occurs due to the testicular production of androgens at this stage. Testicles descend and male habitus develops. Male gender identity frequently assumed despite normal up-bringing as female. Opening of urethra on the perineum (i.e., between the anus and genitals rather than running the length of the phallus as in a normal male. Capable of intromission (sexual intercourse) but only indirect insemination.

3B-Hydroxy-Steroid Dehydrogenase Deficiency (Stage: Fetal) Cause: inability to synthesis all three adrenal (male) steroids. Symptoms: Male primary sexual characteristics internally, female secondary sexual characteristics externally. No onset of masculinity at puberty despite the presence of testicles due to inability to synthesis androgens that are produced.

Transexuality We do not know whether transexuality is due to a problem of timing or a problem of response, but it seems likely that it too is a physiological condition.

Figure 8.2: Taxonomy of intersexuality

Te decision to diferentiate the ‘sexes’ concerns what philosophers call a categorial problem (a matter of categorical logic) and what sociologists and anthropologists call a ‘boundary problem’. I have discussed this problem extensively elsewhere in the context of the concept of ‘race’ and ethnicity (Smith, 2002: 402–408), so I will not discuss this issue again here –246–

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(1) Conventional Model of Human Sexuality as Polarised into two Camps Male / Masculinity —————| |————— Female / Femininity (2) Revised Model of Sexuality viewed as a Spectrum. | Male | 5αRS | MGD | PMDS | Dmph | TH | 3bHSDD | CAH | NAH | AIS | Female | (3) Revised model of Sexuality viewed as a Continuum. (i) Hermaphrodites (both man and woman)

Males

Females

Hijras (neither man nor woman)

Figure 8.3: Human Sexuality (Conventional and Revised Models) except to say that my present view is that it is necessary to characterise sex as a continuum, not for any very positive (categorical) theoretical reasons, but simply because it is difcult to say on what basis we could defne sex as a spectrum (genetics, chromosomes, gonads, external genitalia, gender identity, or reproduction) and how we might justify the selection of only one or two or even all of these conditions. However, I am disappointed by this answer since it seems to me that it obviously is still possible to identify more and less ‘masculine’ and ‘feminine’ people within the continuum of human sexuality. Clearly there are many people who look more ‘masculine’ or ‘feminine’ than others, but this then leaves us with the problem of saying how exactly degrees of masculinity and femininity can be identifed in the absence of a meaningful concept of (true) ‘males’ and (true) ‘females’. However, I think that there is a way out of this dilemma and it has to do with the argument I made earlier. Since Kessler and McKenna insist (rightly in my opinion) that both gender and sex are socially constructed concepts, we may say that the idea of ‘masculinity’ and ‘femininity’ are clearly socially constructed concepts too. If we then add to this argument my previous redefnition of gender as ‘the social construction of sexual diference where no such diferences actually exist’ we can see that it is still possible to talk of the belief that there are diferences of masculinity and femininity without –247–

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actually claiming that such beliefs are justifed by the existence of male and female categories. Tus, within the concept of sex as a continuum, I would argue that it is still possible to talk of degrees of masculinity and femininity, and of the social perception of people being more or less ‘male’ or ‘female’, without implying that there is any hard and fast or categorical distinction between men and women (just as it is possible to talk of people being more or less dark skinned or light skinned, without subscribing to a concept of ‘racial’ diference or ethnic identity based on skin colour). If this is acceptable, it would then also still be possible, as we shall see in the next section, to talk of people being sexually attracted to ‘masculinity’ and ‘femininity’ where this is understood to refer to a socially constructed idea of sexual difference, without implying that any such categorical diferences actually exist (in much the same way that we can speak of racism as the belief that there are such things as ‘races’ without agreeing that there are in fact any such things as races ontologically speaking). Let us look at this argument in more detail. IV. Sexual Orientation: the Concepts of Homosexuality and Heterosexuality Reconsidered If the existence of intersexual people has major problems for the concepts of sex and gender, then it has truly devastating consequences for the concepts of ‘homosexuality’ and ‘heterosexuality, so much so that I will argue that these terms are now redundant. What is surprising, however, is just how little attention has been given to this aspect of this question and how, even where this question has been considered, the wrong conclusions have been drawn. For example, in her 1993 essay, Anne Fausto-Sterling has this to say about the relationship between intersexuality and homosexuality. Why should we care if there are people whose biological equipment enables them to have sex “naturally” with both men and women? Te answer seems to lie in a cultural distinction between the sexes. Society mandates the control of intersexual bodies because they blur and bridge the great divide. Inasmuch as hermaphrodites literally embody both (sic) sexes, they challenge traditional beliefs about sexual diference: they possess the irritating ability to live sometimes as one sex and sometimes the other (sic), and they raise the specter of homosexuality (Fausto-Sterling. 1993: 24; emphasis added).

What Fausto-Sterling seems to have had in mind here by her suggestion that intersexuality raises the ‘spectre’ of homosexuality is that society

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wishes to label as male or female the bodies of intersexual people because, unless we do this, we would have no very clear idea ourselves of whether we have had homosexual or heterosexual sex if we were to have sex with an intersexual person. Tus, in the past (Dreger, 2000), most societies have forced true hermaphrodites to choose one role or the other and stick to this, while the penalty for changing one’s mind once the decision had been made was frequently death (Foucault, 1980). In fact however the implications of intersexuality for the concept of homosexuality and heterosexuality are even greater than Fausto-Sterling suggests they are. Intersexual people do not so much raise the spectre of homosexuality—the dread prospect of having gay sex unawares—but in fact they lay this spectre to rest once and for all. Let me put it this way. If a person with Persistent Mullerian Duct Syndrome (‘normal male’ external appearance, but with female internal organs) has sex with someone who has Complete Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome (‘superfeminine’ external appearance but genetically male internally) would they be having homosexual or heterosexual sex? Te question is simply meaningless. Once we abandon the profound cultural belief that (a) there are only two sexes, and hence (b) that it is possible to only have sex with someone who is of the ‘same’ or the ‘opposite’ sex to oneself, the present concept(s) of homosexuality and heterosexuality simply fall to pieces. If there are more than two sexes—and in fact even if there are only three—then it is simply meaningless to talk about heterosexuality where this is defned in terms of ‘opposite’ sex attraction (who is your ‘opposite’ sex then if there are three or more sexes?). While if, on the other hand, sex is a continuum with only degrees of masculinity and femininity but no clear cut categorical boundaries between them—so that we all belong to the same one single ‘sex’ which is however more or less masculine or feminine—then according to the present construction of the concept of homosexuality, we would all be having ‘homosexual’ sex (i.e., same sex relations) when we have sexual relations with anyone. As Suzanne Kessler has expressed this point: One can imagine that just as a heterosexual (sic) woman today can legitimately claim not to be [sexually] attracted to men with excessive body hair, in a newly confgured system she could claim not to be attracted to men with penises or to be attracted to men with breasts and a vagina. What then would heterosexual mean? In what sense could a woman with a vagina who is sexually gratifed by being penetrated by a “woman” with a large clitoris (that looks and functions like a penis) be said to be a lesbian? If gendered bodies fall into

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disarray, sexual orientation will follow. Defning sexual orientation according to attraction to people with the same or diferent genitals, as is done now, will no longer make sense, nor will intersexuality (Kessler, 2000: 124).

Te term ‘homosexual’, with which we are now all so familiar (so much so that it has become part of what I think we might well call the playground culture of our society: something which we learn from our peers at primary school) is in fact of relatively recent origin. Te terms ‘homosexual’ or ‘homosexuality’ were frst used in their present sense (in its German form homosexualitat) only as recently as 1869 by the writer and translator K. M. Kertbeny (a pseudonym, and near anagram, of the author whose real name was Karl Maria Benkert). Before this date ‘homosexuality’ as it was then understood was sometimes called ‘urning’, or ‘urning love’, Paderastie (pederasty), ‘Uranismus’ (Uranianism), ‘Monosexualitat’ (monosexuality) or ‘kontrare Sexualempfndung’ (contrary sexual feelings). Te expressions ‘widernaturliche Unzucht’ (crime against nature) and ‘sodomia ratione sexus’ (sodomy by reason of sex) were also used. By contrast and, rather unimaginatively, so-called ‘heterosexual’ sex seems to have been called ‘Normalsexualitat’ (normal sexuality), while no names seem to have been used to describe bisexuality, or people who are sexually attracted to neither men nor women (Herzer, 1985: 1–26). However, although distressingly familiar to us all, Kertbeny’s concept of homosexuality is in fact highly problematic. Tis is because it begins with, and awards theoretical priority to, a person’s biological sex (a practice that I suggest would be wholly unacceptable in any other area of gender studies) and only then goes on to ask, as a matter of secondary importance as it were, what the characteristics of the person or thing to whom someone is sexually attracted are. Tus, the major premise of the present concept of homosexuality is the biological sex of the person whose sexuality is being determined, rather than as we might well have thought would have been the case, the sexual characteristics of the person to whom they are attracted. Tus, in deciding whether someone is ‘homosexual’ or ‘’heterosexual’ we frst ask what sex that person is (are they a man or a woman), and only then go on to ask who or what they are sexually attracted to: A. Biological Sex

Sexual Orientation

Instead of this however—and as we might have expected with a concept of sexual orientation/sexual preference all along—what we should do is to

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begin with that person’s sexual orientation/preference (who or what are they sexually attracted to) and only then, if at all, go on to ask about that person’s own biological ‘sex’ (something which in this case might well be irrelevant even if we can distinguish this all). Tus: B. Sexual Orientation

Biological Sex

Furthermore, since the whole point of the conventional concept of homosexuality/heterosexuality is precisely to point out that there are in existence men who are not sexually attracted to women and women who are not sexually attracted to men, it seems rather bizarre to found a concept of sexual attraction on the biological sex of the individual being classifed rather than the biological sex of the object of their desire. In other words, since we know that it is not empirically true to say that one’s biological sex does always determine sexual orientation/sexual preference, it seems rather perverse to make biological sex rather than sexual orientation the major premise of a concept which assigns someone to the category of homosexuality or heterosexuality. We are in fact in danger of making a universal claim when we say that some people transgress the boundaries of heterosexuality—based on the assumption that men and women ought to be attracted to the opposite sex to themselves—when what we really should be saying here is that since there are in existence numerous people who do transgress the boundaries of this claim, the claim itself that there is such a boundary must in some way be incorrect. Unless all men were sexually attracted to women and all women were sexually attracted to men, it does not make sense—and is in fact simply incorrect on a basic point of empirical fact and formal logic—to say that sexual orientation/sexual preference really has anything at all to do with the biological sex of the person being classifed. Tis being the case we urgently need to redefne the present concept of homosexuality and heterosexuality to take account (a) of the fact that human sexuality is not polarised between two sexes, and (b) the fact that a person’s own biological sex really has nothing at all to do with the question of that person’s sexual orientation or preference. In trying to establish a non-biologically determinist concept of sexual orientation we are concerned with at least fve (and probably more) groups of people: (1) a group of people who are sexually attracted to masculinity (who we might therefore call ‘SAMs’) which would be composed mostly of adult ‘women’, but also include some adult ‘men’); (2) a group of people who are sexually attracted exclusively to femininity (‘SAFs’) mainly composed of adult ‘men’ but also including a signifcant number of ‘women’; (3) a group who are sexually

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attracted to both masculinity and femininity or some combination of these (SABs); (4) a group who are sexually attracted to children (SAC) however childhood is defned, (5) a group of people who just do not have any particular interest in sexual activity at all (SAN), e.g., all very young children, dysgenesic adults, and many elderly people, and fnally (6) a group of people who are sexually attracted to non-human animals (SAA), but where in all of these cases a person’s own biological ‘sex’ is clearly understood to be of no importance at all to the question of their sexual orientation. Diagrammatically, the conventional concept of sexual ‘orientation’ and the revised concept I propose here can be expressed as shown in Fig. 8.4. Conventional Concept 1

2

People who are sexually attracted to the ‘same’ sex as themselves

3

People who are sexually attracted to the ‘opposite’ sex to themselves

4

People who are sexually attracted to masculinity and femininity

People who are sexually attracted to children

Revised Concept 1. SAB People who are sexually attracted to masculinity and femininity

2. SAMs People who are sexually attracted exclusively to masculinity

3. SAFs

4. SAN

People who are sexually attracted exclusively to femininity

People who are not sexually attracted to anyone

5. SAC People who are sexually attracted to children

6. SAAs People who are sexually attracted to non-human animals

Figure 8.4: Conventional and revised concept of sexuality Looked at in this way we might then be able to put the general concept of sexual orientation/sexual preference onto the same footing as the concept which is presently known as ‘bisexuality’. Just as we do not need to enquire into the question of the biological sex (whether they are a man or a woman) of a so-called bisexual person before we can establish what their sexual orientation/sexual preference is—the question of a person’s own biological sex being entirely irrelevant to the concept of bisexuality—so we do not need to make any reference to the biological sex of a person (whether they are a man or a woman) in the above revised concept of sexual orientation. Te person’s own sex simply is not an issue here. Rather what is at issue is the sexual orientation of the person concerned—who or what they are attracted to—and this is as it should have been all along with a concept of sexual preference.

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Conclusion In this chapter I have tried to develop a new concept of sexuality where this term is broadly conceived as encompassing both biological sex and sexual orientation/preference in terms of some recent developments with the concept of so-called ‘intersexuality’, the full implications of which I have argued have not been realised for some other well-established criticisms of the concepts of sex and gender. However, unlike in the three previous chapters in Part Two of this book, I have not yet tried to develop a perspectivist model of the concept of sexuality—for example by situating diferent defnitions of the concept of sex, gender, and intersexuality, and heterosexuality, homosexuality and bisexuality on the six diferent ‘sides’ of the same three-dimensional object, with the concept of ‘sex’ placed opposite to that of gender, and the concept of homosexuality ‘opposite’ to heterosexuality and so on, because I have argued that the concept of biological ‘sex’ itself, and, by extension from this, the concepts of so-called ‘intersexuality’, ‘bisexuality’, ‘homosexuality’ and ‘heterosexuality’ are all now redundant terms in the social sciences, with only the concept of gender passing the test of a truly meaningful concept in this case and this only where gender is redefned as the social construction of sexual diference where no such diferences actually exist. For this reason therefore the concept of sex and gender as discussed in this chapter provides us with a test as it were to the limit to which a perspectivist argument can be applied to any and all concept in the social sciences. Afer all, as we already know, there are some concepts—called ‘essentially contested concepts’ by W. B. Gallie—where disagreement in these cases isn’t simply a matter of people ‘talking past each other’ and which therefore cannot be neatly situated on the diferent sides of the same three/fourdimensional object. Te concept of ‘art’ is probably the best example of an essentially contested concept but it seems as though the concept of sex is another such case and I would also mention here the concept of ‘race’ as another example of such a concept (Smith 2002b). Tere is obviously a clear ‘tension’ here, as Peter Saunders describes this in the context of the concept of equality (1989: 72), between, on the one hand, the concepts of sex, gender and intersexuality, which together make up three ‘sides’ of a mutually contested Necker cube, and the concept of homosexuality, heterosexuality and bisexuality which form the other three ‘sides’. Te frst three of these terms seem to have something more to do with the concept of ‘gender’ while the second three seem to have more to do with the sexual orientation or

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sexual preference of an individual person and, this being the case, one is tempted at this point to suggest that these are really two separate concepts here and to try to model them as such. However, as we have seen, this is in fact impossible, since the current formulation of the concepts of ‘homosexuality’, ‘heterosexuality’ and ‘bisexuality’ depend entirely on the current concept of sex and gender for their very existence and how these concept are in their turn constructed. Rather than try to construct two separate concepts here then, one of gender and the other of sexual orientation, what I have argued instead is that all of these concepts—with the sole exception of the concept of gender I think—are now simply meaningless. Te concept of ‘homosexuality’ is in fact not ‘opposite’ the concept of ‘heterosexuality’ since as we have seen this can only be the case where there are only two sexes. Similarly, where there are no longer just two sexes, then it is hard to see how the concepts of so-called ‘inter-sexuality’ or ‘bisexuality’ can be defended since we would need to ask ourselves what exactly it is that these so-called ‘intersexual’ people are in between or which of the many more than two sexes so-called bi-sexual people are supposed to be attracted to? Finally, if we argue that human sexuality is a continuum rather than a spectrum, and hence that we all belong to the same one single ‘sex’, then the concept of ‘sex’ itself become entirely redundant. Either the concept of sex signifes that there is such a thing as sexual diference within the human population or it seems that the idea of sex itself—of there being any such thing which we might reasonably call by this name—is simply mistaken. In place of a genuinely perspectivist concept of sex and gender then what I have tried to do instead is to develop an entirely new concept of gender and sexuality (see Figure 8.5 below). Tis concept accepts that both sex and gender are socially constructed and that the concept of sexual diference, if this term is still meaningful at all, refers to a continuum—a diference in degrees of masculinity and femininity—rather than to a spectrum of discrete sexes. Tere are still clear diferences in the degree of masculinity and femininity in the appearance of the human population and these diferences are not solely a matter of social construction, but this does not amount to saying that that there are discrete sexes. Tis being the case I have therefore argued that the subject matter of gender studies is not—or should no longer be—the social construction of sexual diference (this is I think a redundant defnition of gender which depends on the idea that there is such a thing as sexual diference) but rather the subject matter of gender studies is, or should be, the social construction of sexual diference where no such diferences actually exist. For example, where someone says that most

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Sexual Continuum Object of Desire

y nit i l scu a M

y nit i n mi Fe

Subject who Desires

Gender Figure 8.5: A three-dimensional concept of gender and sexuality

men, or even very many men are taller than most or even many women, this is an entirely unobjectionable claim. However if someone implies that all men are taller than all women (or stronger or more aggressive etc.) then this claim must be challenged since in fact about a quarter of all women are taller than about half of all men (taller than the average man) while many women clearly are much stronger and more aggressive than some men. Gender studies then, I suggest, is not interested in those claims which are in fact correct—e.g., that most men are generally speaking taller than most women—but only in those universal claims about men and women which are in fact incorrect and which as a matter of fact have nothing at all to do with sexual diference anyway. In place of a qualitative concept of discrete sexes I have therefore argued in favour of a quantitative concept of human sexuality viewed as a continuum and which is hence defned in terms of degrees of masculinity and femininity rather than categorical diferences between the sexes. It is unquestionably the case I think that some people are more masculine looking than other people who are by contrast more feminine looking—we have only to look at any group of people in society to see that this is the case—but this does not mean that we should try to force people into discrete groups called ‘male’ and female’ or ‘hermaphrodite’ or ‘hijras’ (see fgure 8.3 above). If there is no such thing as sexual diference then there cannot any longer be people who belong to either ‘both’ sexes or to ‘neither’ sex; there there is just no such thing as ‘sex’ at all.

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Finally, in place of the now redundant concepts of homosexuality, heterosexuality and bisexuality, I have argued that the concept of sexual attraction/orientation should be placed on the same basis as the present concept of bisexuality; that is to say it should be based on the appearance of the type of person or thing that one is sexually attracted to (the object of attraction) rather than the biological characteristics of the person whose sexual orientation or preference is being determined (the subject of attraction). It seems obvious to say this now, but a concept of sexual orientation/ sexual attraction is and always should have been based on the object of sexual attraction—the person or thing we are attracted to—and not at all on the nature or the characteristics of the subject in question–the person who is so sexually attracted to someone or something else. How is it possible we might ask ourselves that the concept of sexual attraction has not all along been constructed in this way—according to the object of sexual desire—but has instead been socially constructed according to the biological form or the nature of the person who desires someone or something? Te frst is an objective explanation of the concept in question and should have been adopted all along while the second is an entirely subjective construct and ought to be roundly condemned. In sum then I have argue that the present concept of sexuality (by  which I mean both the concept of biological sex and he concept of sexual orientation/preference) is based on an unjustifable and—at least as far as the present concept of homosexuality and heterosexuality are concerned—largely unacknowledged biological determinism which gives unwarranted theoretical priority to the biological ‘sex’ of the subject whose sexual ‘orientation’ we are trying to decide rather than giving priority to the object of their desire, a practice which would be entirely unacceptable in any other area of gender studies, and which I have therefore argued should be equally unacceptable in this case too. Notes 1. It seems to me that we cannot continue to use the terms ‘intersexual’, ‘intersex’, ‘intersexed’ or ‘intersexuality’ uncritically since the prefx ‘inter’ implies that so-called intersexual people somehow fall ‘between’ the two extremes of male and female on a sexual spectrum whereas, as I will argue here, if sex is a continuum it simply does not make any sense that say that one group falls between the others (indeed, if sex is a continuum rather than a spectrum, there cannot be any ‘between’, any discrete sexes at all). Perhaps therefore the term intrasex (within the same one single sex), rather than intersex may come to be preferred? And, in so far as the sexes cannot be diferentiated (something we have yet to decide), then we might be better of referring to people of ambiguous gender as intrasexuals.

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2. Te terms sexual ‘orientation’ and sexual ‘preference’ are controversial within gender studies (see for example p. 10. of the special double issue of the Journal of Homosexuality (Vol.28, no. 1/2 and 3 /4, 1995): ‘Sex, Cells and Same-Sex Desire, Te Biology of Sexual Preference, Parts I and II’. Edited by John P. De Cecco and David Allen Parker, in which the editors criticise the use of ‘the term “sexual preference”—with its connotations of learned and evolving taste and acquired discretion’—and “sexual orientation”, a biological mechanism that steers our sexual behaviour towards one gender and away from another’ (emphasis added). Te concept of ‘orientation’ implies something compelling, almost magnetic (as in the term ‘orienteering’), while preference does not necessarily involve any idea of choice—one may also prefer to do what one is also compelled to do—therefore some new term would seem to be required to encompass the sexual behaviour of people who are not exactly compelled in their sexual orientation but who in part also choose this; sexual inclination perhaps? 3. And see Nietzsche 1968, page 298 section C on this point; and see also page 25—page one of chapter one—of this study on this point: ‘Tere are no opposites: only from logic do we derive the concept of opposites, and falsely transfer this to things’. 4. Te term ‘culture’ is notoriously difcult to defne. Cliford Geertz, in the Interpretation of Cultures (1973) gives twelve diferent defnitions, and many more are possible. One very unfortunate defnition in our present context is to defne everything that is ‘man made’ as cultural and, by implication anything that is not ‘man made’ as non-cultural or ‘natural’. However this defnition just won’t do, not only because of the sexist use of the term ‘man-made’, but also because the separation between humanity and nature that this usage implies is simply untenable. Human beings are natural too; everything we do or make, even aeroplanes or space-craf, are ‘natural’ to us as human beings. I therefore prefer to defne gender as the social rather than the cultural construction of sexual diference since, for me, the term ‘social’ encompasses both biology and culture factors. 5. In his book Weird Life David Toomey has argued that ‘Tere are at least nine specialities within biology and biologists tend to defne life according to their own’ (2013, 65). Tese nine specialities are ‘anatomy, taxonomy, physiology, biochemistry, molecular biology, ecology, ethology, embryology, and evolutionary biology’. 6. Although quite how the ‘maleness’ of the hermaphrodite condition—and still less a ‘pseudo’ hermaphrodite condition—is determined, is never explained.

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[T]he prima facie opposition between philosophical realism and critical theory is in the end one of emphasis rather than principle, and the convergence around the themes of hermeneutic understanding and emancipation are more striking than the diferences.… Te real opposition in contemporary social theory is between a somewhat ecumenical centre and the empiricists, functionalists, system theorists, rational choice theorists, and perhaps poststructuralists [around the] outside (Outhwaite, 1998: 34).

Introduction

T

he reader who has come this far with me will have noticed that I have struggled throughout this book with the question of the theoretical status of the term ‘perspectivism’. Should we call perspectivism a theory, a concept in the social and natural sciences, a doctrine, a method or an idea, a philosophy of science (both natural and social) or just a general attitude of mind?1 If I admit at the end of a book on this subject that I am still not entirely sure myself what the answer to this question is, then this might seem like a fairly serious problem for the argument I have been presenting here. However, in a book on the subject of perspectivism—the whole point of which has been to argue that we must look at all questions

DOI: ./-

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in the natural and the social sciences from as many diferent perspectives as we can—there can be no problem here I think since the answer to this question is quite clearly that perspectivism is all of these diferent things taken together. Perspectivism is both a theory and a method, but it is also a concept,2 as well as a philosophy of the social and natural sciences, and a doctrine and an idea, and, in order to drive home this point, all that it is necessary for us to do is to put all of these apparently competing claims on diferent ‘sides’ of the same three-dimensional object, as follows:

Philosophy Doctrine

d tho e M

t ep c n Co Idea

Theory Figure 9.1: A three-dimensional concept of Perspectivism Interestingly enough, Émile Durkheim says something remarkably similar to this about the concept of pragmatism in his lectures on Pragmatism and Sociology. ‘Pragmatism’, he observes, ‘has always had an intense feeling for the diversity of minds and the variability of thought in time. Hence the diversity of names by which it has designated itself: pragmatism, humanism, pluralism and so on’ (Durkheim 1983: 24; emphasis added). To this list we might also add, but Durkheim does not, Peirce’s preference for the use of the term ‘pragmaticism’ in favour of the term ‘pragmatism’, and also Dewey’s use of the term ‘instrumentalism’ as well as an alternative to all the above.3 Durkheim comments further that pragmatism ‘can be described in three ways: (1) as a method [or] a general attitude of mind; (2) as a theory of truth; and (3) as a theory of the universe’ (Durkheim, 1983: 10). And he goes on to say (1983: 11) that, ‘as a method, pragmatism is simply the attitude or general case to be adopted by the mind

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when faced with a problem’ (1983: 11). It seem then that pragmatism can be understood in a wide variety of ways which, by and large, refect the usage of the theorist—Peirce, James, Dewey or Schiller—who is writing about this subject, and what I am suggesting here is that this is precisely the same for perspectivism too. As William Outhwaite suggests in the reference that I have cited at the beginning of this concluding chapter, there is what he calls an ‘ecumenical centre’ to most debates in the social sciences, in which there is perhaps a very large measure of agreement about what a particular concept or idea refers to—the concept of equality for example—around which however there goes on a truly bitter and ofen quite vicious dispute about the ‘true’ meaning or ‘proper’ use of the term in question, but where by and large these diferences simply refects the diferent theoretical or political perspectives of the various people involved in the debate. It then goes without saying, I hope, that the precise meaning of each of these diferent terms themselves—‘theory’, ‘method’, ‘concept’ and so on—is itself, in its turn, highly contested,4 so that, in addition to the above six-sided Necker cube of Perspectivism, we might easily imagine a thirty sided model (known as a triacontagon when drawn on a two-dimensional plane as in Figure  9.2 below) in which the central cube of perspectivism as shown in Figure  9.1 above is surrounded by a further six Necker cubes, one attached to each of the six sides of the central cube, in which cube 1 represents a debate about the proper meaning of the term ‘method’, cube 2 ‘theory’, 3 ‘philosophy’, 4 ‘concept’, 5 ‘idea’ and 6 the meaning and the proper use of the term ‘doctrine’ (See Figure 9.2).

Figure 9.2: Perspectivism viewed as a Triacontagon –261–

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Similarly, Chris Pickvance, writing on the subject of causation, has argued that what we call causation would in fact, most of the time, be better called ‘perfect correlation’ (1995: 38) and that it is only when we apply some theory to an explanation that we are able to claim to be presenting a causal explanation as such. In a passage that is remarkably similar to William Outhwaite’s comment above, he then says the following on the difculty of comparing diferent theoretical perspectives in the social sciences: In general the research questions favoured by diferent theoretical perspectives difer in three ways: (1) in their substantive content (focus on economic, political etc.); (2) their scale (from interpersonal to world-wide linkages); (3) and their level of abstraction (highly abstract v. highly concrete). Each perspective has a set of questions to which it is well adapted to explain. Alford and Friedland (1985) call this its ‘home domain’. Outside this set [however] the power of the perspective rapidly falls of. It follows that perspectives can only really be compared when they have the same ‘home domain’ in terms of substantive content, scale and level of abstraction of research questions (1995: 42).

We can then further see that each of Pickvance’s three sets of two dichotomies readily lend themselves to representation in the form a three-dimensional Necker cube, as in Fig. 9.3.

Interpersonal

ct tra s ab ly h Hig

Economic

hly g i H

Political

e ret c n co

World-wide Figure 9.3: Pickvance’s concept of theoretical explanation It is an interesting question to then ask what we might call the point at which these six dichotomies intersect (the mid-point of the above diagram), the essence of this three-dimensional model as it were. In his History

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of Economic Analysis (1994) Joseph Schumpeter has suggested the term ‘vertex’ for this point. I. The Illusion of Absolute Truth “I have never doubted”, says an Oxford Hegelian whom James quotes, “that truth is [a] universal and [b] single and [c] timeless, a single content or signifcance, one and whole and complete” (Durkheim, 1983: 12).5

Undoubtedly the most controversial argument I have made in this book is that for a really hard and fast separation between the idea of ‘objectivity’ and the idea of ‘absolute truth’. However my argument here must not be misunderstood. Tere is such a thing as truth and for that matter ‘reality’ I think—I am not denying that this is the case—rather I am merely arguing that we usually cannot know—and hence cannot be certain—what the truth of reality really is.6 As we have seen, we simply cannot know the infnite complex of the reality in which we live—this is simply beyond the realms of human understanding as Friedrich Nietzsche argued—but what we can know is an object which we defne for ourselves—an abstraction from the chaos of reality as it were—the nature and scope of which is delimited by the explanation that we do in fact provide. Commenting on this point Carrabine et al. (2014: 19), citing Rob Stones, say the following: Post-modernists argue … for respecting the existence of a plurality of perspectives, as against a notion that there is one single truth from a privileged perspective; local, contextual studies in place of grand narratives; an emphasis on disorder, fux and openness, as opposed to order, continuity and restraint (Stones, 1996: 22; emphasis added).

However, I hope it is clear by now that this is not the concept of truth that I am advocating here. While I think what Stones says here about post-modernism is correct, I think that what post-modernism says about the concept of truth is incorrect. In fact, if the concept of absolute truth means anything at all, then I think that it must mean something very much like the view expressed by the ‘Oxford Hegelian’ cited above—that there is only one ‘truth’ which is true for all time and in all places/spaces— otherwise this concept of ‘truth’ is meaningless I think, but it is precisely for this reason I think, because it is universal, that we cannot know what this absolute truth is. From this perspective therefore the idea that we can

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know the ‘truth’ of anything, other than in the form of those severely limited abstractions that we do in fact explain, is simply an illusion and for this reason those things that we do explain—as I have argued in this book—would be better labelled ‘adequate truth’ or ‘objectivity’. Te belief that we mere human beings will ever be able to come to anything like a ‘true’ understanding—by which I mean absolutely and universally for all time—of something like ‘the meaning of life’ or the origin of the universe (and more likely as it now seems ‘multiverse’) in which as far as we can tell our solar system appears to exist—in other words, a God-like perspective on these things as Nietzsche would say—is simply nonsense. Mere human beings will never be able to comprehend the ‘origins’ of the multiverse, whatever these might be, but rather what we can claim to know something about is the limitations of those things that we are able to explain and hence the very severe limitations of what it is that we are saying when we make such knowledge claims. To reiterate the point I made in the introduction to this book, the idea of the absolute truth—of something which is knowable for all time and in every part of the multiverse—is purely and solely a matter for philosophy alone and perhaps, by extension from this, for religion with which philosophy of course shares a common heritage. But, in my opinion, this simply is not a question that can be answered by the natural or the social sciences and, this being the case, should not be of any interest to us. By contrast, I insist, science—both natural and social—is solely concerned with the question of objectivity alone, by which I mean frstly (i) the careful description of the nature of the ‘object’ in question and then, once that has been achieved, (ii) the defnition of the thing in question, and then, if we are able to do this at all (iii) an explanation of this object’s existence, its nature and its being. Tose things that we do in fact describe, defne, or explain are what I have called our actual object of explanation and the knowledge claims that we can make on behalf of these objects is what I, infuenced by Max Weber’s concept of adequate causation, have therefore called ‘adequate truth’ in order to distinguish this truth claim from the more usual idea of ‘absolute truth’. Adequate truth is the scientifc standard of proof whereby science is properly understood to be concerned with evidence based probabilities and not with absolute certainties. And this subject matter is more than enough for the natural and the social sciences to be going on with without making unnecessary metaphysical claims to know that anything is absolutely and defnitely ‘true’ once and for all time and in all places. Te argument being presented here then is that the concept of adequate truth is ‘good enough

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truth’—good enough for now or good enough for all practical purposes— for all of the things we are interested in understanding in the natural and social sciences.7 II. The Truth About Mathematics Te above comments on the concept of truth bring us to the equally vexed question of mathematics and truth. Time and again when social scientists make knowledge claims about which they think they can be reasonably certain they cite the example that 2 × 2 = 4 (Weber, 1978: 5; Durkheim, 1983: 55; Mannheim, 1976: 286). But this assumes frstly that claims of certainty are the same thing as claims of truth, and there are good reasons to think that this might well not be the case (see below), while, secondly, these claims to certainty usually also entail the further claim that something which is said to be certain can be demonstrated empirically, so that if I have two apples and you give me another two then I now do indubitably have four apples. However this purely empirical claim to know something is then illegitimately extended to the purely logical claim of mathematics, for example that 2 + 2 = 4 (and still less 2 × 2 = 4), when in fact this further claim is a purely metaphysical assertion that depends for its correctness on the whole system of assumptions which we call mathematical knowledge, but which in fact cannot be shown to be absolutely true outside the strictly limited set of assumptions which make up this particular system of belief. Let us look at this argument in a little more detail. Te high status of mathematical knowledge within the natural and social sciences, and more generally within philosophy, seems to derive from Plato. Plato’s views on this question are discussed in detail in a collection of his writings edited by George Kimball Plochmann (1973: 82–85). In the introduction to this book Plochmann tells us that for Plato the term mathesis had a much broader meaning—roughly equivalent to our idea of all knowledge—than we would give to the term mathematics today. For Plato, says Plochmann, ‘mathematical discipline is almost coterminous with dialectic, for it deals not only with quantities themselves but also with things that have quantities and thus can be measured’ (1973: 82). ‘Tese things’, Plochmann then goes on to say: are essentially everything [and] not merely bodies. Te identifcation of a thing marks it inevitably as one, and this unity is a basis of measure, a kind of number. Otherness of any sort, whether it be opposition and contrast or

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simply a diference of like objects, implies duality; and threeness arises as a means between any two extremes, e.g. lukewarm between hot and cold. Tus defnition, statement, and mediation form integral parts of a mathematical analysis as well as a dialectical one (1973: 82).8

However, Plochmann is careful to explain to us (1973: 83) ‘that Plato does not imagine that the entire range of [human] experience needs to be cast into mathematical formulations in order to be known. [Tis] is proven by the long list of dialogues where scarcely any explicit mathematical formulation is ofered’. He then adds the following: A reason sometimes ofered by Plato for the pursuit of mathematics is much the same as that ofered by a dozen other philosophers; there is a stability in numbers, also a clarity in our apprehension of them, which serves to eliminate the misunderstandings and disagreements that dog most discussions concerning good and evil. Numbering and measuring, whether with ‘pure’ numbers that have no direct relation to tangibles, or with numbers which are represented in ordinary bodies, can be carried out with sureness (1973: 84; emphasis added).

Here then is support for the high status of mathematical knowledge but also, as we can see, this is expressed in such a way that it lends support to the perspectivist view on this question. Mathematics has a high status because there is so little disagreement about the meaning of the terms that are employed here—there is ‘a clarity in our apprehension of them’ as Plochmann says. However it would be a very grave error to assume from this lack of disagreement that what mathematics has to say must therefore somehow be ‘true’ or even ‘correct’ in any absolute sense of these terms. Fortunately or unfortunately this is simply not the case. All that is happening here is that mathematicians are viewing everything from the same one dimensional mathematical point of view. As Robert W. Friedrichs explained some time ago now in his books A Sociology of Sociology (1970: 149–150) the claim of mathematics to certain knowledge has long since been dethroned within mathematics itself, even if this revolution has not yet been widely understood elsewhere. In the early part of the 20th century Bertrand Russell and Alfred North Whitehead argued in their Principia Mathematica (1910–1913)—very much in agreement with Plato’s ideas on mathesis—‘that it was possible to formulate within one system all the basic idea of mathematics extant’ (1970: 150).

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However, ‘by 1929 [Toralf] Skolem was able to conclude that not even the elementary number system could be categorically formalised’ (Skolem, 1961: 332), while ‘just two years later Kurt Godel proved the famous incompleteness theorem, one of whose implication is that “no single logistic system … can tenably claim to embrace only logical truths and [at the same time] the whole of logical truth”’ (Friedrichs, 1970: 150). Commenting on this point in 1958 Percy Bridgeman (1958: 90–91) spelled out the implications of Godel’s theorem for the concept of mathematical truth as follows: It is a consequence of this theorem that mathematics can never prove that mathematics is free from internal self-contradiction.… Out of this experience mathematicians and logicians have acquired a new insight … that the human mind can never have certainty.… Godel’s theorem, as it were, cuts the Gordian knot with the insight that ‘certainty’ is an illegitimate concept.… Te reason mathematics cannot prove that mathematics is free from contradiction is that there are some things that a system cannot do with itself (cited in Friedrichs, 1970: 151)

In view of this revolution in mathematics during the frst half of the 20th century, Bertrand Russell then revised his earlier view on this question as follows: One result of the work we have been considering is to dethrone mathematics from the lofy place that it has occupied since Pythagoras and Plato, and to destroy the presumption against empiricism which has been derived from it. Mathematical knowledge … is not obtained by induction from experience; our reason for believing that 2 and 2 are 4 is not that we have so ofen found, by observation, that one couple and another couple together make a quartet. In this sense, mathematical knowledge is still not empirical. But it is also not a priori knowledge about the world. It is, in fact, merely verbal knowledge. ‘3’ means ‘2 + 1’, and ‘4’ means ‘3 + 1’. Hence it follows (though the proof is long) that ‘4’ means the same as ‘2 + 2’. Tus mathematical knowledge ceases to be mysterious. It is all of the same nature as the ‘great truth’ that there are three feet in a yard’ (Russell, 1971: 785–786; emphasis added).9

From what Russell says here I take the point—although I am not quite sure that this was what he intended—that the empirical claim that if I have two apples and you then give me two more, so that I now have four apples, is a very diferent claim altogether from the purely metaphysical

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argument of mathematics that 2 + 2 = 4. Tere is I think absolutely no connection at all between these two very diferent knowledge claims despite their formal similarity. While I therefore accept that two plus two apples equals four apples—this is an empirical fact I think the correctness of which we can test by observation—it is a very diferent matter altogether to accept that 2 + 2 = 4, this being a purely metaphysical assertion which— precisely because it is a metaphysical claim—cannot be tested empirically and which in fact makes sense only within the boundaries, and hence the limitations, of the Pythagorean system of reasoning. To put this argument another way, the claim that 2 + 2 = 4 is correct I think within the realms of the system of logic which we call mathematics—in fact I am quite certain that this is this case—but this limited claim to ‘certainty’ does not extend beyond the boundaries of mathematics to the claim that this statement can be proved empirically or shown to be ‘true’ more generally.10 In the terms which we are discussing this question here therefore, the mathematical claim to ‘truth’ is one that is better understood in terms of the concept of adequate truth that I have explained in this book—one that is limited to its own object of explanation—rather than absolute truth, as is more usually thought to be the case. Commenting on this point in the introduction to Economy and Society, Max Weber supports the view that mathematical knowledge has such a high status because the terms in which a mathematical proposition is made are clear and unequivocal. ‘Te highest degree of rational understanding’, he says, ‘is attained in cases involving the meaning of logically mathematically related propositions; their meaning may be immediately and unambiguously intelligible’ (1978: 5).11 Elsewhere however, for example in the frst half of his essay on Karl Knies (1975: 114), he explains that this does not mean that the claims of mathematics can therefore be said to be true. As he says on this point: However there are logical reasons why the question of the ‘truth’ of the proposition “2 × 2 = 4” can never be resolved by using a microscope or by undertaking any biological, psychological or historical investigation. From the viewpoint of any empirical psychological observation and causal analysis, the claim that the multiplication table is ‘valid’ simply has the status of a transcendental truth. It is not a possible object of investigation. From the point of view of empirical psychology, it is an unverifable logical presupposition on which psychometric observations are based (Weber, 1975: 114).

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It seem then that the claims of mathematics to absolute and universal ‘truth’ have been badly overstated. Tere is certainty here I think—the claim that 2 × 2 = 4 is ‘correct’ while the claim that 2 × 2 = 5 is ‘incorrect’ (every schoolchild knows this) but this certainty is not the same as that of a claim to absolute truth. Rather, as we have seen, the concept of ‘truth’ here is that of adequate truth which of course means nothing more than certainty within the rules of the closed system of mathematical logic which are of course entirely of its own making. More recently still, Marcus Chown (2017) has commented on the highly improbable claim that mathematics is able to describe the universe as well as it presently claims to be able to do so. As Chown says on this point: Even today it is a mystery why the Universe appears to be describable by mathematical formulae. Te twentieth century Austrian physicist Eugene Wigner remarked on “the unreasonable efectiveness of mathematics in the physical sciences”. Why is there a mathematical world that is a perfect analogue of the real world? No one knows (2017: 226, fn. 17).12

But in fact the answer to this question is quite clear. Tere is no chance— absolutely none whatsoever—that the universe (or indeed the multiverse for that matter) has been so constructed as to ft the rules of mathematical logic. Rather it is the case that, from Newton and Leibniz onwards, a special type of mathematics—calculus—has been constructed to ft our present understanding of the nature of the universe. A mathematic solution is then judged to be ‘right’ and ‘proper’, ‘correct’ or ‘true’, etc. if, and only if, it can usefully explain something about the known Universe within the limits of this mathematical conception of an internally consistent or logical proof. But this is almost certainly why the greatest minds in 21st century physics cannot solve the apparent contradiction between Einstein’s general theory of relativity and quantum mechanics.13 However, another type of mathematics altogether—for example the mathematics of a parallel universe—or a new form of geometry that was not as, the Pythagorean system was, based on building pyramids in Egypt or reinstating the boundaries of felds washed away by the annual fooding of the river Nile, might well come to very diferent conclusions altogether. Our present mathematical understanding of the nature of the universe will in all likelihood eventually give way to another better mathematical view—a new calculus perhaps—or to another non-mathematical view altogether, which will become widely accepted when and if it can explain things about the nature of the universe

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that our present mathematical understanding cannot. And, viewed in this way—which is to say viewed from a multi-dimensional/multi-disciplinary and hence perspectivist point of view—mathematics can then be seen to be the problem and not the solution to our present understanding of the nature of the multiverse in which, it seems, we all live.14 III. The ‘Objective Lie’ Undoubtedly one of the most difcult to accept, if not to say downright peculiar, argument in this book is what I have had to say in the chapter on Karl Mannheim concerning the idea of an ‘objective lie’. At frst sight this seems to be a very bizarre idea indeed but a moments refection will show that this is only the case so long as one continues to confuse the concept of objectivity with the concept of absolute truth. As soon as this separation is made however we can see that this is not the case. All we are saying here is that when the object in question—the subject matter of our enquiry—is a ‘lie’, so long as we give a full and complete account of this object (that is to say of the object as a lie), then we have undoubtedly and unavoidably given an objective account of this thing. No claim is here being made of the truth of the matter—we are not claiming that the lie is true (or that black is white or that up is down, or whatever). All we are saying is that once we have described the lie as such—given a full and complete account of what it is: its nature and its form etc. as a lie—then we will also have provided a completely objective account of this thing: the object in question. Objectivity and truth then we see are not the same things at all and it is a great mistake to suppose that they are. An illustration of the point I am making here is an account of fascism that Mannheim gives as an example of an ‘objective lie’ in chapter three of Ideology and Utopia entitled ‘Te Prospects of a Scientifc Politics: the Relationship Between Social Teory and Political Practice.’ Te propaganda of the Nazis was unquestionably untrue, but Mannheim argues that no one would dare to suggest that they could write an objective account of Germany in the 1930s without giving a detailed account of what the Nazis had to say and hence without giving a detailed account of Nazi propaganda (1976: 119–130). Tis does not of course imply any agreement with what the Nazis said, but it is merely to say that the Nazis side of the argument—the Nazi perspective in this matter as it were—is an unavoidably part of the object in question which we are trying to explain. Indeed if our object of enquiry was to be ‘the Nazis version of history’, then such an

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explanation would be a full and complete account of this particular object.15 Similarly, if one were to give an account of the 2015 General Election in the UK in which immigration was a major issue one could hardly do this without saying something about the UK Independence Party and their central claim that (let me put it this way) Britain is full. We do not have to agree with this claim—I do not—but I do think that we have to admit it has some truth to it. UKIP and their supporters—one in eight people who voted in the general election in 2015—sincerely believe that Britain is full. Te ‘true’ part of this claim is therefore that UKIP voters believe this to be so, but not that it is actually the case that Britain really is ‘full’. Summing up the point I have been trying to make here, David Kettler, Volker Meja and Nico Stehr in their book Karl Mannheim (1984) have this to say: Mannheim could not, of course, accept all the knowledge claims of all thinkers whose works he considered; but he characteristically questioned such claims by denying the depth, scope, or duration of their validity, while agreeing that they had indeed managed to grasp a dimension or aspect of things (1984: 32; emphasis added).

IV. The Social Versus the Natural Sciences. If the nature of ‘truth’ in the context of mathematics is highly problematic then this is perhaps even more so in the case of the natural sciences, as a brief glance at some of the current fantasies of quantum mechanics and cosmology will demonstrate.16 One of the foundational claims of quantum mechanics is that one and the same particle—a single atom let us say—can be in two places at once. As Marcus Chown says on this point: [Q]uantum theory provides a unique window on a counter-intuitive, Alice in Wonderland world just beneath the skin of reality. It is a place where a single atom can be in two locations at once—the equivalent of being in New York and London at the same time; a place where things happen for absolutely no reason at all; and a place where two atoms can infuence each other simultaneously even if on opposite sides of the Universe (2017: 173).

But apart from the all too obvious objection to any such hypothesis— namely, how we could ever possibly hope to test and hence to verify any

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claim about what might be happening on the other side of the universe, or even whether the universe has ‘sides’ at all?—there is also the point that any such claim is simply contradictory and hence, by the rules of formal logic, must be said to be illogical. As Bertrand Russell says in his book The Problems of Philosophy ‘[T]he law of contradiction … asserts that nothing can at the same time have and not have a certain property’ (1970: 47; emphasis added).17 But, if what Russell says here is correct, then it simply cannot be the case, logically speaking, that a single atom can at one and the same time be in two entirely different places in the universe at the same time. If, by the law of contradiction, nothing can at the same time have and not have the same property then there are only three logical possibilities here; either (1) these molecules are being observed at slightly different times (which must I think be the case since first one observation is made and then another) or, (2) if these observations are made in different places albeit at the same time then, by definition, these cannot be the same things (that this is in fact quite simply a logical impossibility since nothing can be in two different places at the same time), or (3) that these two things—which appear to be the same things—are in fact nothing of the kind, but merely seem to be the same and hence it is their appearance of being ‘the same’ that is mistaken. On what basis then, we might well ask ourselves, are these two atoms said to be ‘the same’ when they are in fact in different places or—to put this same point another way—since they are in different places at the same time why are they said to be the same thing? Commenting on this point in his book Fashion, Faith and Fantasy (2016: 56) Roger Penrose has the following to say: [I]f two electrons were to be considered to be identical particles (as indeed quantum theory requires) at an event P, then they would be likely to end up at a second event Q with diferent masses if they arrived at Q via diferent routes, in which case they could not be identical particles when they arrive at Q ! Tis is in fact profoundly inconsistent with the well-established principles of quantum theory which demand that rules that apply to identical particles [in quantum theory] are critically diferent from those applying to non-identical ones (emphasis in original).

Much of the present high status of quantum mechanics in the natural sciences rests on its ability to make verifable predictions and, by extension of this, to produce useful results. As Marcus Chown points out:

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Quantum theory is fantastically successful. It has given us lasers and computers and nuclear reactors, and explains why the ground beneath our feet is solid and the sun shines (2017: 173).18

But the problem with any utilitarian argument of this kind is that things can still have useful outcomes that ‘work’ very well in the real world etc. even though the theory underlying them is entirely incorrect. In other words, just because something is successful in producing useful results this does not mean that what it says is true. A good illustration of this point would be Freudian psychology. According to the Frederick Crews in his recent book Freud: the Making of an Illusion, ‘Freud was a sick man who tried to saddle the whole human race with his [own] anxiety fantasies’ (Observer New Review, 2017: 10–11). But of course this does not mean that a Freudian psychotherapist, having persuaded one of their patients that they want to kill one of their parents in order to have sex with their other parent, might not have benefcial efects on the patient and hence could be seen to ‘work’. Similarly, if we consider the so-called placebo efect in scientifc testing, we see that the fact that one appears to be receiving treatment can have genuinely real biological efects—side efects—such as the release of endorphins in the brain which can then reduce pain. But this does not mean that it was the placebo—a sugar tablet let us say—that had the efect, rather it is whether the patient is what scientists call ‘a placebo responder’ or not (Observer New Review, 2017: 19–20). Of course both of these examples relate to psychological efects and hence there is an obvious subjective element here which a natural scientist might well argue is not the case with something like the theory of gravity. But, to counter this argument, Roger Penrose gives the example of the Ptolemaic model of planetary motion which was extremely successful and remained unchallenged for many centuries (2016: 12–13) as well as the equally famous example of the phlogiston theory of combustion which was experimentally disproved by Lavoisier. However, as Penrose points out, Lavoisier was himself responsible for another false idea, namely that heat is a material substance to which he gave the name ‘caloric’ (Penrose, 2016: 13–14). Te point I am making here is that just because something ‘works’, or as we might more generally say, has good or useful efects, this does not mean that the explanation given for these efects is the right, correct or true one. Rather it just means that because people believe in the theory in question—quantum mechanics for example—this belief enables them to produce useful efects, the actual explanation of which however might turn out to be very diferent.

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Another foundational arguments of contemporary physics is Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle which asserts that there is a fundamental limit to the precision with which certain pairs of properties of a physical particle—known as complementary pairs—can be known. Thus in the case of an electron, Heisenberg argues that the more precisely the position of an electron [in an atom] could be known the less precisely its momentum could be measured and vice versa. But I wonder if there is a problem here? One claim is a reference to the term ‘known’ but the other makes a reference to the term ‘measured’ and clearly these are not the same things. One is a qualitative statement and the other is quantitative. We might well be able to claim to ‘know’ that something is true—a qualitative statement of any kind; e.g., that something is beautiful?—but not be able to measure exactly how beautiful this thing is or how much more beautiful one thing is than any other (a purely quantitative statement); these two things then are clearly not the same. According to the entry on the subject of the uncertainty principle in Wikipedia: Historically, the uncertainty principle has been confused with a somewhat similar efect in physics, called the observer efect, which notes that measurements of certain systems cannot be made without afecting the systems. Heisenberg ofered such an observer efect at the quantum level as a physical “explanation” of quantum uncertainty. It has since become clear, however, that the uncertainty principle is inherent in the properties of all wave-like systems, and that it arises in quantum mechanics simply due to the matter wave nature of all quantum objects. Tus, the uncertainty principle actually states a fundamental property of quantum systems, and is not a statement about the observational success of current technology (https://en.wikipedia. org/wiki/Uncertainty_principle; accessed 18.10.2017).

Similarly, in cosmology, Marcus Chown (2017: 102) has argued that there seems to be a huge cosmic conspiracy to ensure the constancy of the speed of light, but, to say the very least, this seems to be highly unlikely. Everything that Einstein says about things actually getting smaller as they speed away from the Earth and not merely appearing to get smaller must follow in order to support his thesis. However another much more obvious answer presents itself to us and that is that this claim, intriguing though it is and however productive of useful things it might be (Chown 2017: 173), is in fact simply wrong. According to Chown:

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Tere are two physics principles that we know are true to the extent that they predict to a jaw-dropping degree of precision exactly what we see in the world that is accessible to our observations and experiments. Te frst is special relativity and the second is quantum theory. Physicists are not, it turns out, free to invent any old theory they like. Far from it. Teir theory must be consistent with both special relativity and with quantum theory. In fact, so ridiculously tight is this constraint on reality that the overwhelming majority of theories that physicists come up with are instantly ruled out (2017: 194).

But here is the problem exactly. As we have seen in our discussion of mathematics, the constraints are too tight, and it may well be that many perfectly good explanations are being ruled out precisely because they do not ‘ft’ either one or the other of these two entirely incompatible theories. Einstein’s theory of gravity was simply a new form of geometry (a branch of mathematics concerned with the shape, size, the relative position of fgures one to another and the properties of space), a better geometry than Newton’s as it were and much better still than Euclid’s certainly, but still and for all that a form of geometry nevertheless. Einstein’s views on relativity however derives from quite another source, namely Max Planck’s views on quantum mechanics, and these are not at all concerned with geometry but depend entirely on purely mathematical calculations. However, when Planck proposed the idea that oscillating springs are not free to give out or absorb any amount of energy but are only able to do this at a steady rate—the fxed multiple or ‘quantum’ of the same basic amount from which quantum mechanics takes its name—he regarded this as nothing more than a mathematical sleight of hand (Chown, 2017: 177) and did not expect anyone to take seriously what he was saying. Te fact that quantum mechanics makes a number of claims which are not only untestable but which in fact must remain untestable for ever—for example the claim that something on one ‘side’ of the universe can have an efect on something on the other side of the universe, or so called ‘spooky action at a distance’ as this idea was derisively described by Einstein (Chown, 2017: 216)—raises the question to what extent many of the other claims of quantum mechanics and the natural sciences more generally are simply ideological19 and whether we should go even further than this and call them pure fantasy: a branch of science fction perhaps which in fact many of these authors also write (e.g., Fred Hoyle who coined the term ‘Big  Bang’ and Carl Sagan whose book Contact

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was f lmed).20 In cosmology for example, the fact that Roger Penrose (2016: 217) has argued that the so-called ‘Big Bang’ theory is a matter of faith, pure and simple—another version of the Book of Genesis if ever there was one—should come as no surprise to anyone, as is the similar and even more absurd idea—widely believed in by many natural scientists nevertheless—that all the matter that presently exists in the known universe came out of absolutely nothing instantaneously (‘Let there be light, and there was light!’) in the frst second of the existence of our universe and then somehow spread out from this nothingness to form the physical universe that we see today. ‘We are’ as Marcus Chown says on this point ‘a long way from physics’ here (Chown, 2017: 205). Why then not just come right out with this and call this creation ‘God’ and have done with it! At least this would be honest.21 Finally Edward Tiryakian in his book Sociologism and Existentialism (1962) argues that there is no such thing as the natural sciences per se— understood to be one unifed thing—but rather what we call ‘the natural sciences’ is in fact a set of very slightly diferent sciences all of which attempt to view the same object—that natural world—from sometimes very diferent points of view indeed; biological, chemical, physical and so on. A good illustration of this point would be the example that I gave in chapter eight of this book in which various diferent natural scientists cite various different explanations—endocrine, chromosomal, hormonal and so on—of the nature of sexual diference when of course what this means is that all of these things are implicated, albeit in slightly diferent ways, in the question we are considering here. Here, to conclude our brief discussion of the high status of the natural sciences, is a quotation from Tiryakian’s book (1962: 115) in which, as we can see, he attributes the argument he is making to Karl Jaspers, and ultimately to Nietzsche: Of course, positivism may claim that science aims at an objective comprehension of Being in its totality. However, following Nietzsche, Jaspers points out that there is no Science as such, only a variety of scientifc disciplines, each perceiving the world or reality diferently. Within each science perspectives are changing (e.g., the world view of modern physics has substantially changed from the Newtonian perspective). Moreover, science and particular scientifc disciplines rest upon non-demonstrable presuppositions, [which are themselves] impossible to establish scientifcally. In other words science has certain boundaries beyond which it cannot go in its quest for absolute knowledge (1962: 115; emphasis added).

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V. The Four Dimensions of Space–time: Maths, Natural Science, Social Science and History. Troughout this book I have suggested that since there is apparently much less disagreement in the natural rather than the social sciences over the ‘true’ nature of things—remembering all the while however that ‘perspectivism’ is not concerned with questions of truth anything much as like, if at all, as it is concerned with the question of objectivity—then this ability within the natural sciences to agree on the nature of things must have something to do with the objective nature of those things themselves into which the natural sciences enquire. Te nature of those things which the natural sciences enquire into, I have suggested, are in some way easier to describe and hence easier to explain—or, as I think we might now say, are in some ways more one dimensional in the case of mathematics and perhaps two-dimensional in the case of the natural sciences (and especially geometry)—than is the case for the more three-dimensional concepts that we are commonly concerned with in the social sciences and four-dimensional concepts, including time, that are the subject matter of history and the humanities more generally. Tere are two obvious objections to this argument. Te frst is that we might well say that those things with which the natural sciences are concerned are not easier to agree upon or to understand than those things which are considered by the social sciences. As we have seen, such agreement is possible in mathematics, but in the natural sciences we might say that there is just as much disagreement as there is in the social sciences and hence the objects which the natural sciences try to explain are just as complex and hence just as three/four-dimensional as those of the social sciences. Te major example of this at present would of course be the difference between the claims of quantum mechanics and so-called string theory and those of Einstein’s theory of general relativity. As Roger Penrose explains (2016: 2–3) while there is a great deal of experimental support for quantum mechanics no one really understands how or why this works. As we have seen, all that matters is its very great utility. In so-called string theory however the situation is quite diferent. Here there is absolutely no experimental support at all—none whatsoever—for the claims that string theory makes (2016: 3) but this is all a matter of conjecture. Like mathematics on which it is entirely based, string theory is a system theory which makes sense only in terms of those claim which are internal to the system itself and have absolutely no reference to anything outside this. Finally, Penrose notes the ‘profound conficts between current quantum mechanics

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and certain other accepted physical principles, namely those of Einstein’s general relativity’ (2016: xiv) and he comments further on ‘the fairly blatant contradictions’ between the largely counter intuitive claims of quantum mechanics and any plausible description of the physical world in which we appear to live’ (2016: xii). It would seem then that the exponents of the three main branches of contemporary physics are not only just as capable of ‘talking past one another’22 as the social sciences are, but they are not even talking to one other at all. Te second obvious objection to the above argument is that the subject matter of the natural sciences are not in any way simpler than the subject matter of the social sciences—quite the contrary many people might say— but rather that the natural sciences have a widely agreed upon method of resolving such disputes which the social sciences do not—the experimental method—and sometimes even, in physics for example, mathematical ways of modelling hypothesis which are simply not available to the social sciences.23 But all I would say in reply to this second objection is that where this is so—where disputes in the natural sciences are resolvable by experimentation or by mathematical equations etc.—then all that this means is that (a) the object of enquiry in these cases—an object which as we might well say can be resolved by experiment—must by defnition be simpler in form and structure than those other much more complicated objects of enquiry in the social sciences which are not resolvable in this way, and that (b) where this is not the case—where disputes in the natural sciences over the ‘true’ meaning or the ‘proper’ use of something are just as bitter as these are in the social sciences—then this must be because these questions too are in some meaningful way more complex than those other questions which are resolvable by experimentation. Te social and the natural sciences I think are both making a mistake when viewed from a perspectivist point of view. Tey are both failing to consider the object of their enquiry from a sufciently multi-dimensional perspective. But this mistake is not the same in both cases and is in fact the opposite in each case. Te social sciences are consistently and repeatedly making the mistake that Karl Mannheim characterised as ‘talking past one another’. We are consistently failing to acknowledge—failing even to recognise—that when we use the same terms, ‘social class’ for example, we are usually talking about entirely diferent things. What one social scientist means by the term ‘social class’—lifestyle economically determined in the market place for example—frequently has nothing very much to do with what another social scientist means by this same term: for example ‘the

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relation to the means of production’. Social scientists view the same object from any number of diferent points of view but seem to be incapable, for whatever reason, of (a) recognising this point and then (b) situating these diferent points of view in relation to one another and hence (c) coming up with an appropriately complex explanation of the object in question. Te natural sciences by contrast—dominated as they are by the experimental method and especially by an entirely unwarranted respect for the logic of mathematics—are making the opposite mistake. Natural scientists only speak to one another and, as I think we might well say, are only capable of speaking to one another, where it is necessary to have a very high level of sophistication in mathematical logic to even take part in the debate. It is for this reason that the natural sciences only look at the things they considered from a one dimensional—or let us say, a purely mathematical—point of view. It is for this reason I think that they are presently unable to explain, for example, the so-called ‘weak force’ of gravity and why it is necessary for them to then speculate that there must be something else called ‘dark matter’ in the universe, a substance which because it cannot be seen can never be tested and which is hypothesised to exist purely in order to save the presently inadequate theory of the nature of gravity from criticism. But what would happen if we were to argue that there is no such thing as ‘dark matter’? We would then have to accept that the current theory of gravity is simply wrong. All of this suggests the idea that that mathematical knowledge is in some meaningful sense of this term ‘one sided’ (or one-dimensional as I think we might well say) and that it is for this reason—because it cannot be exposed to criticism from a more sophisticated two or three-dimensional point of view—that there is so little disagreement in the matter—so little dispute—over the truth or the veracity of mathematical ‘knowledge’. I call this type of knowledge (knowledge which is not empirically verifable but which depends entirely on itself for the unity—for the consistency—of the claims which it makes) metaphysical knowledge. Does 2 × 2 really equal 4? Only because we say it does and not for any other reason. Similarly, and by extension of this argument, I think we might well say that the subject matter of the natural sciences is two sides (or two-dimensional as we might well say). What this means is that while there is some disagreement in the natural sciences over the proper use of certain key terms (the defnition of the term ‘planet’ for example) or the ‘true’ explanation of certain events (and it is interesting here I think to note that it is the natural sciences above all others that

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believe in the truth or falsity of these matters and which think that these things can be determined def nitively), this is only because the natural sciences view these matters in a two-dimension way and consequently can, afer a certain amount of argument, and given the possibility of empirical refutation, come to some agreement about this matter. T is type of knowledge claim—i.e., that which is thought to be resolvable by empirical proof and refutation—I call empirical knowledge. Tird there is then the type of knowledge claim that we make in the social sciences in which agreement can be reached but only afer much talking past each other (and see here my 2002 essay on mutually contested concepts on this point). What I am suggesting here is that since there is so much disagreement in the social sciences—quite so much disagreement as I think we might well say—this must be due to the fact that the objects of explanation that we consider in the social sciences—things like the concepts of social class, or discrimination, or organised crime for example—are at least three-dimensional and perhaps even four when we consider the very important dimension of time. It is then precisely because of their many sided nature that these objects of enquiry are especially difcult to describe and still less to explain, and hence this is the reason why there is quite so much disagreement in the social sciences over the true nature or meaning or the proper use of these terms/concepts. I therefore call this type of knowledge claim objective knowledge since this depends for its veracity on a very careful description and defnition of the object in question. Finally this then leaves historical knowledge—or what I think we might more generally refer to as the humanities—which is always four-dimensional in the sense that time is the particular concern of history and because time is the fourth dimension of space-time. T is type of knowledge I call conjectural knowledge by which I mean knowledge claims which are based on beliefs about the nature of reality where we have no means of and/or no reason to agree on the true meaning or the proper usage of the concepts in question. History, and more generally the humanities, are the least scientifc of the sciences I think precisely because their object of explanation is so complex that no agreement can ever be reached in the matter and the reason why this is the case is that their object of enquiry, aesthetics for example, is always at least four-dimensional and possibly even more than this. Concepts in the humanities—‘art’ for instance—are always essentially contested I think and religious faith would be another very good example of the kind of thing I have in mind here.

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Conclusion: A Final Word on this Subject Writing a book on the subject of perspectivism—and here I think it is worth noting once again the Buddhist infuence on Schopenhauer’s work and the infuence in turn of Schopenhauer on Nietzsche’s thought—I have been continually reminded of the famous Hindu parable about the six blind men who each try to describe an elephant (Fig. 9.4 below). Each man, being unable to see the whole elephant, defnes only that bit which he can feel and which he comes into contact with frst; here a tail, there an ear, and now a trunk etc. Te resulting partial descriptions of the ‘elephant’ then looks nothing like the real thing, but is rather more like six entirely diferent objects. Te moral of this story is usually taken to be that none of the men actually describes the elephant as it ‘really’ is—the whole elephant correctly in all of its entirety as it were—until a prince who is sighted explains the truth of the matter to them. But writing from a perspectivist point of view I wish to present a very diferent interpretation of this parable which is that each of the men does in fact give an entirely accurate account of that part of the elephant which they do in fact describe in detail; the trunk, the tusk, the ear, the leg, and so on. Te blind men only know that there is such a thing as a real elephant,

Figure 9.4: The Six Blind Men of Hindustan Adapted by Qusai Jafferji ([email protected]) from an illustration in Holton-Curry readers by Martha Adelaide Holton & Charles Madison Curry, 1914. Public domain.

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and that each of them has only described one part of this, once the prince describes the whole thing to them and explains to them that their partial views are to that extent mistaken, but of course in the natural and the social sciences the God-like perspective of the prince is precisely what we usually do not have and therefore the best we can do is to go on groping in the dark and describe those things—parts of the whole—that we are aware of and which we might just be able to explain.24 In short, the description and/or explanation of the elephant’s leg or tail as being like a tree trunk or a snake is not wrong. All that it is partial and putting these many sided/partial viewpoints together is perhaps the best we can do—the best we can hope for—in order to come up with a more comprehensive explanation, however one-sided this might still be, of the nature of those things which we are trying to understand and if possible explain in the social and the natural sciences. It is then a proper understanding of the strictly partial nature of those explanation that we do in fact provide that is missing from the natural and social sciences today. Notes 1. On this point the reader might care to look at a recent book by Richard Hamblyn—Clouds: Nature and Culture (2017 Reaktion Books)—which asks the question whether clouds are objects, phenomena, systems or processes. 2. In his book Te Problems of Philosophy, Bertrand Russell defnes a ‘concept’ as follows. He says that: In addition to our acquaintance with particular existing things, we also have acquaintance with what we call universals, that is to say, general ideas such as whiteness, diversity, brotherhood, and so on … Awareness of universals is called conceiving, and a universal of which we are aware is called a concept (Russell, 1970: 28). 3. Durkheim (1983: 38) explains that the term ‘instrumentalism’, which he identifes with what he calls ‘the Chicago School’ of Dewey, is a close relation of pragmatism. ‘Tere is thus a very close kinship between reality and thought. Both are instruments which cooperate in life [ and] hence the term instrumentalism by which the Chicago School designates its own interpretation of pragmatism’. On this point, see here also Durkheim (1983: 55) where he says ‘It would be better perhaps to examine things from the point of view of the element of satisfaction to which pragmatism allots such a major role. To the extent that it stresses this element, however, pragmatism changes its name and is called humanism, a designation given to it, as we know, by Schiller’ (emphasis in original). 4. Te meaning of the term ‘theory’ itself of course can change. In the social sciences we commonly use the word ‘theory’ to describe both a vague idea or a hypothesis that we have had at the beginning of a process of enquiry as well as a fully worked out explanation of the causes of some event or phenomena. As Ernest Nagel explains in his book Te Structure of Science (1979): [A] theory is held to be a rule or a principle for analysing and symbolically representing certain materials of gross experience, and at the same time an instrument in a technique for inferring observational statements from other such statements. (1979: 129; emphasis added).

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Similarly, discussing the term ‘Triangulation’ in the Penguin Dictionary of Sociology (2000: 364), the editors attribute this concept to N. K. Denzin and they say that he identifes four diferent types of triangulation, the third of which he called ‘theory triangulation’ which is defned as ‘the application of multiple perspectives to interpret data’. 5. Durkheim does not say who the Oxford academic was, but the editor of the English translation of Durkheim’s lectures on pragmatism, John Allcock, gives this as Henry Joachim [1868–1938] in his Te Nature of Truth, Oxford, 1906 (Durkheim, 1983: 117, fn. 31). 6. Te philosopher G.W.F. Hegel [1770–1831] argues that there is a hard and fast distinction between the concept of ‘truth’ and the idea of ‘correctness’, however the reasons that he gives for saying this are far from clear (1892: 304–305). ‘Correctness’, Hegel says, ‘concerns only the formal coincidence between our conception and its content’, while truth ‘depends solely on the form, viz., on the notion as it is put and the reality corresponding to it’. 7. Marcus Chown has argued that ‘If the laws of physics are to have the status of universal laws then then they should be independent of our point of view’ (2017: 113). But since there is in fact no knowledge that is independent of our point of view—either physical or theoretical or both, however this may be—then this must mean that (a) there cannot be any such thing as universal laws, or (b) there can be universal laws but we mere human beings cannot know what they are, or (c) that universal laws so-called, are knowable and exist only when they appear to be the same from all diferent points of view. 8. And on this point see the above discussion in chapter eight of this book of male and female sexes as ‘opposites’ and so-called ‘intersexual’ people in between these categories. 9. Commenting on a similar point, but this time in the context of economic theory, Joseph Schumpeter says the following; ‘[I]n any case we always have to postulate some prepositions for which, within a deductive sector of our (or any) science, it is not possible to provide logical proof. This raises the question of their status or nature. Formally they enter as hypotheses (or as definitions in B. Russell’s sense), which on principle we can frame at will. But when, with a view to application, we ask whether they are ‘true’ or ‘valid’, that is, whether results arrived at by means of them may be expected to be verifiable (in general or with respect to certain phenomena or aspects of phenomena), then there are only two possibilities: they may be deductively provable in some wider system [of knowledge] that transcends economics or its deductive sector, or they must be established by observation or experiment’ (Schumpeter, 1994: 1003). 10. I believe that a person can be absolutely certain about their beliefs—a person who is religious for example can be certain that they believe in God: there is no doubt about this matter of which they are absolutely sure—but this is not at all the same thing as saying that what they believe to be true is in fact true—that there is a God for example—or that they can be certain about this. 11. Tis quotation continues: ‘We have a perfectly clear understanding of what it means when somebody employs the proposition 2  ×  2  =  4, or the Pythagorean theorem in reasoning or argument, or when someone correctly carries out a logical train of reasoning according to our accepted mode of thinking’ (Weber, 1978: 5). 12. Making a similar point, Roger Penrose comments on ‘the very remarkable synergy between the general mathematical framework of quantum mechanics and the consistency of the requirements of probabilistic quantum behaviour!’ (2016: 170). 13. In his otherwise excellent Fashion, Faith and Fantasy Roger Penrose argues that ‘the hugely impressive progress that physical theory has indeed made over several centuries has depended upon extremely precise and sophisticated mathematical schemes. It is evident, therefore, that any further signifcant progress must again depend crucially upon some distinctive mathematical framework (2016:2). But this is just what is not evident here—Penrose’s ‘therefore’ here does not follow logically from his frst statement—and we have every reason instead to believe that it is precisely the search for a mathematics solution that is getting in the way of an adequate understanding of this problem. 14. Commenting on the argument that it is our present concept of mathematics that ‘fts’ what we claim to know about the nature of the universe, rather than the universe that fts mathemat-

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ics, Roger Penrose rejects this argument, however the reasons he gives for his views on this question are very poor indeed. Here is what Penrose has to say on this issue: It should be emphasised that this precision goes enormously beyond … that which was observationally available to Einstein when he frst formulated his gravitational theory.… Yet that additional precision (by a factor of around one hundred million), being unknown to Einstein, can have played no role whatever in his formulating his theory. Tus (sic) this new mathematical model of nature was not a man-made construction invented merely in an attempt to fnd the best theory to ft the facts: the mathematical scheme was, in a clear sense, already there in the works of nature herself. Tis mathematical simplicity or elegance, or however one should describe it, is a genuine part of nature’s ways, and it is not simply that our minds are attuned to being impressed by such mathematical beauty (2016: 7). But in fact what Penrose says here is incorrect. Just because Einstein—himself a notoriously poor mathematician—was unaware of the mathematical precision that later on was attached by others to his theory, does not at all mean that the mathematical model of nature which had been developed before Einstein was not man-made in order to best ft the facts that mathematicians were trying to explain. Hence there is no ‘thus’ here—no logical connection whatsoever—between Einstein’s ignorance of these matters and the fact of the matter in question which is explained, and it is difcult to understand how Penrose thinks that there can be. 15. Mannheim’s thesis in his essay on ‘Te Prospects of a Scientifc Politics’ is that each particular point of view has to be complemented by all the others (1976: 132). On pages 132–134 Mannheim describes a ‘synthesis’ of all the fve main currents of political thought that he has described so far—(1) bureaucratic conservatism, (2) conservative historicism, (3) liberaldemocratic bourgeois thought, (4) the socialist communist conception, and (5) fascism—and argues that such a synthesis is indeed possible (p.135)], even including fascism (see p.134) which he argues simply takes a peculiarly one-sides view of particular elements in the total structure which are ‘viewed as if they were the only ones that existed’ (134). Nevertheless he does not deny, even to fascism, of which he had himself been a victim of course, a part in the total representation of political thought at that time. How could anyone write a history of Germany in the 1930s which did not include the fascist point of view however one sided we might have thought this to be. At frst, in giving an account of Germany in the 1930s, it seems as though we could discount the propagandist claims of Joseph Goebbels, but a moment’s refection would show that this is not the case. It would be impossible to write a history of Germany in the 1930s and the 1940s without giving an account of what he Nazis said. Even though much of what they said was ‘untrue’ in the absolutist sense of that term we must still give an account of what they said even though much of what was said was for propaganda purposes and, to be clear, was a lie, yet still it is ‘true to itself’, which is to say true as propaganda. 16. If my use of the term ‘fantasies’ seems a bit strong here I refer the reader to a recent book by the distinguished physicist Roger Penrose entitled Fashion, Faith and Fantasy in the New Physics of the Universe (2016 Princeton University Press). 17. Here it might be worth pointing out that Durkheim (1983: 32) claimed that, according to the pragmatists, the laws of non-contradiction do not apply to reality, but only to the concepts we make up about this and that it is hence only these concepts that need to be consistent. 18. A similar argument to this is provided by C.S. Peirce in an essay he wrote called ‘Te Fixation of Belief’ in which he argues that ‘scientifc investigation has had the most wonderful triumphs in the way of settling opinion’ (Peirce, 1955:.19). So here we see that Peirce is talking about the same issue as W. B. Gallie, how to arrive at agreement on—in Gallie’s case—the proper use of concepts and, in Peirce case, who has got the right—or in other words, the ‘true’—answer to any particular question. 19. Tere is an interesting discussion of the term ‘ideology’ in a 2001 essay by Stephen Kalberg entitled ‘Should the “Dynamic Autonomy” of Ideas Matter to Sociologists?’. Kalberg’s essay is mainly concerned with the role of ideas in social change and he argues that such ideas may be

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said to be ‘dynamically autonomous’ by which he means that they have an independent causal role in social change that is not necessarily reducible to material or economic factors (as is so ofen claimed in sociological literature). However, within his general discussion of the term ideology (2001: 291–292) Kalberg makes an interesting point relevant to the question we are considering here. Kalberg discusses Karl Marx’s concept of ideology, which he says ‘refect the economic or political interests of the ruling class’, or which in other words are biased towards a particular view point or set of interests. But if this defnition of ideology is correct (and of course perspectivism would insist that there are many others possible defnitions of this concept) what this means is that we might well call any idea ‘ideological’ that is biased towards a particular world-view and that hence the scientifc world-view—the natural scientifc paradigm as we might more usually call this—is also ideological. In his book One-Dimensional Man, Herbert Marcus writes that an increasingly all-embracing ‘one-dimensional’ thought is systematically promoted by the makers of politics and the purveyors of mass information. Teir universe of discourse’ he says, ‘is populated by self-validating hypotheses which, incessantly and monopolistically repeated, become hypnotic defnitions or dictations’ (Marcuse, 1964: 14; cited in Lukes 2005: 150). Marcus was discussing politics, but this argument seems to me to apply very well to many of the more outlandish claims of the so-called natural sciences today. 20. Although Fred Hoyle coined the term ‘Big Bang’ he was in fact a severe critic of this idea, while Einstein believed that the idea of ‘spooky action at a distance’ proved that quantum theory must be incorrect. However, Marcus Chown argues that: Unfortunately for Einstein, laboratory experiments have shown that subatomic particles born together (sic) … can indeed infuence each other faster than light. Even if they are on opposite sides of the universe (2017:185). But in fact no laboratory experiment could ever possibly prove this to be the case unless one laboratory was on one side of the universe and another on the other side (always assuming of course that the universe has ‘sides’) and since according to Einstein nothing can travel faster than the speed of light it is much more likely that what appears to be one and the same particle are in fact two entirely separate particles. How then is it possible that something can appear to travel faster than the speed of light? Tis is only possible if the thing in question which appears to be on diferent sides of the universe was not one and the same thing. 21. See on this point a recent article in the Observer Newspaper by Stuart Clark (2017) in which he argues that ‘many of the most popular astronomy books, even from the giants like Stephen Hawkins, contain their elements of fction’. By that Clark explains he means ‘that there is a modern fashion for neglecting to diferentiate mere hypothesis from established fact’ (Clark, 2017: 19). And see also Roger Penrose (2016) on this point. 22. A recent example of the natural sciences ‘talking past one another’ would be a fairly vicious dispute over the status of Pluto as either (a) a planet or (b) a planetoid (Anthony, 2016). Te current argument in astronomy over whether Pluto is a planet or a planetoid depends entirely on the defnition of the concept of a ’planet’. ‘Pluto meets the frst two criteria of the IAU’s [International Astronomical Union] 2006 defnition of a planet since it both orbits the Sun and is round. But because it is also accompanied by a large number of Kuiper Belt Objects, Pluto does not meet the IAU’s third criterion that it should also have cleared its orbit of all other bodies’ (Chown, 2017: 62). Give one defnition and Pluto is a planet, give another and it is not. Tat is all that is to it. But of course all of this alters nothing about the nature of the actual object in our solar system which we call Pluto, the form and the nature of which has not changed at all. 23. Here it might be worth pointing out that at least some, if not that many, issues in the social sciences are resolvable by experimentation; see on this point for example so-called ‘situational’ and ‘correspondence’ tests (which some people collectively refer to as ‘objective’ tests) for discrimination in which matched pairs of applications with the same qualifcations etc. apply for jobs, housing or other services, where the only diference between each application which are otherwise identical is the surname of the candidate, and which consistently demonstrate that

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applicants with an ethnic minority surname are discriminated against compared to candidates with a non-minority surname. See for example on this point the recent study in the UK in which the Department for Works and Pensions commissioned research by the National Centre for Social Research into 987 jobs advertised between November 2008 and May 2009 which demonstrated that ethnic minority applicants had to apply for sixteen jobs before they received an interview compared to only nine applications for non-minority candidates (Wood, Hales, Purdon, Sejersen and Hayllar, 2009). 24. In Ways of Seeing (1972) John Berger, Sven Blomberg, Chris Fox, Michael Dibb and Richard Hollis claim a ‘God-like perspective’ for the subject from whose point of view a painting is represented during the Renaissance (1972: 16). ’Te convention of perspective’, they say, ‘which is unique to European art and which was frst established in the early Renaissance, centres everything on the eye of the beholder…. According to the convention of perspective there is no visual reciprocity. Tere is no need for God to situate himself in relation to others: he is himself the situation. Te inherent contradiction in perspective was that it structured all images of reality to address a single spectator who, unlike God, could only be in one place at one time’ (1972: 16). But, in fact, the God-like perspective is not that of the eye of the beholder—the single individual spectator of the Renaissance—but rather is that of someone (or something) which is capable of viewing any three dimensional object from all sides simultaneously, that is to say, outside of time (which is of course the fourth dimension of space time). We mere mortals cannot do this. We do not have this ‘God-like’ perspective, but what is being advocated by Perspectivism is that we try to do the next best thing: look at the object in question from every side. Turn this round in your hand and in your mind. What does it look like not just from your own point of view but from all other sides? What does it look like as a whole? Tis is as near as we can get to the sought afer genuinely ‘objective’ view of the thing in question.

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M

ost people who have come across the term perspectivism before—or at least the more common term ‘perspective’—will have encountered this in the context of the history of art, especially in connection with Renaissance painting and drawing. Te frst artist to use perspective is thought to have been the Florentine architect and engineer Fillipo Brunellesci [1377–1446] in a painting of 1415 depicting the Baptistery of Florence from the gate of the then as yet unfnished cathedral (www.op-art.co.uk), while the discovery of the vanishing point theorem—the principal breakthrough in the science of perspective, in which all lines in a drawing disappear to the same central point towards the back of a two-dimensional image —was described in 1712 by the mathematician Humphry Ditton [1675–1715] as the ‘main and Great[est] Proposition’ of the Renaissance (Ditton 1712:45). I mention all of this not only to provide some historical background on the question of perspectivism, but also because I wish to suggest here that there must be something fundamentally wrong about our conception of the world in which we live when this apparently three-dimensional reality, as we suppose, can only be represented on a two-dimensional plane in this highly distorted way; an idea which developed and became widely accepted at much the same time as other similar beliefs about the nature of the world in which we live during the –287–

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Renaissance. If apparently parallel lines can only be represented as such on a two-dimensional plane by making them converge towards a common vanishing point when in fact genuinely parallel lines would never meet then there may be something wrong with our concept—our perception—of the nature of the apparently three-dimensional space in which we live.1 And here I think it is worth mentioning the Ponzo illusion, so-called because it was identifed by the Italian psychologist Mario Ponzo (1882–1960) in 1911, in which he demonstrated that the human mind judges an object’s size based on its background and context.

Figure A1.1: The Ponzo Illusion As is well known, all four of the horizontal lines in the above illustrations are in fact of the same length, and one can easily establish this point by measuring them. However, because the two vertical lines in the frst diagram converge towards a distant vanishing point, while the two corresponding lines in the second diagram do not, the illusion is created that the upper horizontal line in the frst diagram is wider than the lower horizontal line in the same diagram when in fact both lines are exactly the same length, while no such illusion is created in the second diagram when the two vertical lines are parallel. Tus it was suggested by Ponzo that we are misled in our perception of the reality of the situation by the distortion caused by the convergence of the perspective lines, when in fact however, for all we know, it seems equally plausible to suggest that these converging lines reveal to us the ‘true’ nature of a previously undisclosed reality in which the horizontal lines are in fact of diferent lengths. Which of these equally possible explanations is the correct one then? Given that Renaissance artists were only with great ingenuity able to represent an apparently three-dimensional world on a two-dimensional plane I suggest that the answer to this question must be both; the world in which we live

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appears to us to be three-dimensional but this appearance is mistaken, and the proof of this proposition is the fact that this apparently three-dimensional world can be realistically represented on a two-dimensional plane, but only by making lines which are supposed to be parallel (in the ‘real’ world) converge to a disappearing point.2 Do apparently parallel lines in the real world (for example the edges of the pages of the book you are reading) actually converge to some disappearing point somewhere in the centre of the known universe, and, if this is not the case—they really are parallel— how could we ever know that this is ‘true’. Rather, it is perhaps because we are viewing these apparently parallel lines not on a two-dimensional plane but in what only seems to be a three-dimensional world that they appear not to converge. What I am suggesting here then is this; that in some way the normal/usual three-dimensional way that we view the world—and this of course would be four-dimensional if we include time—is in fact fundamentally and profoundly wrong. Tat the natural world (in which of course I include the social sciences too) is in some way very much more complex than its three/four-dimensional appearance suggests and that the Italian Renaissance in art, as part of the more general scientifc revolution which took place at the same time, in efect imposed this threedimensional view of the world onto something that is in fact not three/ four-dimensional at all. Te reason I have for saying this is that this must be so since otherwise it would not be possible to represent a three-dimensional image onto something that is in fact only two-dimensional. Rather we see the world in this way and impose this order on reality, the proof of this being that images which we ‘know’ are two-dimensional appear three-dimensional to us when drawn in perspective or, to put this same argument another way, the image in question really is three-dimensional once drawn in perspective and it is the appearance that this has of being drawn on a two-dimensional plane that is mistaken. Figures which are in fact the same size appear to us to be of diferent sizes when viewed in perspective or, as I think we might just as well say, the fgures are in reality of diferent sizes but appear to be the same length when they are not viewed in perspective. On this point it is worth looking at the image below of two Necker cubes. Look carefully at this image and you will see that it is possible to view the same image from the above right but also from the bottom lef. In fact, once you have both viewpoints in mind, the images appear to ficker, alternating between one view point and the other. Once again this suggests

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that our perception of a situation, at least as far as a perspective drawing is concerned, is not as reliable as it seems. A.

B.

a b

c

f

d e

Figure A1.2: Two identical cubes, one of which we view from the top right and the other from the bottom left. It is interesting to note that the two perspectives that are possible here show diferent sides of the square that only overlap with one another on one side, the front elevation (shown as side b. and side d. here) while neither view shows the back of the square. Tus square A which nine out of ten people see, appears to show sides a. b. and c to the foreground (with side ‘a’ on the top of the cube, side ‘b’ at the front and side ‘c’ to the right hand side), while square B foregrounds sides d, e, and f (with side ‘e’ at the bottom, ‘d’ to the lef hand side and ‘f’ at the front). Cover up image ‘A’ and look carefully and image ‘B’. You appear to be viewing image B from the lef hand side—you are standing slightly to the lef of the cube and you are looking up at this from the underneath side of the object. Tis is by contrast to image ‘A’ where you seem to be standing slightly to the right of the object and looking down on this from above. In fact however—or at least as far as we suppose—both images are the same. What however if this is not in fact the case? What if both images, though appearing to be the same, are in fact diferent? You really are looking at image ‘A’ from above and to the right, and you really are looking at image ‘B’ from below and to its lef? Finally, the sensation of vertigo is mentioned by Durkheim (1983: 43) in his lectures on pragmatism and it occurred to me that the sickening feeling that we get when we stand on a high point and look down over a precipice is perhaps one of the very rare occasions when we get a ‘true’ sense of our relation to the planet on which we live. Te Earth has a circumference of nearly 25,000 miles and completes this circuit once every 24 hours. What this means is that it spins at a speed of slightly more than 1,000 miles per

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hour every day (25,000/24 hours = 1,041.6r) but we normally have absolutely no consciousness of this fact other than, for some reason, on those rare occasions when we stand at the edge of a clif or the top of a tall building and look down on the world from a great height. I wonder then if this is in fact the only time that we perceive the world as it truly is, in motion, and that all the rest of the time—the normal feeling of stability that we have when our feet are planted frmly on the ground etc.—is in fact the illusion? Tis talk of perspectivism in art then leads us to consider the following related question. Since Renaissance artists were able to develop the technique which enabled them to depict a three-dimensional reality on a two-dimensional plane—the key discovery of which was the vanishing point theorem—is it possible for us to represent a four-dimensional object—whatever any such thing might look like—on a three-dimensional plane, and if so, what would be the equivalent in this four-dimensional reality of the vanishing point theorem in a three-dimensional space?3 Rather surprisingly the answer to this question is that it is already possible, with some difculty—see below—to represent just such a model in the form of an object which is known as a tesseract (see Fig. A1.3), but it is not yet clear—not clear to me anyway—what the equivalent of the assumption of a four-dimensional vanishing point would be in this case. Rather than being drawn on a two-dimensional plane the tesseract must be modelled as a physical object made of wire perhaps with a smaller cube inside a

Figure A1.3: A tesseract –291–

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larger cube and then with each corner of the inner cube attached by wire to the corresponding corner of the larger cube so that the smaller cube is suspended inside the larger cube. But here, as the science fction novelist Arthur C. Clarke, says is the really tricky bit. It is not sufcient, as with a perspectivist painting, merely to look at the object, but one also has to imagine that the smaller cube inside is in fact the same size as the larger cube outside. As Clarke says: Anyone who wishes to do some genuine consciousness-expanding should contemplate this object and try to realise that (1) the inner cube is ‘really’ the same size as the outer one (2) all the wires are the same length (3) all the angels are ninety degrees and (4) all the ‘faces’ are identical cubes (Clarke, 1990: 57).

Just as you are willing to suspend your disbelief when you look at a Renaissance painting and assume that lines which are not in fact parallel are parallel and that images at the ‘back’ of the painting are further away than images at the ‘front’ of the painting, and so on, even though you know that this is not the case, but that all of these images are in fact on the same two-dimensional plane and hence equally near or distant from you, so you must now try to do the same thing here—suspend your disbelief—with this four-dimensional object. If you can do this you will see that the ‘inner’ cube, which in one perspective appears to be farther away from you and ‘behind’ the outer cube, in another perspective appears to be nearer to you and alongside but not behind the ‘outer’ cube. Once again with practice the two images appear to ficker between one appearance and the other, but in neither case does the inner cube appear to be inside the outer cube. Finally, another example of a four-dimensional phenomenon—this one however where time serves as the fourth dimension—is what physicists call ‘world lines’ (Chown, 2017: 110). Tis is a graph of all your movements— a chain of events as it were throughout your life—which shows every place you ever visited from the day that you were born until the day that you die.4 Such a graph would look a bit like a seismographs which show earthquake tremors but instead of the graph going from lef to right across a page and the needle moving up and down on a two-dimensional plane, this threedimensional graph starts at the centre of a Cartesian co-ordinate on the day in which you were born and then moves vertically for each year of your life. Unlike a normal graph the vertical axis on this graph—the z-axis as it were—measuring time, is genuinely vertical, while the horizontal axis

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records every place you have ever been since the day you were born. Te centre point of such a graph would therefore be the place where you were born. Ten the frst line, ficking out to the lef or the right from this centre point, would show the home your parents took you to afer you lef the hospital. Ten the frst place you went on holiday, and then back home again, and then your frst school and so on in a continuous line across the graph but where this line also rises vertically towards your view point from the present day much like a Christmas three; a tree of your life in fact.5 Notes 1. On this point see Bertrand Russell (1970: 2) who argues that ‘the painter has to unlearn the habit of thinking that things seem to have the colour which common sense says that they “really” have, and to learn the habit of seeing things as they appear’. 2. See on this point the recent book by the painter David Hockney and his co-author Martin Gayford entitled A History of Pictures (2016 Tames and Hudson; and see the review of this in the Observer Newspaper by Peter Conrad entitled ‘Tose who have made their mark’ (Observer New Review: 13.11. 16; p. 38) in which Conrad says that ‘Renaissance painters took [such] pride in their intellectual mastery of the visible world [that] ‘their management of perspective made them God’s surrogates, elucidating the laws that governed nature’ (2016: 38), and further that Hockney ‘conjectures speculations about the metaphysics [metaphysical nature] of vision. ‘What makes a work of art? Hockney admits that he frankly does not know. ‘Te book in which Hockney propounded his much contested theory about painting and optics [in which Hockney argued that much of Renaissance painting employed a camera obscura] is entitled Secret Knowledge. ‘Hockney praises the cubists for multiplying the points of view in picture: we are binocular creatures [he insists] and our two eyes looks at things from [two slightly] diferent angles’. ‘Arguing that nature is always three-dimensional, he even imagines himself inside the tiny head of a fy which would see crinkles and crevasses in a surface that to human eyes remain boringly fat.’ (Conrad, 2016: 38 Observer New Review). 3. See Marcus Chown on this point (2017: 109 but also 128), who says that we do already live in a four-dimensional world of space–time. Te three-dimensional world of appearance he says is ‘embedded’ in a four-dimensional one, because the 3D world of ‘space’ is always and everywhere afected by—and never separable from—the 4D world of space time: all space has a past and a future. 4. One sometimes sees an efect like this when you try to drag a window on the screen of your computer to a diferent location on the screen, but the programme is not working properly so that instead of the window moving seemlessly from one part of the screen to another you see a stuttering sequence of all the previous position that the window occupied on your screen at one and the same time. 5. On this point see Tomas Piketty and Emmanuel Saez ‘How Progressive is the U.S. Federal Tax System’ (2006: 8) which contains some nice points about ‘perspectivism’ where for example they say “progressive individual income taxes appear less progressive from a lifetime perspective rather than from an annual perspective (Fullerton and Rogers 1993). Also that “the best measure of economic afuence is probably in between the extreme cases of the annual perspective and the lifetime perspective”.

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Index

Abbott, Edwin A. 1, 19, 144, 295 Abstraction xii, 10, 20–21, 81, 83, 89–90, 102–104, 114, 119, 127, 130, 139, 142, 147, 208–219, 262–264 Acheson, David 20, 295 Action theory 20, 49, 51, 71–73, 90, 109–110, 120–121, 128, 130–131, 141–142 Arguments 64–65, 135, 234, 274, 276–280, 283–285, 289 vexatious 119, 143–144 Arithmetic 4, 62, 74, 85, 90, 222 Art 17, 19, 21, 53, 61, 146, 253, 287–293 Ayer, A.J. 6, 125 Bachrach, Peter 154, 156–159, 178–180, 182, 295 Baratz, Morton 154, 156–159, 178–180, 182, 295 Barbalet, Jack 114, 295 Belief 5, 16, 22, 27, 34, 53, 76, 82, 88, 97, 107, 111, 120–121, 125, 132, 140–141, 144, 147, 174, 239, 241, 247–248, 264–265, 274, 280–281, 283, 285, 287, 292 Bellamy, Edward 202–203, 295 Bergson, Henri 118, 145, 146, 147 Bruun, Hans H. 93, 94, 295 Buchler, Justus 120, 299 Buddhism 27, 51, 281

Carr, E.H. 113, 296 Carrabine, Eamonn 234–235, 263, 300 Carter, Bob 172–176, 296 Categorises 12, 83, 94, 124, 127, 130, 139, 144, 213, 221 Causation 7, 10, 98, 101, 106, 114, 124, 130, 262, 264, 268, 285 adequate 7, 10, 114, 264 Certainty 5, 7, 14–15, 22, 45, 74, 146–147, 265, 266, 267–269, 274, 283 Chown, Marcus 2, 20, 22, 269, 271, 272, 274, 275, 276, 283, 285, 286, 292, 293, 296 Christianity 33, 51, 88, 91 Clarke, Arthur C. 292, 296 Clarke, M. 46 Classifcation 12, 136, 244 Concepts 20, 22, 30, 51, 72, 89, 139, 147, 178, 282, 284–285 essentially contested 16–18, 119, 125, 131, 157, 178, 183, 184, 253, 297 mutually contested 16–19, 132, 154, 173, 178, 181, 184, 253, 180, 300 standard general form 8, 9, 16–17, 19, 43, 51, 119, 152, 178, 180, 181, 192, 205, 300 Conceptualisation 12–13, 30, 79–80, 98, 139, 147, 166, 179–180

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Correlation 200, 262 perfect 262 Crenson, Matthew 161–163, 296 Croall, Hazel 233, 296 Crime 19, 151–152, 171, 205, 209–235, 250, 280, 296, 298, 299, 300, 301 Criminology 172, 176, 207–208, 217, 219, 234–235, 296, 297, 298, 300 Culture 51–52, 65, 95–96, 98, 118, 134, 238, 250, 257, 282 playground 250 Dahl, Robert 154–155, 157–158, 180–181, 231, 296 Dampier, Sir William 20 Davis, Kingsley 197–202, 296 Definition 3, 8, 11–13, 16–18, 20, 21, 22, 40, 62, 75, 81, 84, 89, 90, 99–100, 104, 112, 114, 119, 123, 127, 132–133, 137, 155, 159–160, 163, 166, 168–169, 175, 178, 181, 182, 189–190, 192, 208–210, 212–220, 232–233, 235, 237–240, 244–245, 247, 253, 254, 257, 264, 266, 272, 278, 280, 283, 285 Denzin, Norman 114, 283, 296 Descartes, Rene 120, 134 Description 12–13, 40–41, 69, 77, 81, 83, 89, 264, 278, 280–282 Deviance 220–221, 228 Dewey, John 117, 135–136, 142, 147, 261, 282, 296 Dimensionality multi-dimensionality 3, 4, 17, 30, 32, 46, 61, 85, 87, 122, 95, 152, 270, 278 one, two, three dimensionality 1, 2, 3, 4, 20, 31, 51, 61, 62, 95, 122–123, 124–127, 131–137, 147, 152–155, 158–160, 163, 165, 177–178, 180, 203–204, 207–223, 253, 256, 260, 262, 266, 277–280, 285, 287–289, 291–293 four dimensionality 2–4, 16, 21, 31, 51, 61, 152–154, 180, 182, 203–204, 219, 253, 277–280, 289, 291–293, 297 Domination 83–84, 167–168, 170, 175, 178 Durkheim, Emile 12, 14, 51, 56, 118–119, 131, 133–142, 145–147, 260–261, 263, 265, 282–284, 290, 296, 297, 300 Einstein, Albert 6, 269, 274–275, 277–278, 284–285 Empirical 17, 20, 21, 81, 83, 85, 91, 95, 96, 105, 109–110, 154, 158, 160–161, 209, 220, 251, 265, 267–268, 279–280 empiricism 91, 134–136, 138, 259 Equality 19, 67, 151, 152, 183–205, 215, 235, 253, 261, 299, 300 formal 183–184, 187, 189–195, 204, 205

income 184, 188, 192, 194–196, 202–205 legal 184, 187, 189–195, 205 opportunity 184–195, 204 outcome 184–186, 190–195, 203–205 positive 184, 189, 192–196, 204 Ethical neutrality 33, 93, 99, 101, 104, 105, 106, 113 Explanation 2, 4, 5, 7, 9–13, 14–15, 20–22, 30, 37, 49, 67–70, 72–77, 81, 86–87, 94, 96–100, 102, 107–115, 127, 134, 141, 143, 178, 207–208, 210, 227, 255, 262–264, 268, 270, 273–276, 279, 280, 282, 283, 288, 298 good enough 7–8, 15, 22, 124 Facts 34–35, 37, 70–71, 73, 81, 83, 105, 120, 122–125, 128–130, 145, 146, 150, 284 Fausto-Sterling, Anne 237, 244–245, 248–249, 297 Finch, Henry 93, 94, 98, 105, 112, 113, 300 First World War 9, 10, 102–104, 105, 113 Form 8, 17, 19, 43, 60, 85, 108, 114, 119, 152–153, 180–181, 184, 219, 229, 262, 291, 296 Formal 45, 62, 83–83, 95, 133, 179, 208–210, 212–220, 283 logic 10, 15, 20, 25, 37, 43, 49, 51, 62, 83, 85, 93–94, 105, 109–110, 111–112, 120, 127, 128, 132–133, 141, 143, 144, 220, 246, 251, 268–269, 272, 279, 283, 284, 297, 298, 300 Foucault, Michel 165, 168, 172–177, 181–182, 244, 249, 297 Friedrichs, Robert 9, 14, 15, 20, 22, 104, 266, 267 Gallie, W.B. 16–18, 21, 22, 32, 51, 119, 125–133, 144–145, 152, 153, 179, 183–184, 253, 284, 297 Garland, David 172, 174, 176, 213–215, 235, 297 Gender 19, 151–152, 237–244, 246–250, 253–257, 296, 297, 298 Goethe, J.W. vii Gramsci, Antonio 165, 169–172, 178, 181–182, 297 Hagan, John 19, 152, 219–222, 227–231, 233, 235, 297 Haugaard, Mark 182, 297 Hayek, Friedrich 88, 196, 205, 297 Hegel, G.W.F. xii, 4, 14, 20, 89, 107, 263, 282–283, 297 Heterosexuality 152, 237–238, 248–249, 250–251, 253–256 Homosexuality 152, 173, 232, 238, 248–257, 296, 297

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Index

Horstmann, Rolf-Peter 46–49, 297 Hoyle, Fred 276, 285 Hussey, Trevor 144 Hypothetical 20, 88, 90, 127, 204 Idealism 47, 71–72, 86, 88, 97–98, 108, 113, 118–119, 136, 147, 174 Ideal types 21, 98 Ideas 3, 7–9, 12–12, 16–21, 25–29, 34–35, 39–44, 48, 50, 51, 52, 55, 56–57, 61, 63, 67, 77, 79, 82–84, 86, 88, 89–91, 94, 96, 98, 100, 107, 114, 118, 120, 124, 126, 129–130, 134, 136, 138–139, 140–142, 143–147, 152–153, 173–177, 180–181, 185–196, 203–205, 213–215, 233, 237–238, 240, 244, 247–249, 254, 257, 259–265, 267, 270–273, 275–276, 279, 282–283, 285, 287, 295, 298, 300 Ideology 58–59, 88, 117, 285, 297, 298, 301 Inference 127–128, 132 Intelligence 132, 186 Intersexuality 19, 237–239, 241, 244–246, 248–250, 253, 256 James, William 18, 117–119, 125, 126, 131, 134–140, 142, 144, 145, 147, 261, 263 Jones, Stephen 207, 209–211, 213, 232–233, 235, 297 Kalberg, Stephen 284–285, 298 Kaufmann, Felix 114, 298 Kessler, Suzanne 237–238, 240–241, 247, 249–250, 298 Kettler, David 56, 86, 271, 298 Knies, Karl 93, 94, 95, 107–108, 110, 111, 114, 268, 299, 300 Knowing subject 1, 11, 60, 62, 64, 87 Knowledge 5, 7–8, 14–15, 20, 29, 35–38, 42–49, 52, 53, 55–87, 89, 91, 93, 96–98, 101, 108–110, 114, 115, 126, 132, 141, 144, 173, 175, 176, 264–265, 266, 267–268, 271, 276, 279–280, 283, 298, 300 analytical xii, 13, 21, 87, 167, 210, 241, 245 certain 5, 7, 14–15, 22, 43, 45–46, 47, 51, 141, 147, 195, 263–265, 268–269, 274, 283 conjectural 127, 277, 280, 293 empirical 17, 20, 21, 81, 83, 85, 91, 95, 96, 105, 109, 135, 209, 220, 251, 265, 267, 268, 279, 280 metaphysical 20, 51, 52, 131, 133, 265, 267–268, 279, 293 objective 280 synthetic xii, 13, 87, 109 Kuhn, Tomas 2, 63, 202, 205, 298

Laws [natural] 7, 15, 20–21, 123, 125, 130, 145, 147, 283, 285, 293 Lee, D.J. 67, 298 Legal 95, 162, 166, 167, 183–184, 187–195, 204–205, 208, 210, 213–215, 217–218, 224, 230, 233, 235 Legitimacy 50, 64, 157, 166, 168, 267 Letherby, Gayle 7, 19, 91, 298, 300, 301 Longhurst, Brian 56, 298 Lukes, Steven 19, 152, 153–165, 169–170, 172, 177–182, 285, 298 Maguire, Mike 208–210, 218, 298 Mannheim, Karl 2, 7, 8, 18, 19, 49, 55–91, 117, 119, 120, 127, 131, 142, 150, 151, 205, 265, 270, 271, 278, 284, 298, 299, 301 Marcus, Herbert 285 Marxism 68, 105, 175 Mathematics 15, 62, 85–87, 88, 89, 90–91, 120, 139, 195, 265–270, 271, 275, 277, 279, 284, 295 McCarthy, George E. 50, 298 McKenna, Wendy 237–238, 240, 247 McLaughlin, Eugene 207–208, 298 Metaphysics 52, 77, 119, 132–133, 265, 267–268, 276, 293 Method[ology] xii, 5, 15, 21, 36, 52, 69–70, 86, 90, 93–95, 97–99, 105, 107, 111–112, 113, 114, 115, 119, 134, 139, 146, 151, 176, 259–261, 278–279, 296, 298, 300 Moore, Wilber 197–202, 296 Moore, Henrietta 237, 240–241, 298 Muncie, John 207–208, 298 Nagel, Ernest 145, 282 Nietzsche, Freidrich 18, 19, 24, 25–53, 55–56, 62, 64, 82, 84–85, 91, 99, 117, 118, 120, 125, 140, 142, 147, 172–174, 263, 264, 276, 281, 295, 296, 298 Oakes, Guy 20, 93–94, 107, 299, 300 Object xii, 1–7, 9–13, 14–18, 20, 25, 30–32, 37, 41, 43, 46–47, 55, 58–63, 67, 68–73, 77–81, 83, 85–89, 94, 96–99, 101, 103–104, 106, 107, 108, 110–113, 114–115, 251, 253–256, 260, 263, 266, 268, 270, 271, 274, 277, 278–281, 282, 285–286, 288, 290–292 object of enquiry 1, 3, 5, 9, 11–13, 15, 20, 30, 37, 43, 60, 62, 68–73, 83, 85, 87, 89, 94, 97, 99, 101, 103–104, 106, 110–112, 143, 272, 278, 280 objectify 173 objective lie 76–78, 270–271, 284 objectivity 4, 9–10, 11–14, 20, 47–48, 51, 69–70, 73–75, 77–79, 83, 86, 88, 94–95,

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Perspectivism

97, 99–104, 107, 110–114, 128, 143, 145, 153, 178, 256, 270, 276–277, 280, 286, 298, 300–301 Opposite 25, 51, 143, 238, 249, 251, 252, 253, 254, 283, 285 Outhwaite, William 113, 259, 261, 262, 299 Parallax efect 2 Parsons, Talcott 94, 115 Particularity 71, 73 Peirce, C.S. 18, 19, 21, 22, 88, 117–135, 142–147, 260–261, 284, 299 Penrose, Roger 272–273, 276–277, 283–285, 296, 299 Perspective 1–4, 7, 9, 12–14, 16–17, 21–22, 25, 27–52, 55–67, 70, 72–77, 79–81, 86–87, 89, 91, 97, 106, 118, 122, 139, 137, 141, 143, 150, 153, 160, 172, 178, 180–181, 229, 234, 241, 260–264, 271, 276, 278, 282, 283, 287–290, 292, 293, 295, 296, 297, 298, 299, 300 God-like 4, 6, 22, 43, 50, 89, 105, 126, 144, 264, 282, 283, 286, 293 Perspectivism 3, 4, 6, 8–9, 11, 13–14, 15–16, 18–19, 21, 25–49, 55–59, 63–64, 74, 76, 81, 84, 85, 95, 115, 118–120, 124–125, 131–132, 135, 137–138, 140, 142–143, 259–262, 264, 281–282, 284–285, 287–293 Philosophy xii, 4–5, 7, 13–17, 27, 46, 49, 50, 56–57, 63, 70–71, 86, 90, 93, 97, 118–120, 125–127, 135, 143, 147, 151, 209, 259–261, 264–265, 272, 282, 296, 298, 299, 300 Pickvance, Chris 22, 262, 299 Piketty, Tomas 293, 299 Plato 28–29, 51, 90–91, 147–148, 265–266, 299 Plochmann, George 51, 265–266, 299 Polsby, Nelson 154, 160 Popper, Sir Karl 88 Power 4, 29, 32, 47, 53, 102, 146, 150, 153–182, 184, 295, 296 disciplinary 166, 169, 176 Pragmaticism 117–118, 144, 260 Pragmatism 13–15, 18, 117–133, 133–143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 260–261, 282, 290, 296 Probability 80, 113, 145, 168–169, 264, 269, 283, 300 Propositions 42, 89–90, 121, 127–128, 144, 268, 283, 289 Psychology 108, 176, 215, 269, 273, 298 Qualities 6, 38, 50, 109, 123–124, 128–129, 146, 148, 169 Quantum mechanics 124, 137, 145, 269, 271, 273–276, 277, 278, 283, 285

Randall, Lisa 3, 31, 51, 62, 299 Relationalism 20, 22, 42, 57, 66, 68, 70, 78, 79, 81, 82, 84, 85, 89, 91, 127, 129, 131, 145, 178, 300 Relativism 13–15, 18, 31, 35, 67, 79, 154, 174, 181, 207, 300 Religion 4–7, 14–15, 35, 43, 45, 49, 53, 140, 232, 264 Rex, John 21, 56, 115, 299 Roscher W.G.F. 13, 93, 95, 106–107, 110, 299, 300 Russell, Bertrand 5, 6, 52, 62, 90, 117–118, 144, 266–267, 272, 282, 283, 293, 299 Saunders, Peter 19, 152, 183–197, 202, 203–205, 219, 229, 253, 299 Saussure, Ferdinand de 120, 126, 145 Schacht, Richard 26, 31, 32, 41, 42, 44, 45, 300 Schiller, F.C.S. 117, 134–135, 138, 142, 147, 282 Schopenhauer, Arthur 26, 27, 53, 281 Schumpeter, Joseph 13, 50, 114, 144, 263, 283, 300 Science 4, 5, 7–8, 11, 20, 35, 73, 88, 91, 104, 114, 115, 133, 264, 269, 276, 287, 292 natural 2–3, 4–5, 6, 7–8, 14–16, 20–22, 27, 31, 37, 38, 43–45, 52, 63, 68, 70, 83, 85, 107, 118, 119, 120, 127, 140, 259–260, 264–265, 271, 272, 275, 276, 277–282, 285 social 2–3, 4–5, 7–8, 9–10, 14–16, 18–19, 20–22, 27, 29, 31, 56–57, 61–62, 67, 80–81, 85–87, 93–115, 118, 119, 120, 127, 143, 151, 153, 165, 178, 180–181, 183, 207, 237–239, 259–260, 261–262, 264–265, 271, 277–282, 285, 289, 289 Scott, John 7, 18–19, 91, 298, 300, 301 Semiotics 120, 126, 145 Sex/sexuality 19, 53, 151, 165, 212–213, 215, 217–218, 223, 234–235, 239–248, 273, 276, 296, 297, 298 bisexuality 237, 250, 252–255 sexual attraction 238, 249–251, 255 sexual diference 237–248, 251, 253–255, 257, 276 sexual identity 239–243, 245–248, 222 sexual orientation 237–238, 248, 250–257 sexual preference 238, 251–257 Shils, Edward 57, 88, 93–94, 99, 105, 112, 115, 299, 300, 301 Signs [signifcation] 126–127, 128, 130, 132 Situationalism 22, 65, 78, 81–82, 84–85, 88–89, 110, 184, 286, 300 Social action 72, 131, 90, 115, 167, 175–176, 215–217

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Index

Social Class 3–4, 15, 17, 67, 151, 183, 190, 278, 280, 299, 300 Socialism 88, 105, 188, 284 Socrates 50–51, 90 Stones, Rob 263, 300 String theory 277 Subjectivity 11, 20, 35, 37, 47, 48, 61, 79, 97–99, 122, 108, 156, 158, 256, 273 Swedberg, Richard 114, 300 Swif, Adam 205, 300 Talking past one other 63, 178, 205, 253, 278, 285 Talking through each other 63, 178, 202, 205 Terms 3, 16–17, 22, 38, 55, 77, 81, 89, 113, 116–127, 131, 132, 152, 154, 174, 238, 240, 241, 244, 248, 250, 253, 256, 257, 261, 266, 268, 279, 280 Teory 21, 42, 45, 48, 50, 52, 57–58, 68, 71, 76, 81–85, 89, 94, 115, 117, 120, 141, 144, 147, 156, 195–199, 259, 259–262, 269–270, 271–273, 275, 279, 282–283, 285, 293, 297, 299 Tiryakian, Edward 146, 276, 300 Toomey, David 257 Transcendentalism 77, 88, 141, 174, 268 True 5–8, 14, 15, 17, 20, 21, 22, 35, 37, 39–40, 42, 43–49, 53, 65, 70, 74–76, 77–78, 81, 85–87, 89, 90, 91, 127, 137, 140–142, 153–154, 166, 178, 208, 240, 243–244, 246–247, 249, 261, 263, 264–265, 266, 268, 269–280, 283, 288, 289, 290 as such 49 by defnition 11, 62, 75, 81, 155, 160, 166, 175, 218, 235, 272, 278 lie 58, 76–78, 270–271, 284 to itself 49, 70, 76, 77, 85, 86, 98, 113, 129, 284 Truth 4–9, 11, 14–15, 20, 21, 25, 28, 31–32, 35–37, 42–50, 68–69, 76–77, 85–86, 98, 119, 133–143, 147, 173–174, 176, 217, 261, 263–271, 277, 279–280, 282, 283, 296 absolute 6–9, 14, 50, 79, 86, 89, 137–138, 141, 143, 263–266, 268–270

adequate 7–9, 10, 12, 14, 49, 91, 141, 264–265, 268, 269 certainty 5, 7, 14–15, 22, 45, 74, 146–147, 265, 266, 267–269, 274 good enough 8, 22, 124, 264 objective 76, 270 partial 7, 8, 9–11, 14, 21, 32, 48, 64, 65, 69–71, 73, 75, 82, 100–101, 106, 111, 112, 113, 281, 282 positive 8, 108, 122, 247 revealed 44, 156, 171 sphere of 53, 74, 77, 84, 85–86, 89, 109, 171, 189 universal 7, 15, 20, 37–38, 82, 90, 139, 263–264, 269, 282–283 Tumin, Melvin 197, 199–202, 300 Turner, B.S. 67, 295, 300 Utopia 88, 150–151 Valuation 33–34, 36, 41, 47, 51, 73, 94, 105–106, 110, 181, 183, 220, 230 Value freedom 9, 29, 48, 100, 113, 114 Value judgments 9, 33, 72, 73, 74, 100, 104–106, 108–109, 111, 138 Value neutrality 9, 11, 31, 34, 86, 87, 94, 97, 98, 100, 101 Value orientation 96 Value relevance 96, 109 Vanishing point 137, 287–288, 291 Vertex 263 Vonnegut, Kurt 186 Weber, Max 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 18, 19, 20, 21, 29–31, 34, 48, 49, 85–86, 93–115, 120, 147, 157, 165–173, 176, 178–182, 264–265, 268–269, 283, 295, 297, 299–300 Webster, Colin 207, 301 Whimster, Sam 93, 94, 300 Williams, Malcolm 5, 298, 301 Wirth, Louis 57, 88, 301 Wolfnger, Raymond 154 World lines 292–293

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